Some writers wonder if their character has to have a character arc.
Usually those who ask this, view character arcs as a protagonist changing, and from that perspective, the answer is no. Your character does not have to "arc" (read: change).
But perhaps the more accurate question is, "Does my character have to have an internal plotline?" That is what is really being asked here.
Because at the basic level, all characters arguably "arc," but not all characters have internal plotlines. If the protagonist has no internal plotline, then usually that means a different plotline needs to be emphasized in its place.
Let's dig into what a "character with no arc" actually means (at least imho).
The 4 Basic Character Arcs
While people in the writing community use "character arc" to mean slightly different things, a true character arc is about internal growth. Some may use the term to refer to an outward change, like perhaps a character starts off physically weak, and has to become physically strong. There is nothing wrong with having that in a story, but it's more accurate to view a character arc as something internal. It's about how a character grows on the inside, because of the story.
At the most basic level, there are just two ways a character can grow:
1. They can change their worldview or belief system.
2. Or they can grow in the resolve of their worldview or belief system (remaining steadfast).
And there are two types of each:
1. Positive (becoming someone better)
2. Negative (becoming someone worse)
These are the four basic character arcs: positive change, negative change, positive steadfast, negative steadfast.
Essentially every character fits into one of these four categories, and if they don't seem to very easily, then they are likely a variation or have multiple arcs, which makes them difficult to categorize (but not impossible).
Some may argue that it's possible to have a character arc that is not considered positive or negative, but this is rarely the case, because the character arc is frequently tied to the theme, and 99% of themes argue for a particular belief system. It's also not very helpful or useful when you are learning, to view arcs as neutral--but this is possible, and could also be a topic for a separate post.
Suffice it to say, that there are just these four types.
Character Arc vs. Internal Plotline
An internal plotline is the journey of a character arc being expressed in a story.
Almost all proper plotlines contain these four fundamental elements: an objective, an antagonist, conflict, and consequences.
In the internal plotline, the objective is what I call the "abstract want." It's the motive behind the protagonist's concrete goals. Luke Skywalker wants to be something great (or part of something great)--this is why he first wants to go to Academy, then become a Jedi, then save Leia, then destroy the Death Star. Katniss is motivated to survive and save the innocent--this is why she hunts, volunteers to take Prim's place, and risks her life to save Peeta. Barbie wants to live the exact same perfect day, every day--this is why she goes on an adventure to get that back.
The antagonist is the self. It has to be, because it is an internal plotline.
Ironically, what holds Luke back from being great, is his desire to be great. In order to be a true Jedi, he must let go of his abstract want.
Katniss is often put in situations where she must choose between survival and risking death to save someone.
Barbie doesn't want to leave on her adventure, because she wants to stay in Barbieland and never experience change.
This can show up a few different ways, but somehow, the protagonist is an antagonist to herself.
This creates internal conflict.
Internal conflict will show up in at least one of these ways:
- Having contradictory desires
- Struggling with a personal flaw or moral weakness
- Entertaining opposing belief systems
- Dealing with temptations and tendencies
- Debating if the journey is worth the costs
- Facing some form of doubt (over self, success of the journey, personal beliefs . . . )
And these may interweave and relate to each other. In fact, they almost always do.
The consequence is also internal. It's psychological and relates to the character's identity. It's the journey of the character arc. How the character chooses to resolve the conflict will either change him or lead him to grow in his resolve.
Luke changes. He eventually gives up his desires, his abstract want, and becomes someone new.
Katniss grows in her resolve to save others, when she chooses to risk death to save Peeta. (She's a little more complex; I'm simplifying).
Barbie realizes change isn't to be avoided. She doesn't need to live the same perfect day every day. She wants something more in life, and she becomes real--she becomes someone new.
These examples are positive arcs, but you can just as well have a negative one.
Anakin's internal conflict about whether or not to accept loss, leads him to try to avoid it at all costs, which turns him into someone worse.
Some stories showcase the internal plotline, putting it right upfront and clearly on the page. They make it a major plotline. Others may put it in the background or in subtext.
But some protagonists don't have an internal plotline at all.
Writing Characters Who Don't Arc Have an Internal Plotline
Usually when people are asking whether or not their protagonist has to arc, they are really asking whether or not their protagonist needs to have an internal plotline.
The answer is no. Your character does not have to have an internal plotline.
Most characters who "don't arc" are steadfast characters.
In a steadfast arc (also known as a "flat arc"), the character ultimately doesn't change at the end of the story. He grows in his resolve. He becomes more of what he was previously.
This is true even if there isn't an internal plotline (read: a journey of the arc.)
Although the internal plotline is well . . . internal . . . its pieces are often expressed in external ways.
The abstract want shows up as concrete plot goals: Luke rescuing Leia to help the Rebel Alliance, Katniss winning the Games by outsmarting the Gamemakers, Barbie righting things with her "owner" so she can go back to her normal, perfect life.
A character who doesn't have an internal plotline will arguably still have an abstract want, because it theoretically always exists behind the plot goal. It's whatever abstract thing motivates the character to pursue that external goal--whether or not that want is communicated through the story.
For example, in Knives Out, we don't know why Detective Blanc wants to solve cases; we only know his plot goal is to solve a (possible) murder. But that doesn't mean his motive doesn't exist, just that we don't know what it is.
When there is no internal plotline, the character is only tested by external antagonistic forces. Antagonistic forces oppose the objective, the concrete plot goal (. . . which is a manifestation of the abstract want). That is what an antagonist is.
This opposition alone--which creates external conflict--is still testing and challenging the protagonist. Will he give up? Will he change? Will he remain the same?
Even if there is no internal plotline expressed in the story, the obstacles of the external journey are simply putting pressure on him.
If he just pushes through, but has no internal plotline, then he's still having a steadfast arc (and most commonly, a positive one). It's just not showing up as an internal journey.
Detective Blanc is still a positive steadfast character--he still has a character arc--even though he doesn't change or have an internal plotline. He still fits within that category. 007 is the same way.
Just the act of taking on an external challenge increases one's resolve, simply through the continued decision to pursue the plot goal. Anyone will still grow in resolve, by simply staying true to their course.
If your character "doesn't have an arc," then your character likely has a steadfast arc, without an internal plotline.
While uncommon, there is technically nothing "wrong" with that; it just usually means a different plotline will be emphasized in its place.
Managing Your 3 Major Plotlines
Usually, for a story to be satisfying, it needs at least three different types of plotlines. This gives the story more dimension and depth. And while there are different combinations you can choose, by far the most popular plotlines to weave together are the external, internal, and relationship plotlines.
External--this is the character's outer journey. The character has a concrete goal, encounters an external antagonist, and struggles with the conflict to get the goal.
