In the second part of my serialised attempt to sabotage the efforts of any potential rivals in the animation writing game, I’m going to talk about the pink-cheeked basics of plot construction.
Back in the seventies, when television animation really put on it’s game face, Stories were put together using the formulaic but primitively satisfying Three Act Structure:
Act 1- Situation arises.
Act 2- By trying to deal with situation, character or characters complicate it.
Act 3- Situation resolved, everyone’s happy. Glowing star spins round and goes ping.
The only exception was Scooby Doo, which created a 4 act structure by adding:
Act 2½- The characters run in and out of a series of parallel doors in a corridor.
Of course, the seventies was literally a great deal of minutes ago, and any modern animation writer worth his or preferably her salt will use the Nine Act Structure, which breaks down thiswise:
Act 1- Situation arises.
Act 2- By trying to deal with situation, character or characters end up legally responsible for a sick orphan.
Act 3- Another, remarkably similar situation arises, then is quickly solved. By wolves.
Act 4- Characters return to their place of birth to consider what brought them to this point. They are sold some kind of hot pie from a cart (flavour chosen by writer) and realise vendor is old family member.
Act 5- Dream sequence or interview with sweatshop workers who painted the series backgrounds.
Act 6- A corpse is found. The pattern on its tie provides a clue to the mystery. If there is no mystery, the corpse is just rolled into a canal and the next three acts have to be much longer.
Act 7- Dancing bear. Or Dancing, bare.
Act 8- The secret act. Audience will retain no memory of the horrors that lurk within. This is why most animation episodes seemingly last 22 minutes.
Act 9-Situation resolved, everyone’s happy. And then, right, this hand bursts out of the grave, and you’re like, I thought she was dead! Whoa.
Stick to this formula and you’ll, well, I can’t even be bothered to finish this sentence.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Failed Sitcom Ideas
THE SPIKE-LEE LADS
Two young men from Liverpool who love Spike Lee films wander around moaning about the fact that it's difficult to get hold of his films. This week's episode: They've taped Do The Right Thing off the telly, but everyone seems to be talking about the ending. Can they successfully avoid the... oh sod it.
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE SPIKE-LEE LADS?
It got cancelled after one episode. That's what.
TOE AND STEPSON
The hilarious adventures of a living toe (brought to life in some bizarre experiment) and the ungrateful social climbing son he's adopted to help him run his flagging rag-and-bone business, due to his lack of limbs.
TOPICOM
The hilarious new topical sitcom, which takes stock sitcom plotlines and bolts on topical references 30 minutes before broadcast. This week: Ariel Sharon's staff are trying to hold a surprise party for him: Will he find out about all the late-night binge drinkers they've invited?
Two young men from Liverpool who love Spike Lee films wander around moaning about the fact that it's difficult to get hold of his films. This week's episode: They've taped Do The Right Thing off the telly, but everyone seems to be talking about the ending. Can they successfully avoid the... oh sod it.
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE SPIKE-LEE LADS?
It got cancelled after one episode. That's what.
TOE AND STEPSON
The hilarious adventures of a living toe (brought to life in some bizarre experiment) and the ungrateful social climbing son he's adopted to help him run his flagging rag-and-bone business, due to his lack of limbs.
TOPICOM
The hilarious new topical sitcom, which takes stock sitcom plotlines and bolts on topical references 30 minutes before broadcast. This week: Ariel Sharon's staff are trying to hold a surprise party for him: Will he find out about all the late-night binge drinkers they've invited?
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Alan Gilbey- Cockney Rebel
I was trained in the macho, bowie knife wielding art of animation script-writing by two geniuses of the art, David M Freedman and Alan No Middle Initial That I Know Of Gilbey.
Alan is an absolute master of characterisation, story construction, and impressions of the singers in the stage musical of The Lion King. I learnt a huge variety of narrative tricks from him, and two of the three jokes I recycle from script to script. He now teaches exactly the same things to other students of animation, increasing my potential competition even after I asked him not to.
Alan also gives a brilliant tour of Spitalfields on the first two Sundays of every month, although he stops from November to March because it’s very very cold indeed. He now has a fantastic website that’s filled with interesting funny things, and a really disturbing picture that will haunt me until the end of time, as I plan to live that long using chemicals.
