Keep to the Code

So here we go! Introductions are done with and it’s time to sink or swim. Or at least tread water for the time being, because the introductory business isn’t quite over with. You see, in drafting up what will hopefully become some of my subsequent entries, I found myself referring again and again to the criteria that I use to break down stories, rules of thumb that required long digressions to properly explain. I don’t much want to do that in every post, so I’m going to try and get some of the exposition out of the way now, as it were. And because everything is better with pirates, I’m going to do it by looking at Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl, the first and best film of the franchise, which premiered 10 years ago today.

Feel old yet?

Now, if any of you are rolling your eyes at my movie choice, saying that the Pirates movies are just mindless blockbusters that have no business being used as examples of filmmaking done right, you’d best stop reading now. Not because I have any great love for the Pirates series – although I do – but because if there is one thing I have absolutely no intention of doing in this blog, it’s taking movies at face value. Good movies can have bad reputations, and even bad movies can do at least some things well. And let me tell you, beneath all the (supposed) corporate stink and (very real) Johnny Deppitude of these films lies some very solid and intelligent storytelling. What I’m going to do today is break down that storytelling, at least in the context of the first film, and look at why it works so well. Any elements of theory that I come across will be marked and subsequently handled by my good friend – and master of expository dialogue – Mr. Joshamee Gibbs.

He keeps the information in his mutton chops.

Savvy?

Good.

Now let’s go catch that horizon.

Today’s our first day, so we’ll start with an easy concept: Protagonists. Who can tell me which character is the hero of Black Pearl? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

 If you said Captain Jack Sparrow, give yourself a pat on the back. If you said Will Turner, on the other hand, go ahead and take a gift basket, because that’s the correct answer. Yes, Jack is easily the most entertaining character, and he does get his turn as the protagonist eventually, but for now, it’s dear William who undergoes the biggest change, venturing into the unknown á la the circular journey model*. Jack, meanwhile, is more like the Obi-Wan of the story: he was involved in past events, and conveniently arrives just in time to guide the hero to where he’s headed, but he’s a bit too familiar with all the strange goings-on for the audience to really relate to him. (That’s just the first film, of course. If we’re looking at the original trilogy as a whole, he fits the Han Solo mold to a T.)

No fear have ye of narrative theory, says you. Properly warned ye be, says I.

Mr. Gibbs Says: Many years ago, there lived a comparative mythologist who went by th’ name o’ Joseph Campbell. Stories were his greatest love, and he dedicated years t’ compiling all the various cultural mythos of mankind’s history. In studyin’ these myths, which came from all the farthest corners o’ the earth, he noticed somethin’ strange. No matter when or where these tales be from, they be naught more than variations on a singular theme: man’s journey to the darkest, foulest depths o’ the unknown, and back again. Some call it th’ Hero’s Journey, others, th’ Monomyth. And while ye’d be wrong to assume that all stories must follow its pattern exactly, it be an absolute truth that th’ more satisfyin’ of ‘em tend follow that self-same circular pattern. What be the steps? Aye, there be no end to the variations, but I be partial to Mr. Dan Harmon’s version, which is as such: First we meet our character, well-adjusted and at peace in his natural environs. But sure as you’re born, it won’t be but a moment before a change in the wind comes along. He wants something, you see, wants it desperate-like, even if he can’t say exactly what it is. By and by he sets out, into a world about which he knows nothing, always searching, always being tested, stripped down to the strongest, most bare version of hisself. And then, one day, he finds it. His treasure, his goddess, what have ye. It may not be what he thought he wanted, but by gum, it be what he needs. Bein’ as such, he takes it, only t’ find that this new world won’t be givin’ it up without a fight. So fight he does, and wins, too, though the cost be great. And when all be said and done, he returns home a changed man… ‘acourse, more often than not, he brings a slice o’ the new world back with ‘im.

As you can see, that story is vague enough to fit just about any mold, especially when you factor out my colleague’s tendency to hyperbolize. It doesn’t so much fit Jack or Elizabeth, though, at least not in this film. They’re both round and well-built characters, but they stay mostly static, something that, contrary to certain assumptions, is perfectly fine*. It’s in Will, therefore, that we ultimately find our match.

Mr. Gibbs Says: A round character be different from a flat one in that there be a complexity to their motives and personality. A static character be different from a dynamic one in that their motives and personality, complex or no, remain unchanged at film’s end. Ye can be one, t’other, or both… it don’t much matter which.

When we meet Will Turner, he’s living a simple life in Port Royal. He’s a blacksmith’s apprentice, and also an orphan, because of course he is. He secretly loves the governor’s daughter, and – this is the important bit – he really, really hates pirates. Like, so much, you guys. Just pure hate for pirates. To the point where he calls Jack an ‘it.’ Watch the scene where he tells Elizabeth he has pirate blood. You’d think he’s telling her he has AIDS. Pirate AIDS. PAIDS. It’s bad, is what I’m saying.