Internal--see above
Relationship--this is a relationship journey. The character either aims to draw close to or increase distance from another person (or maintain the relationship as is). The antagonistic force is what is upsetting that.
If your protagonist does not have an internal plotline, then there are a few ways to handle this.
Giving the Internal Plotline to Another Character
If your protagonist does not have an internal plotline, then that plotline may be given to someone else.
In Knives Out, this is given to Marta, who is such a prominent character, she's practically a protagonist herself. She's the one suffering internal antagonism and conflict over what to do. She's the one whose internal journey best expresses a belief system, which is about how, when we are self-made, we are kinder, decent people. Blanc helps her navigate this.
A similar thing happens in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005), where Charlie does not have an internal plotline really, so instead, it is given to Willy Wonka. Wonka has unresolved trauma from his father, and Charlie helps him address that. Charlie helps Wonka see the value of family.
And in Finding Neverland, Barrie doesn't have much of an internal plotline either, and instead, that is given to Peter, who comes to believe in the power of playfulness, because of Barrie's influence.
So it's possible to give the plotline to another key character. Often in this situation, the protagonist is then the one guiding that character on their internal journey, but that is not necessarily a requirement.
Swapping the Internal Plotline for Another Type
If your protagonist does not have an internal plotline, then another type of plotline can be emphasized in its place.
For example, in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones has little to no internal plotline . . . and neither do any of the other main characters. Instead, a societal plotline with the Nazis is showcased as one of the three dominating plotlines. Its plotline combination is external, relationship, and societal.
If there is no internal plotline, then it's most common for a societal plotline to take its place.
You can learn more about societal plotlines in "Writing the Societal Plotline."
And you can learn more about writing multiple plotlines in "Writing & Structuring Multiple Plotlines (with Visuals)"
Does a Change-arc Character Always Have an Internal Plotline?
Most commonly characters who don't have internal plotlines are steadfast characters, but it's arguably possible for a change character to change without one.
Indiana Jones is often noted for not having an internal plotline, with people considering him a steadfast character.
But actually . . . when I went back and watched Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy does change, even in a thematic way. He just doesn't suffer through internal antagonism and conflict to get there. He doesn't have an internal journey.
At the start of the story, Indy clearly expresses he doesn't believe in the supernatural: "I don't believe in magic, superstitious hocus pocus--we are going after something of historical significance." Yet at the climax, he chooses not to look at the ark when it is being opened and begs Marion to close her eyes, which conveys he now believes, to some extent, in the supernatural. This relates to the theme, which questions whether or not man is meant to disturb the power of God (and that power is supernatural).
Watching the film again, I actually think Indy is a change-arc character, but I don't think he has an internal plotline.
Rather, it's simply the external adventure alone that leads him to flip.
In the end, though, all of these categories and terms are just there to help us as writers, so we can better discern how stories work, and then create great ones. The truth is, there is adequate room for variation and nuance and rule breaks.
A "Flat Arc" Does Not Mean a "Flat Character"
Before ending this article, I want to briefly address a misconception. Some in the writing community argue that all round, complex characters have change arcs. But they don't. Just because a steadfast arc is also known as a "flat arc" does not mean the character herself is flat. Contrary to what some believe, roundness and flatness . . . aren't determined by character arcs. After all, there are plenty of steadfast characters who are round, like Fox Mulder, Wonder Woman, Elle Woods, Clark Griswold, Detective Blanc, and more.
While a change arc, or internal plotline, can help round out a character, they aren't a requirement. There are other ways to do that.
In closing, if you feel your story will be great without the protagonist "having a character arc" (i.e. internal plotline), then, don't give him one. 😊
PSA: Just a friendly reminder that whenever you start a creative project, you will invariably hit a phase where the Thing™️ appears horrendous and you start asking existential questions. But if you keep working, it invariably passes and starts to resemble something less like the devil’s vomit. Doesn’t matter if it’s art, writing, or what–this happens repeatedly. Carry on.
I’m excited to be a part of WorldShift again, an online writing conference where I will be teaching alongside K.M. Weiland, Jessica Brody, Savannah Gilbo, and other amazing professionals. This is a 6-day online event: August 17–22. 🎟️ below 👇
While I don't consider the protagonist's greatest fear to be positively vital to a good story, knowing it and working with it can certainly improve the story and give it more impact. Perhaps the reason I don't focus too much on fears, is because if you have the proper story pieces in place, your protagonist's greatest fear is likely already in place as well--you just may not realize it. But once you do, you can utilize it to better effect.
So let's dig into how to find your protagonist's (or any character's) greatest fear, according to story theory.
As I've covered a few times on here, every protagonist--or really, any main character--should have a want, a motive, behind his or her plot goals. I call this the "abstract want."
The character tries to fulfill the abstract want in concrete ways, and this is what makes up the plot (or it should). The abstract want and plot goals need to be aligned somehow; if they aren't, that's usually a problem.
For example, in The X-Files, Mulder's abstract want is to find and reveal the truth. This shows up in his concrete goal of solving the X-Files.
In Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack's abstract want is to live free, preferably forever. This is why he wants The Black Pearl back (and to be captain) in the first film, this is why he wants to avoid Davy Jones and the Kraken in the second film, and this is why he wants to replace Davy Jones on The Flying Dutchman in the third film.
In The Office, Michael Scott wants to be liked and loved. This shows up in dozens of concrete goals, from hosting a dinner party, to having a conference meeting, to organizing a fun run, to getting too involved in Pam's pregnancy.
In The Hunger Games, Katniss wants to save others (particularly those she considers "innocent") and survive. This is why she volunteers to take Prim's place in the beginning and risks her life to save Peeta at the end. This is why she hunts and scrapes by in District 12, and aims to win in the Games.
Just about every key thing these characters do, connects back to their abstract want.
This want should be incredibly important to the character. It's something the character keeps close to her heart and will go to great lengths to fulfill. It's such a high priority, that the character should be willing to risk her life (literally or figuratively) to get it (or in some cases, keep it). If you made a list of what abstract things matter most to the character, this would be near the top (and often at the very top).
It's okay if the character has more than one want (like Katniss), but the want needs to be there. It should be strong and clear enough that you, the writer, can verbalize it.
Well, guess what?
In pinning down the character's abstract want, you're also likely pinning down your character's greatest fear.
Your character's greatest fear--or one of them--is losing the abstract want. And the more definitively it is lost, the scarier.
So threatening that want, or demolishing the pathway to fulfilling it, or making the protagonist suffer the exact opposite of what he wants, often makes a better plot and creates more interesting character moments. In fact, this is often one of the best ways to reveal character.