Alan is an absolute master of characterisation, story construction, and impressions of the singers in the stage musical of The Lion King. I learnt a huge variety of narrative tricks from him, and two of the three jokes I recycle from script to script. He now teaches exactly the same things to other students of animation, increasing my potential competition even after I asked him not to.
Alan also gives a brilliant tour of Spitalfields on the first two Sundays of every month, although he stops from November to March because it’s very very cold indeed. He now has a fantastic website that’s filled with interesting funny things, and a really disturbing picture that will haunt me until the end of time, as I plan to live that long using chemicals.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Brighton Comic Expose
Yesterday I went to the Brighton Comic Expo. There, I said it. It was a show of support for the lads at Weebl’s Stuff.
Here are my 5 nerdiest activities.
1)Entering the expo itself.
2) Standing and reading comic genius Bryan Talbot’s latest, as yet unprinted comic from a folder on his table, as he sat there. I was, however, with a friend, and I gave up before he did.
3) Having an argument about who would win in a fight between Fido Dido and Cool Spot.
4) Chatting to a pair of men promoting a printers just so that I could get a free packet of tic-tacs. Is that nerdy or do I just love tiny white lozenge-shaped objects?
5) Knowing SFX writer Nick Setchfield by sight, despite having never met him.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Trip Hazard- Weirdnaut
When faced with weirdness that makes average minds shrivel like a crisp packet in an oven, HM Gov call in Trip Hazard, a man whose brain has been bio-engineered to a heightened level of Super-Sanity. For Trip the really bizarre and horrfyingly freakish is a walk in a mundane park.
In this week’s episode, Trip has just ridden an electrified Aqua-Donkey to Colonel Zash Melator’s subterranean Octolair. On his arrival he is subdued by a gang of alien zombies dressed like Morris Dancers and brought before the cackling ex-military despot.
Melator strode back and forth across the ductile impregnanium surface of his Octolair’s main bridge. His Komodo dragon-skin boots struck sparks with every step.
“Once again you barge into my carefully clock-worked plans like a choc-ice salesman at an auto-da-fe. But no more!”
Trip Hazard struggled against the dead-extra-terrestrial’s creaky grip. If he could just press their limb release catches he could back-flip into the nearby mechano-lobster transport craft’s velour cockpit and pilot it into the facility’s radioactive core.
Melator continued his monologue.
“For years I’ve beset you with voodoo nutcracker soldiers, super-intelligent pieces of black-forest gateaux, and there was that one time when I gave a pig drills for arms and put him in your gymnasium. All attempts to crack the supports of your much-vaunted Super-Sanity! But now I realise where I was going wrong… Take a squizz… at THIS!”
Melator suddenly reached into his holographic cloak and pulled out a small ceramic object.Trip Hazard’s mighty cortex wriggled within his skull.
“That’s… what is that?”
“It is… a teapot! I thought we might have some tea. And cake.”
“Wh…wh…”
The seven special lobes in Trip Hazard’s brain began cooling down at a rapid rate. His comprehension smudged.
“Wh…what…”
“And then I thought we could watch The Bill together.”
Trip Hazard began to sag in the alien zombies’ arms. Melator clapped his hands together in glee.
“As I thought! Your super-brain, specially overclocked to cope with weirdness, begins to shut down when confronted with the normal and mundane! My plan works!”
Trip Hazard perked up a little.
“An evil plan?”
“No…no, a very boring and mundane plan. Like the business plan for a small haberdashers.”
Trip’s brain was close to total shutdown. What now?
In this week’s episode, Trip has just ridden an electrified Aqua-Donkey to Colonel Zash Melator’s subterranean Octolair. On his arrival he is subdued by a gang of alien zombies dressed like Morris Dancers and brought before the cackling ex-military despot.
Melator strode back and forth across the ductile impregnanium surface of his Octolair’s main bridge. His Komodo dragon-skin boots struck sparks with every step.
“Once again you barge into my carefully clock-worked plans like a choc-ice salesman at an auto-da-fe. But no more!”
Trip Hazard struggled against the dead-extra-terrestrial’s creaky grip. If he could just press their limb release catches he could back-flip into the nearby mechano-lobster transport craft’s velour cockpit and pilot it into the facility’s radioactive core.
Melator continued his monologue.