So that’s where Will begins. It’s only natural, then, that in order to save the woman he loves, Will is forced to become what he hates. He learns that his father was a pirate, meaning his lost heritage is also the sole cause of all his troubles. He joins forces with Jack Sparrow, a pirate. He steals a ship, something that pirates do. And make no mistake: the film doesn’t do this simply for the sake of irony. Will is made to hate pirates because, in the context of the film, that hatred proves to be what is holding him back. That is his gauntlet. Those are the trials he has to face. Rescuing Elizabeth is his goal, but in reality, it turns out to be the easy bit. His 'treasure,' narratively speaking, is the pirate side of himself, through which he can break free from the landlubber identity that, in retrospect, was clearly stifling him. Indeed, our real feeling of satisfaction comes when Will finally admits, both to Barbossa and himself, that yes, his father was Bootstrap Bill Turner, yes, his blood can break the curse, and yes, the pirates need him alive, so would they kindly set Jack and Elizabeth free before he blows his own head off. By the film's end, he’s prepared to risk his own neck yet again to save Jack from the noose, because he now knows that it’s possible to be both a pirate and a good man.

That’s another concept at work, and one that I’ve arrived at without Mr. Gibbs’ help: Character development that is thematically unified with the plot of the film. Will’s emotional journey, from pirate racist to actual quasi-pirate, is tailor-made to suit the trials he must undergo. No, there’s nothing particularly innovative in the way Black Pearl handles it, but I never said the movie was groundbreaking, just competent (and also, a lot of fun). These aren’t things that only great movies do; they’re things that only bad movies tend to forget.

Something else worth mentioning about the cyclical journey is the fact that it should, ideally, be cyclical. Our protagonist has changed, and in most cases, they take that change with them into their old life. It’s what gives us a sense of closure, that the film has truly reached its end. Things may never be the same – and probably won’t be, if the story is halfway decent – but we’re safe in feeling that the hero’s work is done, at least for a time. I don’t want to say that Black Pearl ‘gets this right,’ because that implies that any other ending is ‘wrong,’ and that simply isn’t true. What I will say is that I was far more satisfied at the end of Black Pearl, seeing Elizabeth and Will back at Port Royal, than I was during their final goodbyes, after they had become Pirate King and Pirate Grim Reaper, respectively. (Spoilers.) True, some characters have greatness thrust upon them and are destined to hold on to it for the rest of their lives – Luke Skywalker, for instance – but plenty of others are happy to set their greatness aside once it is no longer needed. Will and Elizabeth always struck me as the latter type, but for the sake of time, their fate beyond Black Pearl will have to be a topic for another day, and another blogpost.

There’s been a lot of talk thus far about characters, and the roles they play in a story, but we haven’t yet said much about the stories that those characters play roles in. So… what is a story? Easy! We don’t even need Mr. Gibbs for this one. A story is a sequence of events. And technically, that answer is true, but there’s more to it than that. A good story is a sequence of related events, a cause and effect chain that logically moves from one scene into the next*. A capable audience can make inferences when they have to, and it’s always nice to respect your viewers’ intelligence, something the Pirates films do often, but there’s a limit to how much legwork you can burden a filmgoer with before they decide that you’re just bad at storytelling. Flow is key.

Mr. Gibbs Says: Perchance in yer travels ye’ve come across a pair o’ gents by the name o’ Trey Parker and Matt Stone. I reckon they’ve got their fair share of experience, tellin’ stories for nigh on twenty years now. As be the case when ye do something for a length of time, these two developed a kind of system for to be checkin’ their work against. Accordin’ to them, a story at its most concise can be linked together, plot point to plot point, by a mere two words: ‘therefore,’ and ‘but.’ Cause, effect, and conflict, that be what it all boils down to. The farther ye stray from these two words, venturing into the territory of ‘ands’ or ‘thens,’ the more vexed and disjointed your story becomes, and the bigger danger it be in. For y’see, a story needs momentum t’ survive, sure as a pirate needs rum, or sea turtles need… whatever sea turtles need. Leafy greens, I s’pose.

Say what you will about the Pirates films, friend, but darn it all, have they got some good flow going. With a decent chart and some patience, you could likely map all four of them out, cause and effect, start to finish. It wouldn’t be easy – On Stranger Tides is the only one that can be described as strictly linear – but really, could you imagine how boring movies would be if flow and linearity had to go together all the time? Simplicity is never bad, let me be clear about that right now, but in skilled hands, it’s hardly the only option.

The films also gain bonus points for being intensely character driven: far be it from these sea dogs to blindly stumble from setpiece to setpiece. Each one has a single, underlying motive that drives their every decision; keep all those motives in mind and the endless double-crossings become a lot easier to grasp. At times the interactions seem almost chess-like… again, when you can follow them.

