A New Friend

Welcome to the extraordinary world.

Once the protagonist crosses over, it’s time to discover the extraordinary world. This sets in motion the story movement I like to call the “adventure sequence.”

It takes a little time to get acquainted with all the rules and customs of the new world. Just as we discovered the protagonist’s everyday world at the beginning of Act One, we now get to discover the extraordinary world, where the bulk of the adventure will unfold. If the story promises to be about pirates, it’s time for lots of pirates, ships, and curses to be broken as we sail around the ocean. If it’s about space, then we had best commandeer a ship and make the jump into hyperspace, or explore distant solar systems in search of a new planet on which humanity can start over. If it’s a romance, then we’re into the heart of the quest for love.

Sometimes, “crossing over” takes place after the protagonist plays around with his newfound powers. Take ABOUT TIME (2013), for example. Tim’s father, Bill, reveals to him that the men in their family all have the ability to travel within their own timeline. When Tim tries this out, he discovers it’s no joke. Tim’s initial reaction is that he will use the power to find love. However, as the dilemma sequence shows us, it won’t be quite as simple as Tim thinks. The complications of real life are not eradicated by time travel. It’s not until Tim crosses over and moves to London to stay with his father’s friend that he meets Mary, his future wife, in Act Two. As a result of that encounter, he begins to use his powers purposefully, and for good.

It’s worth keeping in mind the following principle as you develop the adventure sequence: For a while, there’s no reason to raise the stakes. The story and protagonist need time to find their legs in the new world. During the first act, the protagonist confronted a number of key changes. Now it’s time to relax and get our bearings. During the adventure sequence, the protagonist is also likely to make good progress towards achieving her goal. We all know that moment, sitting in the movie theatre, when we think to ourselves: “This is too easy… I just know something bad is going to happen.” And that’s precisely the rhetorical effect of the adventure sequence. By slowing things down and allowing the protagonist to make progress, the writer builds anticipation for the next major twist and turn the protagonist will encounter at the midpoint.

For me, two significant (and closely related) events take place during the adventure sequence, and define it. First, the protagonist meets the supporting character shortly after Act Two begins. If we want to get technical, I think this encounter needs to happen by page 30 or 35 in the script—that’s approximately one third of the way through the story. (Sometimes, in love stories, it happens much earlier—around the catalyst point. That doesn’t preclude a friend being introduced as a subplot driver in Act Two.)  What makes the new character the supporting (or “B”) character is this: His primary purpose is to support the protagonist in moving forward through the character arc. If we view the protagonist’s character arc over the course of the story much like an old stone vault in a medieval cathedral, then the supporting character is the keystone at the center of the vault. Without it, the arc could not hold itself up. The noticeable differences between supporting character and protagonist allow the latter to understand her own worldview and choices. In some cases, the protagonist emulates the supporting character’s worldview or actions. In others, she reacts against them. Of course, all stories can (and often do) have more than one subplot.

For example, in STAR WARS IV: A NEW HOPE, Obi-Wan, Han Solo and Princess Leia all play key roles in fueling Luke’s inner journey: Obi-Wan as mentor, Han Solo as his newfound friend and comrade (and rival), and Princess Leia as (initially) the love interest. At the end of the day, Han is the key supporting character once Luke crosses into Act Two. Han is completely different from Luke. He’s a smuggler. Much like Rick in CASABLANCA (1942), Han doesn’t stick his neck out for anyone; he’s concerned with his own interests. Initially, the external stakes of the story mean little to him. Han’s personality also conflicts with Luke’s on other levels. On the philosophical level, Han buys into a realistic, self-imposed system of justice. He lives outside the mainstream. Good vs. evil may be idealistic, but for him, the notion doesn’t pan out in day-to-day existence. Han clashes with the internal stakes, too. He doesn’t believe in the Force and questions Luke’s calling. Interestingly, Han’s questioning is precisely what Luke needs to break through and embrace the Force himself. By the end of the story, Han also becomes Luke’s decisive ally. Han, too, grows from the friendship. He returns to save his friend when Luke needs him the most. In this give-and-take between himself and Han, Luke learns to assert, define, and articulate his own very singular identity. That’s what makes Han Solo a great supporting character.
  

The second defining event I pay attention to in this part of the story occurs before the midpoint, when the protagonist does something she would not have done in Act One. This is oftentimes referred to as the forty-minute point. (Like the seventeen-minute point, it need not occur precisely at forty minutes. However, it should occur after meeting the supporting character and before the midpoint.) The importance of this beat is to show us something has changed. The protagonist no longer finds herself where she was at the end of Act One. Because of this early step towards transformation, she attempts something she never would have done before. Perhaps it’s due to the encouragement of the supporting character, or perhaps it’s in defiance—in any case, it’s a direct result of the events that have taken place so far in the story.

The protagonist may or may not succeed. The point, simply, is that she tries. Something has changed and we get the sense that the adventure has truly begun. (You’ll find it useful to include a repeat of this character beat around the 60-minute point as well, or sometime during the second half of Act Two. This time, the protagonist will do something she would never have done during the first half of Act Two.)

By creating a supporting character different in some key way from your protagonist, you’ll bring a new dimension of conflict into your story that will help fuel the second act. It also challenges the protagonist to grow through the character arc.

The conflict introduced will not be resolved until later. That’s because you must keep building it up in order to maintain the audience’s emotional engagement with the story. Think of this process of rising conflict like building up a raging fire. You don’t wait until one log burns out to toss the next one on. The more fuel you add and the more regularly you add it, the brighter the fire burns.

Ideally, through her interaction with the supporting character, the protagonist becomes conscious little by little of her blind spot—a weakness that reveals itself to her over the course of the story. In this way, we might say that an insanely great supporting character brings healing to the protagonist, and vice-versa. Through their differences, iron sharpens iron. The protagonist and supporting character challenge each other in new and unanticipated ways. Sometimes, the protagonist resists change and pushes back so forcefully that the supporting character has enough and walks away. When that’s the case, a large part of Act Three focuses on winning back the love-interest or friend.
     

I think you’re ready to start brainstorming what this relationship looks like for the protagonist in your story.

© SJ Murray, 2018