“For years I’ve beset you with voodoo nutcracker soldiers, super-intelligent pieces of black-forest gateaux, and there was that one time when I gave a pig drills for arms and put him in your gymnasium. All attempts to crack the supports of your much-vaunted Super-Sanity! But now I realise where I was going wrong… Take a squizz… at THIS!”
Melator suddenly reached into his holographic cloak and pulled out a small ceramic object.Trip Hazard’s mighty cortex wriggled within his skull.
“That’s… what is that?”
“It is… a teapot! I thought we might have some tea. And cake.”
“Wh…wh…”
The seven special lobes in Trip Hazard’s brain began cooling down at a rapid rate. His comprehension smudged.
“Wh…what…”
“And then I thought we could watch The Bill together.”
Trip Hazard began to sag in the alien zombies’ arms. Melator clapped his hands together in glee.
“As I thought! Your super-brain, specially overclocked to cope with weirdness, begins to shut down when confronted with the normal and mundane! My plan works!”
Trip Hazard perked up a little.
“An evil plan?”
“No…no, a very boring and mundane plan. Like the business plan for a small haberdashers.”
Trip’s brain was close to total shutdown. What now?
NPC Of Note
They're the background artistes of the computer games world, designed to inform, entertain, and often annoy, and every now and then I'll choose one Non Player Character and put them on a poorly bitmapped pedestal!
This week this newly minted honour goes to:
Private Lloyd!
Game: Deus Ex
Job: Reception desk gimp at UNATCO Headquarters, NY
Purpose: To provide adaptive feedback to make you feel like your actions make a difference in how people react to you.
Actual purpose: To sit and stare baffled as you drink his soda, smash the reception's sofa to smithereens then throw a trophy at his head repeatedly.
Reason for winning award: While all the identical UNATCO soldiers in Deus Ex are glad to speak to you and offer their opinions, Private Lloyd gets special kudos because he knew you at The Academy. Or at least saw you walking by his room once. Yes, Lloyd loves to talk about the academy. It's where he learnt how to sit at a desk and watch uncomprehendingly as you trash the joint. Even smashing his chair will cause him to just stand up, maybe take a stroll.
Let's face it, Private Lloyd is a desperate social limpet who clings to the idea he has a role to play in your life. As you sweep past him his comments are a desperate attempt to be part of your world. Sadly there’s no option to sweep him up in your arms and plant a big wet one on him. Although I haven’t played the sequel…
This week this newly minted honour goes to:
Private Lloyd!
Game: Deus Ex
Job: Reception desk gimp at UNATCO Headquarters, NY
Purpose: To provide adaptive feedback to make you feel like your actions make a difference in how people react to you.
Actual purpose: To sit and stare baffled as you drink his soda, smash the reception's sofa to smithereens then throw a trophy at his head repeatedly.
Reason for winning award: While all the identical UNATCO soldiers in Deus Ex are glad to speak to you and offer their opinions, Private Lloyd gets special kudos because he knew you at The Academy. Or at least saw you walking by his room once. Yes, Lloyd loves to talk about the academy. It's where he learnt how to sit at a desk and watch uncomprehendingly as you trash the joint. Even smashing his chair will cause him to just stand up, maybe take a stroll.
Let's face it, Private Lloyd is a desperate social limpet who clings to the idea he has a role to play in your life. As you sweep past him his comments are a desperate attempt to be part of your world. Sadly there’s no option to sweep him up in your arms and plant a big wet one on him. Although I haven’t played the sequel…
Friday, November 18, 2005
Move's over, darling
Well, I moved at the weekend, to a house that's much more spacious but has numerous psychological problems it needs to get past. I only just got the internet up today.
Next week will be a week of many posts. And the posts will be fantastic. They will scorch your eyes with their brilliance. Scorch.
Next week will be a week of many posts. And the posts will be fantastic. They will scorch your eyes with their brilliance. Scorch.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Badger Of Honour
Friday, November 04, 2005
Anthroapology.
Terribly sorry about the lack of updates this week. A nasty, unidentified wintery virus has invaded my body and sapped my will to talk complete rubbish about films and pancakes. The next edition of The Gingerbread Grail is sneaking towards completion, as well as the second part of 'Writing Remystified' and some deliciously witty musings about screaming in public.
Patience, my pets.
Patience, my pets.
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