All Downhill

Everything goes from bad to worse.

In the second half of Shakespeare’s MACBETH, the protagonist’s world spins out of control. Macbeth sees Banquo’s ghost during the banquet celebrating his coronation as king. The murder he planned and the haunting memory of betraying his friend precipitate Macbeth’s downward spiral into madness. Lady Macbeth can no longer live with her own guilt, nor with her husband’s demise. She takes her own life—but it’s a matter of time until the treachery of Duncan’s murder is revealed and the Scottish nobles settle the score.

I find it helpful to think of the difference between the first and second halves of Act Two in terms of the values in conflict. The first half of Act Two privileges the protagonist’s values. In the second half, antagonism escalates. At the end of Act One, the protagonist commits to championing a certain worldview—most commonly the underdog values, which stand in opposition to the dominant values of the surrounding external world.

For example, in C.S. Lewis’s classic, THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE (adapted for the big screen in 2005), the children vow to fight for Aslan, justice, and the return of good to Narnia. The evil and tyrannical White Witch has quashed happiness, hope, and even Christmas. The values championed by the White Witch and her cronies dominate, along with everything that comes along with such a worldview—oppression, tyranny, fear, evil, grief, despair. To restore the rightful order, the witch must be defeated, along with the values for which she stands.

During the first half of Act Two, the protagonist has made measurable strides towards achieving her goal. In turn, this motivates the antagonist to push back, creating a rising conflict. The shift occurs at the midpoint—it’s all downhill from here. Think of it as a game of thrust and parry. The protagonist fights back, but the antagonist pushes back even stronger, forming a chain of action and reaction. When one character makes a move, the other responds. No matter how strongly the protagonist counters, the antagonist gains ground. At their very core, great stories are driven by conflict.

For the conflict to be palpable, the antagonist must present a real threat and be at least as strong as the protagonist until the very end. (Robert McKee calls this the “principle of antagonism.”) At the beginning of many great stories, the antagonist—Darth Vader, the White Witch, the Green Goblin—is stronger than the protagonist—Luke Skywalker, the Pevensie children, Spider-man. But if you set your protagonist-antagonist relationship up well, the audience will sense that the protagonist has the potential to grow and we hope that she’ll grow along the character arc enough to become capable of overthrowing her adversary. The story chronicles this growth process, or character arc. In ROGUE ONE: A STAR WARS STORY (2016), Jyn spends a good part of the movie not wanting to get involved with the rebellion. However, when she finds her father, and he dies in her arms, she vows to complete the mission. Thanks to her leadership, a group of rebels (who go rogue against the decision of the council) seek out the Death Star plans and beam them up to a cruiser and to Princess Leia. Over the course of the film, as she overcomes adversity and faces off against the antagonist, Jyn evolves into a courageous fighter, who not only takes a stand against the Empire, but is willing to lay down her life in the sacrifice of her higher calling.

Long ago, Aristotle discussed this process of actualization in his philosophical treatise, Metaphysics. The character arc is not just about the self-realization of the protagonist and becoming who she wants to be. Rather, it’s about accepting and even embracing that calling for which she has been placed in this world. The calling is out there. It’s greater than the protagonist. That’s what Joseph Campbell means when he talks about the “call to greatness.”

As the protagonist explores and grows in the first half of Act Two, we gain a firm sense of her raw potential to overthrow the enemy. As THE MATRIX (1999) puts it, the protagonist is “the one” upon whom rests all hope. This principle equally applies to sports movies and romantic comedies. The protagonist might be the only person who can lead the team to victory, or the made-in-heaven love match, or, for that matter, the worst imaginable love match who turns out to be surprisingly ideal. WONDER WOMAN (2017) marks the transition from passive to active by showing Diana Prince follow Steve and his friends to the front, and specifically, to No Man’s Land, the mile-long stretch where no man can cross. It’s here that she decides to take her stand. Diana throws off her cloak, reveals her armor and equipment, and sets across the forbidden stretch, deflecting bullets and missiles as she runs, faster and faster, towards the enemy line. Her true identity comes to life on screen, not only for the audience, but also for the characters in the story book world.

And yet, it’s important to remember the antagonist cannot roll over and admit defeat. He’s a force to be reckoned with, or there would be no story. In most cases, the antagonist wants precisely the same thing as the protagonist: the MacGuffin. But he plans on putting it to very different use, motivated by his own worldview and set of beliefs. Keep in mind these beliefs are real, logical, and even (as far as the antagonist is concerned) correct. Antagonists only seem crazy to us in so far as their way of doing life and business (or even love) stands in direct opposition to our worldview. But to them, it’s utterly logical. Think about Hannibal Lecter in SILENCE OF THE LAMBS (1991) and you’ll see what I mean. The antagonist is also most likely committed to winning the protagonist over to his own side. We see this, for example, in STAR WARS V: THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK (1980), when Darth Vader beckons Luke to join the dark side. The converse is equally true. Oftentimes, the protagonist will try her utmost to win the antagonist over to the light. If the adversary cannot be converted, ultimately, he must be eliminated.
 