With this in mind, this makes Davy Jones an excellent antagonist for Jack in Pirates. While Jack's want is to live forever free, Davy Jones is trying to trap him for eternity in his Locker, along with The Black Pearl (which is a symbol of freedom). In the second film, Jack is terrified of Davy Jones because he's terrified of losing his abstract want. It's not just because Davy Jones is a cruel, formidable foe--it's deeper than that. He strikes Jack right in the heart--what matters to Jack most. Being forever trapped is the exact opposite of his greatest desire.
Unfortunately, though, this is something the creators of the fifth film, Dead Men Tell No Tales, have zero understanding of. The writers tried to claim that Salazar was Jack's greatest fear, period. And they decided this "just because." It's not rooted in anything meaningful. It also doesn't make much sense within the installment itself, because in the flashback with Salazar, Jack isn't scared--he has a smile on his face. It falls completely flat. They slapped on a simple, random fear, on a complex, deep, round character. Jack will never be more afraid of Salazar than Davy Jones, because Davy Jones was the embodiment of Jack's greatest fear. On some level, the audience senses this--so Salazar doesn't resonate.
It's also through Davy Jones that the writers can better reveal Jack's character. How much does freedom matter to Jack? So much so, that he's willing to turn over 100 innocent souls to take his place. This then makes his arc for the installment more meaningful--because he lets go of that idea and his chance to safely save himself, and returns to the Pearl to help his crew--risking his greatest want in the face of his greatest fear.
This likewise makes the third installment more meaningful, as Jack's goal is to kill Davy Jones. He's escaped the Locker and aims to defeat (on some level) the embodiment of his fear, conquering it and getting what he wants, forever.
Theoretically, the antagonistic forces should be making the protagonist face his fear. Either by being a direct embodiment of it, like Davy Jones, or simply because they're putting the concrete goal in jeopardy; and because the concrete goal is a manifestation of the abstract want, that means when the goal is at risk, to the character, it feels like the want is at risk.
This is all theoretically speaking, though, of course--there is definitely room for variations.
But let's look at another example.
In Jurassic Park, what John Hammond wants most is to create "magical" experiences for other people. In the second act, he talks about the flea circus he had when young, and how it impacted people--enthralled them--and we sense how that, in turn, impacted him. This is why he created Jurassic Park. He was chasing that same want, but this time hoped the "magic" could be real, through real dinosaurs.
His greatest fear is losing his dream of the park--not because of the park itself, not because of the loss of money, and time, and effort, and resources. Because losing it means losing his want. This is why he won't listen to reason. This is why he'll take huge risks. This is why he'll breed and keep raptors and a T. Rex. It's all about fulfilling this want, and he's afraid of not doing that.
And what happens? Not only does he not create a "magical" experience, he creates a horrifying, deadly one! This is the exact opposite of what he aimed to do. And this is ultimately the only thing that gets him to change his course.
People, his own grandchildren, dying from and terrified by his creations, is the "scariest" thing he's ever experienced. He shuts down the park.
Likewise, in KPop Demon Hunters, Rumi wants to stop hiding her shame, by sealing the Honmoon so that it won't matter she is half demon. The scariest thing she can face, is having her shame of being half-demon exposed--to Mira, Zoey, and the whole world.
One of the worst (read: best) things you can do to your character, is to strike at his want--to hand him the opposite of his want.
Mulder wants to find and reveal the truth--but what happens in season two, when he "learns" that what he was finding and revealing was actually all lies? Not only was he not revealing the truth, he was spreading lies. It's soul-crushing.
The worst that can be asked of Katniss, is to kill someone "innocent." Not only is she not saving the innocent, she's asked to kill someone who once saved her. Sure, on the surface, she acts callous, even about the innocent, but she cares more about them than she consciously admits, as her actions show time and time again. In the series, the worst that can happen to her, is the death of the person she deems most innocent--Prim--and her failure to save her. It's Prim being sacrificed by her own society. The worst that can happen, is Katniss losing her will to survive, which has always driven her. And that's exactly what happens in Mockingjay.
Threatening or striking at the abstract want, or even delivering its exact opposite, and making that your character's greatest fear is much more meaningful, impactful, and resonating than picking something random.
And if you really want to throw a gut punch, you combine this with my previous post on "feeding the dog poison": in the character's efforts to fulfill the want, she unintentionally brings about its opposite, leading to devastating consequences.
This is perhaps one of the best ways to test and challenge the character to arc.
Facing our fears usually reveals who we truly are, what matters most to us; and how we choose to respond to that, determines the kind of person we become.
So, what is your character's abstract want? And how can that be flipped into their greatest fear?
What is a Deus ex Machina? Why is it "Bad" Writing?
What is a Deus ex Machina?
In writing, a deus ex machina happens when something (character, object, ability, event) suddenly resolves a seemingly unsolvable situation, usually at or near the climax. The "something" is unexpected or unlikely, coming out of nowhere.
The term deus ex machina is Latin and translates into "god from the machine." It references ancient Greek theater, where a god character would be lowered on a crane (machine), or raised through a trapdoor on a riser (machine), to resolve the story's problem. This pulls the story toward its conclusion.
Deus ex Machina Examples
Some examples of a deus ex machina include:
- A powerful, skilled minor character who abruptly shows up to save the protagonist by defeating the antagonist at the end.
- A protagonist suddenly finding a magical object that defeats the antagonist.
- An unexpected rainstorm that puts out a fire surrounding the heroes' homes.
- A character who abruptly reveals she's the sharpest shooter in the region, and she can make the unlikely, extremely difficult shot that will definitively thwart the antagonist.
- A pack of wolves charging into the clearing to take out the bad guy at just the right moment.
Why is a Deus ex Machina "Bad"?
The deus ex machina has been around since ancient times, and so have its critics. It is often considered a "cheap" or "bad" plot device that writers use when they've written themselves into a corner. It's rarely satisfying and often comes from lazy or ignorant writing. But the reasons it's a problem, run deeper. . . .
1. Strong Plots Work off Cause & Effect, not Coincidence
Because the deus ex machina comes out of nowhere, it's coincidental. And almost always, coincidence weakens plot. One of the differences between writing nonfiction and fiction, is that in real life, coincidences are tolerated, but in fiction, they typically are not. This is because (ironically), the audience expects fiction to work off (to some extent) probability, even as they don't always expect reality to.
If an unexpected rainstorm pours in and puts out a life-threatening fire in a historical account, the audience will be amazed.
If it happens in a novel, they will roll their eyes.
In fact, when it happens in real life, it can make the account feel more shocking and miraculous. What are the chances of that?! the audience wonders.
But when it happens in fiction, it can make the narrative feel cheap. What are the chances of that?! The audience groans.
This has led some writers to lament how difficult fiction is to create; the audience expects you to write with strong cause and effect--intertwining consequences that lead to a (somewhat) probable, yet unpredictable ending.
