Thickening the Plot:
Three-Act Structure and the Character-Driven Film

by Jennine Lanouette
Reprinted from Release Print Magazine, November/December 2003

All the time, I hear screenwriting students say, “I wish I understood structure better!” Despite in many cases having read the how-to books and attended the weekend seminars, they are still unsure of their screenplay’s structure. But, upon reading their stories, I understand the source of their problem. Whereas the three-act structure they have studied is primarily based on an action-oriented model of drama, most of these students are working on character stories. The action model favored in the film industry these days—focusing on external conflicts, obstacles, confrontations, and goals—only describes the plot-driven film, which leads to an external triumph such as solving a mystery or vanquishing an enemy. This very popular approach does not describe the character-driven film in which the intended result is a transformation within the character.

To give credibility to a character’s internal change (since as a rule human beings are loathe to change), it must be motivated in small steps over time. The writer must understand how the structural transitions function in the first and second acts—where the setup and development occur—to incrementally progress the main character towards his or her ultimate transformation in the third act—the climax and resolution. Of course, most of the best films are both plot- and character-driven in which case the character transitions function in concert with plot transitions.

That said, structural concepts cannot be effectively communicated in purely abstract terms. Even trying to illustrate the concepts in relation to a student’s own screenplay can be a frustrating task. I give multiple examples of what the student’s story needs in order to gain more cohesion and watch them struggle to understand. But when I use a well-known theatrically released film to illustrate a point is when I see the light bulbs go on.

Over several years of teaching script analysis, I have analyzed some 40 or 50 films that are, at least in part, character-driven. But the film I continue to prefer for introducing the character-driven model is Callie Khouri’s Thelma & Louise (1991, directed by Ridley Scott). This film has an easily identifiable plot-driven structure, with a high-stakes escape and pursuit, as well as an unmistakable character transformation with Thelma going from submissive, dependent housewife to self-directed woman no longer willing to surrender to the paternalistic system that previously constrained her. Many have analyzed this film purely in terms of its plot, but Thelma’s incremental progression toward self-empowerment is much more critical in determining the film’s structure.

The work of the first act in any film is to introduce characters, give background exposition, and establish the world of the story. The Setup at the beginning of the first act shows us what “normal” is: Thelma, a housewife with a boorish husband Darryl, and Louise, a waitress with a neglectful boyfriend Jimmy, prepare for a weekend in the mountains to get away from their men.

Then comes the Point of Attack—alternately called the Inciting Incident—which in the plot structure is an external event that begins the story the audience has been brought in to see. Thelma & Louise is not a film about two women on a weekend jaunt. Rather, it is Khouri’s comment on the consequences women face if they respond to aggression with aggression. That story is launched with Harlan’s attempted rape of Thelma and his subsequent murder committed by Louise. Clearly, this is the Point of Attack for the plot, but it also serves a character function as it is an event that presents a serious challenge to the main character’s assumptions about what is “normal.” Thelma’s assumption that men are indispensable as protectors and providers has been seriously compromised. Over the course of the story, she will have to find a way to integrate this new information into her world view.

In the plot-driven model, the End of the First Act raises a central question or describes the main character’s goal or objective. But in studying character-driven structure, I have noticed that consistently at the end of the first act the main character either makes a decision or chooses a course of action. And indeed about 25 minutes into Thelma & Louise, Thelma makes her decision to run from the law and go to Mexico with Louise. This raises the central plot question: “Will Thelma and Louise get to Mexico?” But the “goal” of getting to Mexico, for character purposes, is not what is important. At the end of the film, Thelma’s transformation is completed without her ever reaching Mexico.

What’s more important for the progression of Thelma’s character is her first proactive decision to move away from her old life. She does not have to go to Mexico because she is not the one who pulled the trigger. However, Darryl’s aggressive stance toward her on the phone reminds her just enough of the aggression she suffered from the attempted rape to motivate her to join Louise in her escape. So, whereas in plot terms, the decision to go to Mexico simply defines the task of the second act—trying to get to Mexico—in character terms, it launches her on a far more profound, emotional journey toward finding a new way of being in the world.

