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Reality in Three Acts:

What Documentary Storytellers Can Learn From Screenwriters
 

By Karen Everett

The popularity of Luc Jacquet's "March of the Penguins" demonstrates that audiences respond well to carefully scripted nonfiction films that pack a dramatic punch.

As the recent box office success of films like Supersize Me ($11.5 million, 2004), Mad Hot Ballroom ($6.3 million, 2005) and March of the Penguins ($77.4 million, 2005) lure more documentary filmmakers to seek a traditionally risky theatrical release, audiences are lured too, by the promise that non-fiction cinema can tell stories that are as dramatic and entertaining as feature films. This trend, which began when the acclaimed 1994 film Hoop Dreams began its $7.8 million run, has accelerated in the past five years with the success of films like Capturing the Friedmans (2003), Tupac:  Resurrection (2003), and Enron:  The Smartest Guys in the Room (2005). All of these well-crafted documentaries borrow from the plot devices of fiction films. Whether the story-driven documentary will eclipse the essay-driven format is debatable, but one thing is clear:  commissioning editors from stations like HBO, the Sundance Channel and Showtime want stories.

"Mad Hot Ballroom" Photo by Claudia Raschke-Robinson)

Whereas screenwriters are free to dream up plot twists for a three-act story, documentary filmmakers must design scenes based on what was actually filmed in real life.  These two constraints-”what was filmed” and “real life”–present special challenges.  Whether a documentary editor is using a three-act storyboard or some other narrative design, how does she stay true to actual happenings when she must persuade and contort them into climaxes and plot turns?  This article will outline the principles of classic three-act narrative structure as taught by professional screenwriters, and it will examine how documentary filmmakers can adapt these structural demands to the randomness of real life.

What a Story Is Not

Documentaries do not fit tidily into three acts.  Having said that, devising a narrative arc does not mean dividing the film into three parts, and then arbitrarily labeling each part an act.  The first, second and third acts look remarkably different from one another, and each fulfills a unique and specific purpose in composing the story. Keep in mind that a story, in the screenwriter’s sense of the word, is not a profile (for example, a film about an eccentric uncle who farms nuts), a condition (human rights abuses in Haiti), a phenomenon (the popularity of multi-player video games) or a point of view (social security should be privatized).  Simply stated, a story chronicles the efforts of the main character to achieve his or her heart’s desire in the face of opposition.  Screenwriters understand that defining the “hero’s quest” is the foremost dramatic requirement of a three-act structure.  Act One sets up the protagonist’s desire (boy meets girl), Act Two presents obstacles that thwart the goal (boy loses girl), and in the final act, the climax reveals whether or not the protagonist achieves his heart’s desire (boy wins girl forever after).  Documentary filmmakers would do well to hone in on their protagonist’s desire in their earliest concept paper, a mandatory preamble to rolling tape.

"Super Size Me" by Morgan Spurlock (Photo by Julie Soefer)

Act One:  Launching the Story

The function of act one is to establish the world of the film, introduce us to the characters, and launch the protagonist’s quest.  In a two-hour dramatic film, act one (also called the “set-up”) runs about thirty minutes, or a quarter of the film.  At the start of the act, the audience is introduced to the film’s setting and characters.  A protagonist emerges at the “catalyst” or “inciting incident”, when an external event upsets the main character’s world.   This mandatory structural device kicks off the real story, as the protagonist begins his quest to restore equilibrium to his life. For example, in the action movie Jaws (1975), a woman is killed by a shark, and the town sheriff finds her decaying body.  This horrific discovery is the inciting incident, or catalyst, because it begins the sheriff’s quest to kill the shark and thereby restore tranquility to the terrorized resort town.  While many people use the word “protagonist” to simply mean “main character”, screenwriters define “protagonist” as a character who possesses a yearning or desire for something.
 

Portraying the Inciting Incident

While filming "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", Kim Bartley and Donnacha O'Briain found themselves in a coup that provided the necessary "inciting incident".