Admittedly, though, I hesitate to use the word "probable," because, on the other hand, audiences love it when the odds are stacked against the protagonist. Perhaps a better word to use is "possible" . . . but someone may use that as an excuse to say a deus ex machina works, because it's "possible." . . . I'll talk about all this more below--it relates to preparing the audience for what's possible. So, even though it's highly unlikely Frodo will get the Ring to Mount Doom, the audience believes it's a real possibility, because they are prepared for that outcome. (The storytelling tropes here also help form the audience's expectations.)
In contrast, a freak rainstorm that comes out of nowhere to put out a fire, seems so improbable--impossible--it ruins the audience's willing suspension of disbelief. They feel cheated or annoyed, not satisfied and entertained.
A strong plot isn't a series of random events (coincidences); it's a series of cause and effect--events that build on each other toward a (possible) climactic end.
This isn't to say, however, that coincidences are never tolerated in fiction. Typically, the earlier in the story they show up, the more they will be tolerated. The inciting incident can appear as a coincidence, but the climactic turning point cannot. The further you get into the story, the less coincidence there can be, and the more cause and effect should be in place.
This is in part because at the beginning of the story, the audience has fewer expectations in place--as a writer, you are still setting up (or "preparing") their expectations. They don't yet know the characters, "world," and situation. They don't yet have a strong, strict sense of cause and effect. They aren't deep enough in the narrative to predict possible (probable) outcomes yet.
Unless, of course, you are throwing in something so outlandish and improbable/impossible that it doesn't pass their "crap detector" test, and they can't willingly suspend their disbelief in the first place anyway.
The problem, of course, is that the deus ex machina (unlike the inciting incident) is not used to kick off problems, it's used to solve them.
2. Strong Plots Resolve Conflicts Based on Knowledge and Understanding
Internationally best-selling author Brandon Sanderson is known for his magic systems, for which he has developed three "laws."
Sanderson's first law of magic states: "An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic."
That's all fine and well, September, you may be thinking, but what does this have to do with the deus ex machina?
A lot.
As Sanderson realized later in his career, all of his magic system laws actually apply to storytelling in general.
So let's unpack this.
"An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic." What this means is that if you are using magic to solve a problem, the audience usually needs to understand that magic beforehand to buy into that resolution. The more they know and understand how the magic works, the more accepting they'll be of it solving major problems.
He goes on to explain that the less the audience understands how the magic works, the more it should be used to cause problems, not solve them.
So in It: Chapter One, the antagonist's abilities are largely used to cause horrific problems. We don't (yet) understand what this entity is, and it's causing conflict for the heroes.
But in Sanderson's Mistborn, the heroes are using magic to solve problems. Kelsier teaches Vin the ins and outs of the magic system, and she uses it to defeat the antagonist.
As always, this is more of a spectrum in writing, and there are variations and complex situations--I'm greatly oversimplifying these examples to lay down a basic understanding of the principle.
But these ideas apply to storytelling in general.
"An author's ability to solve conflicts with _____ is directly proportional to how well the reader understands ____."
In other words, the reader needs to know about and understand whatever solves the conflict, before it solves the conflict.
A deus ex machina usually breaks this rule, because a deus ex machina is unexpected, unlikely, and unforeseen.
An abrupt rainstorm putting out a life-threatening fire at the climax (read: solving the major problem), doesn't work in part because the audience didn't know about it. The storm came out of nowhere.
However, an abrupt rainstorm pouring down on an already sinking ship (read: adding to the problem) near the climax can work.
With that said, though, it's still usually best to not largely rely on coincidences, or rely on them exclusively, at the climax.
A coincidental inciting incident can often work, because it's typically introducing problems. It often is a problem the protagonist has to (eventually) address. Or, if the inciting incident is an opportunity, it often leads to problems (it might be an opportunity, with strings attached).
It's also worth observing, that the inciting incident is near the beginning of a structural unit, where coincidence is more tolerated, usually because it somehow leads to problems (read: conflict), while the climax (aka major turning point) happens near the end of the unit, and is used to resolve problems (conflict)).
3. Strong Plots Foreshadow Major Turns
A significant issue with the deus ex machina is that it is unforeseen. Even if it's "possible," the audience isn't prepared for the outcome, so it feels cheap. The plot device lacks proper foreshadowing.
I love K.M. Weiland's explanation of foreshadowing. She writes, "If we sift foreshadowing down to its simplest form, we could say it prepares readers for what will happen later."
Foreshadow = preparation.
It prepares the audience for what is possible.
It's "improbable" that Frodo will make it to Mount Doom, but foreshadowing helps prepare the audience for it as a possible outcome (with Sam's help).
Great foreshadowing doesn't blatantly give away the major turning point, it simply prepares the audience for it by letting them know an outcome is possible. It's not too predictable, but it's not too unforeseen.
A random, freak rainstorm that comes out of nowhere to put out a fire, isn't foreshadowed. So, it is less tolerated. It will feel more like the writer is just making it up on the spot to solve problems. It won't feel integrated. Even if a writer does come up with an idea on the spot while writing, they usually need to go back and add in foreshadowing. This will make the plot more satisfying and cohesive.
4. Strong Plots Utilize the Protagonist's Agency
Another major sin of the deus ex machina, is that it often steals the protagonist's agency. In my recent post on what a protagonist actually is, I mentioned that a true protagonist influences the direction, the outcome of the story. A true protagonist is a "problem-solver" (or I may even say "re-solves" problems, for better or worse).
What the protagonist says and does should turn the direction of the story.
In other words, almost always, the protagonist's choice should be contributing to the major turning points.
At the Council of Elrond, Frodo chooses to volunteer himself as the Ring-bearer, turning the direction of not only the scene, but the whole story itself.
In Star Wars, Luke chooses to rely on the Force and shut off technology to successfully shoot the Death Star, likewise turning the story.
And in The Hunger Games, Katniss chooses to risk suicide in an effort to save Peeta--again turning the story (and series).
The protagonist's choices should be contributing to every major turning point, and even many of the minor turning points, in the story. Their choices should lead to particular outcomes.
This is often critical to showcase at the climax, because this moment often completes the character arc and argues the theme.
Frodo chooses to keep the Ring, illustrating he has become corrupted by power. This speaks to his character arc and the theme (though of course, Lord of the Rings does have some variation, and Gollum choosing to attack Frodo and get the Ring, and Gollum dying in the lava, also cements his arc and contributes to theme).
Luke chooses to shut down tech and rely on the Force, illustrating he has put his trust in faith. This speaks to his character arc and the theme.
Katniss chooses to risk herself to save someone, illustrating she'll ultimately hold steadfast to her initial worldview--she won't sacrifice someone else to save herself. This speaks to her arc and the theme.
Often when a deus ex machina swoops in, it robs the protagonist and the story of this critical moment.