The structural work of the second act is to show the incremental progression of that internal journey. But the second act has few structural markers to guide the writer compared with the first and third acts, which have the Setup, the Point of Attack, and the End-of-the-First-Act Decision in the former, and the Second-Act Culmination, Climax, and Resolution in the latter. That hour-long traverse of story in the middle of the film could easily become a confused meander if not for one guidepost: the Mid-Point. Back in graduate school, I was taught that the Mid-Point is the first attempt to solve the problem, which either only partially succeeds or completely fails. Yet I have observed that in a character-driven structure a well-constructed Mid-Point has much more going on.

I am continually surprised at the consistency with which right at the middle of the story there is a nearly cataclysmic external event which causes an internal shift in the main character. In Thelma & Louise, the drifter J.D. steals Louise’s lifesavings of $6,700. In plot terms, this is indeed a failure of the first attempt to solve the problem—this money was supposed to get them to Mexico. But the event also prompts a shift in Thelma’s character. Recognizing her responsibility for the theft, as she was charged with safeguarding the cash, Thelma drags a despairing Louise out of the motel and holds up a roadside store. With the nearly cataclysmic external event of losing the money, Thelma undergoes an internal shift from being a follower, dutifully doing whatever Louise tells her (just as she had with Darryl), to beginning to take charge. Now, with the Mid-Point established, the writer knows all scenes with Thelma as a follower belong in the first half of the script and all scenes showing her taking charge belong in the second half.

However, it is important to note that the Mid-point, although a major shift, does not make the ending inevitable, it simply makes it possible. It would be hard to imagine Thelma choosing her own fate at the end of the film without having made the critical transition from follower to leader in the middle. The ending begins to be inevitable at the End of the Second Act, when the main character, either explicitly or through her actions, makes a statement of internal transformation. In a roadside café, Thelma deduces that Louise, who has been too long on the phone with the police, might be making a deal with them. Thelma comes over and abruptly cuts off the connection. Once in the parking lot, she tells Louise that she can’t go back, “Something has crossed over in me, I just couldn’t live.” This is her statement of transformation. But it is not the complete transformation. Her transformation is completed at the Climax.

Let me digress to illustrate a point: Imagine you have a friend with an irritating habit of not returning your phone calls. One day you leave an urgent message that your car is in the shop and you need someone to pick up your kids. Days later your friend gets back to you with a lame excuse and you say, “Where the hell were you? I’ve put up with this crap from you long enough. I don’t know if I can be your friend anymore.” And your friend says, “You’re right. I screwed up. I should have called you sooner.” Then she says, “I promise from now on I will call you right back.” But this is just a promise and, by itself, is of little worth. It only becomes worth something the next time you leave a message with an urgent need and your friend responds. To gain credibility, any statement of transformation must be put to a test, and audiences know this. Though most can’t articulate specifically what’s wrong, if the test is not there, viewers won’t buy it. The function of the Climax is to present this test.

In plot terms, at the End of the Second Act things are as bad as they can possibly be, and at the Climax, they get worse, pushing the drama to such an extreme that the audience feels a genuine release when the Resolution occurs. In character-driven structure, these definitions can also apply since to motivate a statement of transformation, things should be pretty bad and, in a high-stakes test, they will probably get worse. However, in Thelma & Louise, there is a slightly different application of this test. Thelma makes her statement that she is not going back, and a few scenes later, she and Louise blow up an oil tanker in response to a truck driver’s obscene gestures. While this act is not done under pressure, it still functions as Thelma’s character test—it demonstrates that she meant what she said. Now, with an “all points bulletin” out for “two women, armed and dangerous,” she and Louise have irreversibly crossed over into the status of outlaw. There is no going back.

The Resolution presents the results of the character’s transformation, how his or her life has been changed. Khouri’s intention for the film was to express her feeling that there is no place in this world for women who are truly independent, who stand up for themselves, and who respond to male aggression with aggression of the same magnitude. Hence, she, somewhat controversially, chose to have her characters go over the cliff. “They flew away, out of this world, into the mass unconscious,” she says in the introduction to the published screenplay. “After all they went through, I didn’t want anybody to be able to touch them.” But notice that Thelma is the one who proposes it. It would be hard to imagine the big-haired, ruffle-bloused housewife in the first act as being capable of such a radical act if not for the minutely crafted transitions that gradually progress her to her ultimate transformation over the course of the film.