Perhaps an example is in order. In my experience, flow is most easily picked up on when going in reverse. Simply choose an event and trace its cause and effect chain backwards. If you arrive back at the beginning of the film, or at least the first 20 minutes, you’re in good shape. In franchises, some occurrences have origins that go even further back. (Fun fact: Jar-Jar is responsible for the destruction of Alderaan. Search your feelings; you always knew it to be true.)

With Black Pearl, the process is fairly easy, even if we start quite late in the movie, but since I can hear your increasing boredom from here, I’ll go with the short version and just look at the first act*.

Mr. Gibbs Says: There be no hard and fast rule when it comes to act-breakin’ a story. It’s a subjective process, and should you and I test it out on anythin’ more than the most formulaic of plots, it would be a veritable fool’s wager to say that our results wouldn’t be at least a mite different. Me? I side with Film Crit Hulk in sayin’ that an act break happens every time yer character makes a choice that there be no comin’ back from. A-course, I also see no practical use in act-breakin’ most films, so make of that what ye will. Still, it’s a good concept to be aware of.

To find our first act, we look for the first thing Will does with irreversible consequences. That would be freeing Jack from jail, since it’s at that moment that he officially allies himself with a pirate and thus, becomes one himself. And why does Will free Jack from jail?

Hold on tight, mates. There be squalls ahead.

Will frees Jack from jail à because he needs Jack’s piratey experience à because he’s going to Isla de Muerta à because Elizabeth will be there à because she’s been taken by the cursed pirates à because they think they need her blood à because they think she is Bootstrap’s daughter à because she lied about her last name à because she thought they would let her go if they didn’t know she was the governor’s daughter. BUT they actually took her à because Pintel and Ragetti saw that she had the Aztec Gold à because the pirates were in Port Royal looking for it à because it called out to them after Elizabeth fell into the water while wearing it à because she fainted à because Commodore Norrington proposed and she didn’t want to marry him.

See that? I know, I split it into more pieces than I really needed to, but the fact remains that the entire first act is set in motion by a single character beat*. That’s good storytelling. I should point out that Elizabeth is only wearing the medallion on that particular day because she had a dream about it the night before, but as a general rule, something has to break the characters’ initial routine, and a dream is pretty unobtrusive as far as instigating events go.

Mr. Gibbs Says: The cap’n is a bit generous when it comes to deciding what constitutes an actual “story beat.” T’ say it in broader terms, a beat would constitute any significant change in the shape that the story’s been takin’. That said, authorities on the topic tend to be a touch more conservative in how many real beats they feel a story be allowed.

The second and third movies in the original trilogy share their sense of flow with the first, which on paper, is a big thing they have going for them. However, it also leads to one of the duology’s biggest problems: Bloat. Terrible, awful, no good, very bad, utterly inescapable bloat. I have a hobby of doing mental rewrites on scripts that I consider flawed (a hobby that you’ll hopefully see more of if this blog takes off), and At World’s End is easily the biggest challenge I’ve come across so far. No matter how chaotic things appear, every event in the film – and I mean every event – is the direct result of something that came before. You have to respect that level of intricacy, but the result is that you can’t just pinch out a boring or obtuse sequence and stitch the edges together, like the fun but unnecessary Pelegostos in Dead Man’s Chest. Writing out a scene in World’s End means playing catch-up on that plot thread for the rest of the movie, and more often than not, you’d need to make changes going backwards as well. Outside of a page one rewrite, World’s End is really as efficiently told as it can be, given the circumstances. I’d love to explore that claim further, or even refute it, but that will have to wait until later. For now, suffice it to say that there’s a definite lesson to be learned from this third Pirates film. Mr. Gibbs?

Mr. Gibbs Says: Good plot flow can elevate a yarn, that much be true, but it be dreadful bad luck to indulge in too much of a good thing.

Thankee, sir.

And there you have it! My (embarrassingly cursory) analysis of what I consider to be one of the all-time great summer blockbusters, and with it, a good starter kit of tools for screenplay dissection. Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you all that there are plentiful exceptions to every rule when it comes to filmmaking. The work of Quentin Tarantino, for example, is fantastic, but much of it would fail all of my tests spectacularly. So, you know, grain of salt and all that. Keep the concepts in mind, but don’t to get too vexed over whether or not something follows the rules exactly… they’re more like guidelines anyway.

I know this probably hasn’t been fun – certainly less fun than watching the film itself would have been – but I hope it was tolerable. Like I said in the beginning, getting all of the theory out of the way at once allows for more interesting talk going forward. If nothing else, I hope it gave you something to think about, and I hope most of all that you’ll be back next week, when I finally start the good stuff. Because it be too late to alter course now, mateys. And dead men… tell no tales.

They certainly can’t blog.

Mr. Cotton Says: ...