If someone from the Empire suddenly decided to go rogue and destroy the Death Star, Luke does not get to make his choice--the most crucial one that contributes to character arc, theme, and plot simultaneously. His agency at the climax doesn't really matter. This clearly weakens the story.
Fixing a Deus ex Machina
If you've written a deus ex machina, there is still hope. You can use these principles to help you fix it.
A deus ex machina is used to reach a desired outcome. So, work backward. You know the "effect," the outcome, you want, now think about what could "cause" it. What needs to be in place to get you there? Cause and effect > coincidence. And ideally, one of the "causes" will be what the protagonist chooses to do.
So, instead of having a pack of hungry wolves take out the antagonist coincidentally, consider what could cause the pack of wolves to find and target the antagonist. Perhaps the protagonist knows they are in the area, and she can do something to draw their attention. Or maybe she knows where they go, and finds a way to lure the antagonist there. Maybe she can find a place to hide, so they target him. Maybe she finds a way to put the scent of prey on the antagonist. The idea may need more work, depending on the story, but we've now created a sense of cause and effect and shown the protagonist exercising meaningful agency to bring it about.
We could also foreshadow the event by mentioning a wolf attack in the area earlier in the story, and by mentioning the wolves' resources are scarce, so they're starving. Maybe the protagonist knows and understands wolf packs (so by extension, so does the audience), so she knows just what to do with them.
By using these principles, we've already largely fixed a deus ex machina.
Let's look at some of my other examples.
The deus ex machina: A powerful, skilled minor character abruptly shows up to save the protagonist by defeating the antagonist at the end.
Possible fixes: The protagonist causes this situation, making the encounter happen--perhaps by arranging it beforehand, or realizing he can lead the antagonist toward that person, or by doing something else that indirectly (but clearly) leads to the event. Depending on the story, this may need to happen a bit earlier, so the audience forgets about it in the moment, but it nonetheless still has a clear bridge of cause and effect.
And ideally, this isn't a minor character that shows up out of nowhere, but a side or main character the audience has met before, and her skills were foreshadowed.
And it's best if the protagonist somehow deals the "deathblow" or paves the way to make that happen at the climactic moment. It's even better if the protagonist could somehow have this skill himself, but . . . that may not always work out. (And please keep in mind I'm talking about these things in general--obviously what you can do specifically, will depend on the framework of that story).
The deus ex machina: The protagonist suddenly finds a magical object that defeats the antagonist.
Possible fixes: Rather than having the surprise be the character suddenly discovering this object, have the protagonist actively searching for it, and have the fact it can defeat the antagonist be the surprise. Foreshadow that reveal, by indirectly alluding to the idea earlier. Have the protagonist put it together, and use the object against the antagonist. She knows how the magic works, so she realizes she can use it to defeat him. She connects the dots, given her background.
The deus ex machina: An unexpected rainstorm puts out a fire surrounding the heroes' homes.
Possible fixes: Foreshadow the rainstorm, early enough that the audience may forget about it. Don't use it to resolve all the problems. Have the characters' choices and efforts contribute more to the resolution. Perhaps, at minimum, they are able to slow the fire with hoses and buckets of water, so that it doesn't do severe damage, before the storm hits. They are able to hold it off (but it's becoming an increasing struggle). There is still tension and uncertainty, because we don't know if it will actually rain. But if they hadn't done what they did, certainly everything would have burned, before the storm ever arrived.
Or, you could change it, so that the storm doesn't save the day. The characters find a way to. 😉
Admittedly, some deus ex machinas are easier to fix than others. In some cases, you may just need to change the story more. Whatever the situation, though, let these principles be your guide:
- Put in more causes that lead to the effect
- Resolve problems based on knowledge and understanding
- Foreshadow the outcome
- Utilize the protagonist's agency
And as a note, the "knowledge" one and the "foreshadowing" one can often overlap.
Can a Deus ex Machina Ever Work?
Every rule in writing can be broken, but it should be broken for a good reason. It should typically be broken to make the story better, not worse. It shouldn't be broken out of ignorance or laziness. Almost always, a deus ex machina is not going to make a story better. However, that doesn't mean they don't ever show up in successful stories.
I will say, though, that when they do (arguably) show up in successful stories, the writers lessen the negative effects by trying to implement at least some of these principles (which is why I say "arguably").
For example, at the end of Jurassic Park, the T. rex suddenly shows up and takes out the raptors. Deus ex machina? Yes? Sort of? It is sudden and unexpected and resolves the major problem at the climax. But it lands . . . okay because we know there is a T. rex on the loose (and how and why it got loose), we already saw Alan and the kids deal with the T. rex, and we've been watching the characters actively deal with the raptors (exercising agency).
But if we never saw the T. rex prior and did not know about it, it would have landed horribly.
Does this deus ex machina make the story better?
The sudden appearance of the T. rex is a great callback, so I give it points for that. But theoretically, it would have been better if, after the initial surprise, Alan used what we'd learned about the T. rex to cause the rex and raptor encounter. He could have intentionally caused a great commotion to draw its attention, since rexes see based on movement.
However, as is, the story also gets away with it, because it's thematic. The main theme of Jurassic Park is that we can't control nature, and therefore need to respect it. The T. rex is one example of that (though it still would have been better if Alan had done more).
Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark ends similarly. The villains open up the ark and die, while Indy is tied up. It resolves the major conflict, and it happens without Indy's contribution. While minor, Indy does still exercise a little bit of agency, by closing his eyes, and telling Marion to do the same. This also relates to the theme, which argues man shouldn't disturb the power of God, and Indy's (minor) character arc, which shows he's come to believe in the supernatural/God's power (to some degree), and respects it.
In contrast to these examples, we have Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, which has a sort of deus ex machina, as well. Out of almost nowhere, Harry is able to burn Quirrell with his hands. The contrast is that Harry is exercising strong agency in the moment--as he is the one making this happen and chooses to burn Quirrell and defeat him--but the concept was not foreshadowed nor was the knowledge obtained, unlike those other examples.
We do get a clear explanation of it all in the falling action, which connects to Harry's backstory--and that is something we did learn about. But theoretically, the story would have been better, if this possibility had at least been subtly foreshadowed. It would also be more effective if it were related to something Harry did. Perhaps he could have further "unlocked" this love-driven magic during the school year, as he learned to love his friends.
Yet like the other examples, this one is still very thematic and, like Indy's, relates to Harry's character arc. Harry learns in the story that love is the most powerful force (i.e. magic) in the world (the theme).
You're more likely to get away with a deus ex machina, if it at least relates to the theme and/or character arc, in addition to minimizing its negative effects, like these examples did.
And I want to point out that all of these characters were very active and exercised a lot of meaningful agency, prior to these exact moments.