As things spiral downhill and out of control, the second half of Act Two ushers in the rule of the dominant values of the story book world. Throughout this attack sequence, the protagonist must confront—and risk defeat by—a series of ever more challenging obstacles. Thus, by the time we reach the end of Act Two, about seventy percent of the way through the story, things have gotten so bad that the protagonist finds her back against the wall. She may even be tempted, at that point, to give up. Perhaps the love interest is lost, or the antagonist has killed someone dear to the protagonist, like a mentor figure. Perhaps, even, the best player on the team has been disqualified and the final match seems doomed. For all intents and purposes, we’ve hit a brick wall. In many stories, this is a good time for the supporting character to step in and offer a pep talk or fresh perspective.

I love how GRAVITY (2013) achieves the brick wall. Sandra Bullock’s character, Ryan, loses all hope and turns off her air supply. Her colleague, Matt (played by George Clooney), shows up to try and talk her back. We are incredulous. How could Matt have survived that space walk without air? Once his pep talk is over, all becomes clear. We realize Ryan has hallucinated. Nonetheless, it’s exactly what she needs to push through the wall and attempt the flight home, armed with a renewed sense of purpose and reason to live.
   

This is an important aspect of the second half of Act Two. To end the attack sequence and make the final transition into Act Three, the protagonist must achieve a moment of self-realization. It can be as simple as Jack Nicholson’s character, Melvin, looking out the window in the rain in AS GOOD AS IT GETS (1997) with the sudden realization that he cannot live without Helen. (Winning back his love interest then becomes the object of Act Three.) In GLADIATOR, Lucilla reminds Maximus of her father’s dream for Rome. Although Maximus rejects her supplication to rise up against Commodus with the army and Senate behind him, Lucilla’s words strike a nerve. Maximus’s self-realization breaks down the wall and ushers in Act Three—the quest to give Rome back to the people. The protagonist’s ultimate transformation is so inspiring that even the jaded Proximo becomes an ally in the quest for freedom.
   

Blake Snyder calls this moment the “All Is Lost.” I prefer to see the brick wall as the final, most decisive threshold the protagonist crosses in her journey. The test readies her to confront the antagonist, face to face, in the final climax of Act Three. Without this critical moment of commitment—which mirrors and magnifies the commitment at the end of Act One—the transition to Act Three will inevitably fail. In other words, the brick wall echoes and amplifies the kind of dilemma the protagonist confronted around page seventeen. This is the moment of final choosing. This is the ultimate commitment to the quest. Earlier, she didn’t completely realize what she was getting into. Now, however, she makes an informed decision; she understands she cannot turn back. Life will never be as it was before. The only path is through. She grabs the metaphorical sledge hammer and smashes the wall down. That’s the stuff of which great final act breaks are made.

Throughout this course, I focus on stories in which the protagonist wins out in the end. If, however, your antagonist wins, practice suggests that successful plays and movies tend to reverse the sequence. At the midpoint, things turn for the better for the protagonist. By the end of Act Two, the protagonist is at an all-time high, instead of the brick wall. The rule of thumb is simple. Wherever the protagonist finds herself at the end of Act Three (defeat or triumph), she finds herself in the opposite position at the end of Act Two. (In the case of a romantic comedy, keep in mind the antagonist is typically the love-interest.)
   

Before turning you over to some more exercises, I want to draw your attention to an important question: Why is it so hard for the protagonist to dig deep down inside and summon the strength it takes to push through the brick wall? This goes back, once again, to the character arc. Remember that blind spot only the supporting character can see? In spite of all the growth the protagonist has accomplished during the journey, she has not yet healed that character flaw or inner hurt. Until she transcends it, victory will escape her. That’s why so often near the end of Act Two the supporting character gives the protagonist a pep talk. She might not want to hear it—she might even send the supporting character packing. But ultimately, the truth communicated to the protagonist will force her to confront reality and change. Over the course of their relationship, the supporting character has earned the trust of the protagonist (and vice versa), which weighs heavily with the protagonist. It could be, however, that the protagonist is at such an all-time psychological low at the end of Act Two that she breaks that trust or betrays the friendship. Whatever the case may be, here, at the brick wall, the protagonist can no longer turn a blind eye to her need. Once that need is made clear, through whatever means necessary, she has only two choices—change, or abandon the quest.

The decision the protagonist makes to pro-actively deal with her need, and the process of beginning to heal, completes her growth cycle. Now, and not one moment before, she is ready for the final face-off against the antagonist. Now, she knows who she is and what she stands for. She understands her role within a bigger picture. The commitment to follow through against all odds, and face her innermost fears, marks the transition into Act Three. There can be no more hesitation.

© SJ Murray, 2018