Finally, I want to note that you are more likely to get away with a deus ex machina in the falling action. However, this arguably means it's not solving the main conflict, but rather, tying up smaller, remaining ones--tying up loose ends. After the protagonist has defeated the antagonist, then he discovers a magical object to fix a remaining issue. This still isn't ideal, and I don't recommend aiming for it, but you are more likely to get away with it after the climax has happened.
In the end, while a deus ex machina is certainly not what anyone should be aspiring to, we see that if the rest of the story is great, and its negative effects are minimized, the audience is willing to overlook it.
Though it probably rarely makes a story better.
Need help with a deus ex machina or other story issue? You may want to check out my services at FawkesEditing.com.
The try/fail cycle is a writing approach where a character attempts to achieve a goal multiple times and fails at least twice before succeeding.
For example, our child protagonist may have the goal to own a bike. She goes to a neighbor who has outgrown hers, and asks if she can have it (try), and the neighbor says no (fail). So, then she decides to do a bake sale on her sidewalk to earn money to buy a new one (try), but it rains, so no one shows up (fail). She learns about a contest that has a new bike as a prize, so she competes (try), and wins (success). She now has her own bike.
This is a very simple example, but the try/fail cycle is simple in and of itself (which is simultaneously a strength and a weakness).
The try/fail cycle approach was common in the 1950s, and taught by author, editor, and critic Algis Budrys. Unfortunately, though, no one seems to know who originated it, since it wasn't Budrys himself. I first learned about it from David Farland, who was mentored by Budrys, but I've never been able to track down the original source (though David talks about it in his book, Million Dollar Outlines). David himself mentored many writers who went on to become best-selling authors (like Brandon Sanderson and Dan Wells, to name two). And in more recent times, some of those writers (and others) have evolved the concept. For example, Mary Robinette Kowel pairs it with the "No, and" vs. "Yes, but" rule. And I've seen others relate it to Orson Scott Card's M.I.C.E. quotient.
In its initial form, though, the try/fail cycle is that simple. The character tries and fails at least twice, before succeeding.
Why Write Failures?
A story where a character fails is more interesting. If the character succeeded on her first try, then the antagonistic forces weren't formidable. They were weak or nonexistent. It also, in some sense, isn't much of a story.
At the most basic level, a strong plot needs to have a goal, antagonist, conflict, and consequences. But if little Suzy wanted her own bike, went and asked a neighbor for one, and the neighbor said yes, we would be missing the antagonist and conflict. The plot would be unsatisfying.
And not only does it weaken plot, but it weakens the character. It's only through antagonistic forces and conflict that we can truly show how badly little Suzy wants this bike and what it means to her. If she fails twice and keeps trying, we know it's that important to her.
Also, without opposition, we can't have much of a character arc, because Suzy can't grow. She's not being challenged to change or remain steadfast. Likewise, we can't show much depth with her, because a person's layers usually come off only when facing difficulties. The easy road rarely reveals true character. The hard road does. The hard road reveals things about Suzy we wouldn't know otherwise.
If the character succeeds on the second attempt, the story isn't much better. It takes three attempts to convey the difficulty and test the character's perseverance. (There is also something about the human mind that prefers the number three in general.) It also makes the final success feel "earned," and therefore more satisfying.
Strengths of the Try/Fail Cycle
As I alluded to above, one of the strengths of the try/fail cycle is its simplicity. It's easy to teach. It's easy to learn. It's easy to plot with (though it won't guarantee you'll never have problems). It also inherently ensures you have a goal, antagonist, and conflict in your story.
And like most approaches to story structure, it can work within scenes, acts, or the whole narrative arc (the whole story). However, it's most frequently referenced in relation to the narrative arc.
Most stories follow the three-act structure, with the second act taking up about 50% of the story (though often that second act gets split in half by a major turn, the midpoint). I like to diagram it like this:
When the try/fail cycle is applied to the whole narrative arc, it shows up like this:
As a note, the first major peak in the story, Plot Point 1, is often neither a success nor failure, but rather used to get the protagonist into the main conflict. However, it can appear as one or the other, so with the try/fail cycle, it can show up as a fail, like this.
The idea behind the try/fail cycle is that the character is failing two or more times, until he succeeds at the end.
As another example, perhaps the goal is to return a magical artifact to its home at the other end of the region. At Plot Point 1, the character is given the artifact and sets off on his quest. He decides he and his company will travel around the mountain, but a group of bandits has taken over that area and attacks them (midpoint). So instead, the protagonist decides they will climb the mountain, but when a snowstorm becomes dangerous, they have to retreat (Plot Point 2). Finally, the protagonist decides they will attempt the questionable cave system. He succeeds, returning the artifact to its rightful place (climax).
Ideally, we want to organize the story so that it becomes increasingly difficult to get the goal and the protagonist has to try harder with each attempt. Logically, the protagonist tries the simplest way forward first (going around the mountain / asking a neighbor for a bike), then the next simplest (over the mountain / having a bake sale), until he or she has to take a more dangerous or costly path (going through the caves, where perhaps people have gotten lost and died / entering and winning a contest). What exactly this looks like may depend on what's set up in the story.
By following this method, it's not too difficult to brainstorm a plot. This is what can make the try/fail cycle great.
*As a note, some people refer to each of these attempts as a try/fail cycle. So the attempt to go around the mountain, would be try/fail cycle #1, and the attempt to go over the mountain would be try/fail cycle #2, and the journey through the caves would be "try/fail" (or rather "try/success") cycle #3.
Weaknesses of the Try/Fail Cycle
One of my issues with the try/fail cycle is that it can really limit the types of plots you write. So while it's great for teaching new writers how to plot, it can also put a ceiling on their potential.
The biggest limitation is that it inherently forces the writer to stick to one overarching goal through the plot. While you can absolutely write a fantastic story where the protagonist pursues one main goal (like in The Lord of the Rings (returning the Ring) or The Hunger Games (win the Games) or Jaws (kill the shark)), it's not a requirement.
Yes, the plot needs a goal, but the goal can change. It can be abandoned or even completed before the story is over. Star Wars is usually my go-to example of this. A New Hope wouldn't exist as it does, if George Lucas was using the try/fail cycle. Luke's main goal changes every quarter. First, it's to go to Academy, then it's to go with Obi-Wan to deliver the message and become a Jedi, then it's to rescue Leia, and then it's to destroy the Death Star. Luke also doesn't fail through the entire middle; rescuing Leia is a success, not a failure.
It's completely possible to write a story where the character succeeds in getting the main goal at the midpoint. In Into the Woods, all of the characters get exactly what they set out for right at the 50% mark.
Creating such plots is more complex, but you'll never create them if you only follow the try/fail cycle. This doesn't mean the try/fail cycle is bad, of course. It may be exactly what you need for the story you are writing. But it is limiting if you think you need to use it for every story.
The try/fail cycle can also be damaging if you adhere to it "religiously." The truth is, no one wants a long-form story where the protagonist is constantly failing through the beginning and middle. If your character is literally failing at every turn, in every scene, and never having any success, then he's not making any progress. And the audience wants to experience a sense of progress, otherwise the plot feels stagnant. Imagine a version of Lord of the Rings where Frodo wasn't able to leave the Shire until the last act. He kept trying, and he kept failing. No one would like that. It'd be boring. It'd be repetitious. We would likely be "circling" the conflict, which we usually don't want to do. Instead, the audience wants to see him making progress. They want to see him get away from the Ringwraiths and make it to the Prancing Pony.
One of the problems here is that this hypothetical writer misunderstands how the try/fail cycle is meant to be used. It's not literal failure scene after scene, but that, within a structural unit, there should be at least two failures. So, within an act, or a scene, there should be at least two different try/fail cycles before the final one. There should be at least two attempts before solid success. Frodo should try to go this direction and get blocked, then try to go that direction and run into a problem, then try the last path and succeed, for example. He should run into obstacles that create setbacks at least twice, before succeeding (theoretically speaking).
It's also not a requirement that the character ultimately succeeds. A character may fail to get the goal, and it could still be a great story.
Sometimes the try/fail cycle just seems too simplistic; not every moment in every story is easily labeled a success or failure. Stories may get more complex than that. A character may succeed in one aspect while simultaneously failing at another.
I think it's because of these weaknesses, that more recent authors have started evolving the try/fail cycle, incorporating other elements (like the "No, and" vs. "Yes, but" rule). Because while it's useful, it's often not enough.
Some approaches, like Save the Cat, even want you to put a success at the midpoint (or at least what seems to be a success at first glance), and to stagger failures and successes. So, you may have a success at the midpoint, a failure at Plot Point 2, and a success at the climax.
So basically . . . there are really so many other ways to write a story.
The try/fail cycle can be useful for the right story and the right writer, but it can also be rather limiting if it's the only approach you follow.
So, I'm writing a story where the protagonist's name is left unknown up until the last half of the story.
My issue is.. HOW DO I REFER TO HER!?!
I can't keep calling her the woman as that's not clear if I'm referring to her or some other lady.
And referring to her as the nameless rider sounds wrong
Pls help!!
Hi! This can be extremely difficult to pull off in written stories (or specifically long-form stories). Your best option is to probably give her an alias or nickname. You can also *sometimes* get away with using titles like “The Man in the Yellow Hat” or “The Sly Gunman.”
But if the person is the pov character, it’s best to use some sort of alias/nickname, mainly because the character would probably not think of herself by a title, so it feels like sort of a pov error (which could be why it feels wrong).
If she is the protagonist and pov character, you could consider writing in first person, which will have you relying on “I” and “me,” so that it is less of an issue.
Also, you definitely should write what you want, but because I don’t know its purpose, I want to mention withholding a name like this (specifically for a pov character) is often frowned upon in the professional industry, for various reasons, and I just wanted to mention that because if you are planning on publishing professionally, doing that will be looked down upon. However, if this is not a professional endeavor, you can do whatever you want.
Terrible news. I read a story I wrote a while back and got invested, but I never finished it. It just ended mid chapter. Absolutely devastated. If I want to read the book I also have to write the book.
Recently I rewatched the original Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy (if you haven't noticed from my latest posts), and it really holds up: complex and sophisticated plotting, iconic characters with sturdy arcs, and nuanced themes about honor and freedom.
This trilogy did so many things right. It's no surprise it was a huge hit. (Do they even make movies like this anymore?)
While I could go on long about everything that it does right, today I actually want to zoom in on what I consider its weakest element: Davy Jones's Locker.
This is one (1) scene in the whole trilogy, but it's always felt off and just . . . weird to me. To the extent that it sort of taints my memory of the last film (which, revisiting it again, is actually quite well written).
Don't get me wrong--I get it's meant to be weird.
But it's weird in the wrong way.
It's weird in a weak way.
What could have been a major opportunity to add depth and dimension to the series' themes, and to Jack's character . . .
. . . is nothing but a strange, delusional 8-minute experience that actually could be cut without really affecting the story.
And that's the main problem. It's not doing enough.
Yes, it did what it needed to on the plot level: The point of the scene is to show Jack trapped, slipping into madness in Davy Jones's Locker. It does that.
But it doesn't do that in a resonating way.
Really, if that's all it's doing, the filmmakers could cut the scene and simply show the crew arriving at the Locker to interact with a delusional Jack. (Though I don't quite like that idea either.)
Watching this film again, I realized, on a subconscious level, I always look forward to Davy Jones's Locker because it's a fate Jack spent the whole previous installment trying to avoid. And now he's trapped there.
I also think I subconsciously look forward to it, because it's a scene loaded with opportunity--because this is where we see (or could have seen) Jack in his most vulnerable state. It's begging to be used to develop character and explore the themes.
But instead, we get a (basically filler) madness trip--one that's trying to be comedic yet doesn't quite deliver--and some rock crabs that don't carry enough significance beyond helping move the ship (yes, I get they relate to Calypso. . . . They aren't terrible, but . . . )
Not as satisfying.
Let's go over what could have been done differently, and maybe it will help you with your own less-than-satisfying scenes. . . .
The bones of storytelling are character, plot, and theme.
And the best ideas for your scenes, are going to be those that hit on at least two--or preferably all three--of those.
When you understand that, you can produce more meaningful scenes (and stories).
Digging into Character & Theme to Revise the Scene
One of the most important aspects of any main character is his wants. His motives.
If you've followed me for a while, you may know I refer to this as the "abstract want."
The abstract want (or wants) exists behind nearly every major concrete goal the character pursues in the plot. (Or it should.)
Katniss wants to survive and save others. That's why she aims to win the Hunger Games. That's why she volunteers to take Prim's place and risks her life to save Peeta.
Luke wants to become, or be part of, something great. That's why he plans to go to Academy, become a Jedi, rescue Leia, and destroy the Death Star.
To add depth to a character, it's often a great idea to dig into this abstract want: What does it mean to the character? Why does fulfilling it matter? And how come the character has it in the first place?
In Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack's abstract want is to live free, preferably forever (as I wrote about somewhat recently). This is why he wants The Black Pearl back, and to be its captain, in the first installment. This is why he wants to avoid Davy Jones and the Kraken in the second installment. And this is why he wants to replace Davy Jones in the third installment.
Every major concrete plot goal Jack has, ties back to being free (and alive).
And so do many of his minor ones. ("You will always remember this as the day that you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow.")
Also noteworthy is that in the first installment, it's said that The Black Pearl symbolizes freedom.
So, having a scene where Jack is trapped in Davy Jones's Locker, with The Black Pearl, would have been the perfect opportunity to explore his abstract want more deeply.
Instead of slipping into madness and envisioning copies of himself on The Pearl, it would have been more meaningful to delve into why freedom matters so much to Jack, and even better, why he has that want in the first place.
Often there is a key backstory (referred to as a "ghost" or "wound") that typically explains the origin of the abstract want.
For example, the reason Katniss wants to survive and save others, is because her dad died and that left her family starving; and after Peeta saved her by throwing her burned bread, she determined she was going to be a survivalist and save her own family.
While Jack's backstory of being marooned by his crew (as told in the first installment), relates to losing freedom (he's trapped on an island, without the Pearl), it doesn't explain the origin of his abstract want (since he wanted freedom via The Black Pearl before that). I don't consider that a flaw, but the Locker would have been an amazing time to go further back into Jack's past and reveal why freedom is so important to him to begin with.
The reason he's trapped in the Locker, is because he made a deal with Davy Jones to raise The Black Pearl (and himself) out of the ocean, so he could be its captain for 13 more years.
That's how much freedom means to Jack. He's literally willing to sell his immortal soul (in addition to working 100 years on The Flying Dutchman) to have 13 years of freedom.
That's a big want.
The trilogy does hint at other aspects of his past, like how he refused to deliver people in the slave trade, and that's why Beckett branded him a pirate in the first place. The writers had the right idea in giving Jack this backstory, as it's ripe with the concept of freedom (vs. bondage). But this is mainly left in subtext. Again, not an innate flaw.
But again, wouldn't it have been great if the film had delved more into that while Jack was in the Locker? Maybe his experience with slaves is what led him to value freedom so highly to begin with.
Or, maybe that was one moment in a whole string of moments that defined his desire. Maybe his abstract want has origins even further back. Maybe as a child, he was somehow trapped, and feared he'd somehow become a slave.
Maybe instead of just having a bunch of copies of Jack in the Locker, we should have had Jacks from different parts of his past--maybe different parts of when he felt trapped. Jack who was marooned. Jack who was imprisoned. Jack who was punished for helping the slaves. Jack who was trapped as a boy.
Surely that would drive Captain Jack Sparrow mad.
The scene would have been so much more interesting if Jack had been haunted by his past. And if the Locker was an opportunity to compound the concept of being trapped.
Naturally, one of the main themes of this film is freedom (vs. bondage): Jack wants to get out of the Locker, Will wants to free his dad, Barbossa wants to release Calypso, and Beckett wants to capture (and kill) all pirates.
So this would have made the film feel more thematically resonant as well. But there are other options too.
The main theme of the whole series explores what it means to be honorable (vs. dishonorable). The nuance (and irony) comes from the fact that pirates, like Jack, ultimately end up being the most honorable. Despite all the (selfish) piracy they engage in, when it comes down it, they're more honorable than Beckett and his men.
And the reason Jack ended up in the Locker at this specific point in time, is because he chose to be honorable, rather than dishonorable, at the climax of the previous film.
Jack could have fled to land and saved himself, letting his crew die, as he'd planned.
But when it got down to it, he couldn't--he came back and saved them.
(. . . before Elizabeth--of all people--betrayed him. . . .)
So this moment in the Locker could have also tapped into the theme of honor (vs. dishonor). It could have questioned if honor was worth it, because look at where it got Jack. Being trapped is likely Jack's worst fear, since it's the opposite of his deepest desire.
For the pirates, the concept of honor comes from keeping the code. Later in the film, we learn that Jack's father is the strict keeper of the code--outright killing a man for even suggesting they don't follow it.
The writers could have delved into that--Jack's relationship with his father, who had always been strict in honoring the code, even when Jack was a young boy. "And look, dad, look at where it [honor] got me!" Jack might've yelled, while wasting away in the sand.
Symbolism & Imagery
But let's say, for some reason, the writers didn't want to do any of that. This is an adventure film, and maybe they didn't want to lean into that directly. They could have worked with more symbolism, tying into character and theme that way instead. The Black Pearl symbolizes freedom, and it's trapped in the Locker. Sure, we get a little bit of symbolism with just that--it's a ship stuck on sand, and it's too heavy for Jack to move.
But there could have been more.
We don't need the rock crabs. Or if we do (to show Calypso helping move the ship), they should have been sea turtles instead--ya know, the creatures that were rumored to free Jack off the island in the first place?! Maybe they should have been used to move the ship (and if we wanted to be silly, with ropes of human hair too 😜).
Or, there could have been more imagery related to being bound--other ropes, chains, cuffs, or bars--driving Jack crazy. Maybe he keeps getting stuck, trapped, or bound somehow.
And rather than these things seemingly randomly moving the ship, Jack should have had a thematic epiphany that apparently led to that, or he should have done something that seemingly caused that to happen (even if it's really revealed it's Calypso later).
In his hallucinations, Jack stabs himself in the heart. We get a brief line about that, but it's not very thematic. If it had tied into one of the themes more, that image would have landed better.
We also get some weird stuff with him eating a peanut, laying an egg, and moving closer to a goat. It's meant to be funny, but it's not very meaningful. Interacting with sea turtles would have been much funnier, since it would have been a callback to the first film. And I get the peanut is meant to emphasize the lack of food . . . but it would have been better if instead, the filmmakers emphasized a lack of rum . . . since that's what he had when trapped on the island, and it was a drink that Elizabeth tied to honor vs. dishonor in the first film (i.e. with a little more work, rum could have been made into a thematic symbol).
Heck, I would have settled for imagery related to Elizabeth "haunting" him--since she's the one who betrayed him, by pretending to reward him for being honorable. Or even traumatic flashbacks of Davy Jones, Jack being eaten by the Kraken, or Jack arriving in the Locker.
That would have aroused more sympathy, for me.
Really, this scene could have been used to emphasize Jack and his vulnerability so much better--rendered in a way that made the audience feel something deeply.
Unfortunately, though, it does little in the way of that.
Now, you would think, based on this post, I positively hate this scene--I don't; it's just a huge missed opportunity.
Yeah, it gets its plot job done.
But it misses out on character and theme.
Regardless, though, this is still a great trilogy.
And despite this post, it's easy to forgive it for fumbling one scene.
Nonetheless, I thought this was a good opportunity to illustrate what character and theme can do for a lackluster scene.
Story isn't just about plot. It's also about character and theme.
If you find a scene lacking luster, you might want to try digging there.
In retrospect, the devil sure sounds a lot like me saying, “Sure, I can work on this for a few minutes before bed, that won’t be a problem. I can just stop when I need to.”
The issue with writing is that talking about it leads to the most inspiration for me and helps me break blocks, but if i talk about it i want to peel my skin
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