The inciting incident plays such a critical function in the overall story structure that Hollywood screenwriters follow a rule:  the inciting scene must be visually depicted on screen, preferably in present story time. In other words, the story cannot be launched through exposition (boring) or backstory (too removed).  This imperative presents a major problem for documentary filmmakers constructing a narrative arc.  Frequently, by the time a documentary filmmaker gets interested in a film, the inciting incident has already happened.  Equally problematic, this rousing scene was probably not caught on film.  Sometimes filmmakers get lucky.  They set out to film one story, and a more powerful story unfolds in front of the camera.  In The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (2003), Irish filmmakers Kim Bartley and Donnacha O’Briain intended to profile Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez.  Suddenly they found themselves in the midst of a coup.  They caught the upheaval on camera and it became a visually riveting catalyst for a very different film.

In Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky's "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster", the midpoint occurs when drummer Lars Urlich (right) lashes out at singer James Hetfield.

Shaping archival or news footage into an inciting incident is another solution.  In Metallica:  Some Kind of Monster (2004), the inciting incident occurs a slim four minutes into the lengthy 140-minute movie, when an MTV news clip announces that the bass player has left the band.  This incident launches the narrative arc of the movie, as the remaining three members seek to improve their interpersonal act and, by extension, their next album.

If a documentary filmmaker does not have footage of the actual inciting incident, how does she bring it to life on screen?  Another common solution is to comb through interviews for a soundbite that reconstructs the inciting incident.  Sometimes even a periphery character can recall a particular moment that will change the lives of the characters forever.  In Capturing the Friedmans, an 88-minute film, the inciting incident occurs seven minutes into the story, when a postal inspector appears on screen for the first time.  He recounts that in 1984, U.S. Customs had seized some child pornography addressed to Arnold Friedman.

If an interviewee is going to relate the catalyst event, an editor should choose an exceptionally charismatic storyteller.  Remember, this is the moment the story is supposed to take off.  If a lackluster soundbite can’t fuel the launch, an editor may need booster material:  narration, location footage, reenactments, animation, etc. Whereas a screenwriter can start the story with a single inciting scene, the non-fiction storyteller must often construct an inciting sequence.  As long as the sequence gets the story off the ground, it’s fine to employ a slow burn rather than pyrotechnics.

Posing the Central Question

To show the inciting incident in "Troublesome Creek: A Midwestern", Jeanne Jordan and Steve Ascher cleverly built a sequence of scenes to launch the story of the Jordan family's struggles to save their farm from foreclosure.

The inciting incident gives rise to the protagonist’s quest-alternately called the “hero’s journey” or “object of desire”-as well as formulating the film’s central question.  Will Romeo and Juliet stay together?  Will the sheriff kill the shark?  Will the Jordan family save their farm?  The central question is always some variation of the question, “Will the protagonist reach his goal?”  After a long period of struggle in act two, this central question is finally answered for better or worse in act three, at or just following the film’s climax.

Like narrative films, documentaries are at their best when the protagonist’s object of desire and the movie’s central question are concrete and specific.  In Troublesome Creek, the family’s larger desire was to survive financially, but their concrete goal was to pay off their back loan and get off the Troubled Accounts list. In The Times of Harvey Milk (1984), the protagonist wants equality for gay people, but his quest is drawn into dramatic focus by his bid to get elected to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors.  In Spellbound (2002), the central question that causes the viewer to hold his breath every time a child spells out a word is very specific:  which child will win the national spelling bee contest?

While casting the right characters is critical in a documentary, many seasoned filmmakers won’t undertake a film featuring even the most colorful cast unless they foresee that at least one character’s quest will provide the film with a narrative spine.  In an historical documentary, this is relatively doable with the advantage of hindsight.  But the dramatic arc of a verite film, in which life is recorded as it unfolds, is understandably difficult to predict.  It’s unlikely that filmmaker Fredrick Wiseman wrote a detailed, three-act treatment for Titticut Follies (1967).  Likewise, the Maysles brothers couldn’t have foreseen the dramatic arc of Salesman (1969) before filming.  Sadly, these grand experiments in cinema verite would probably not get funded today.  At a minimum, commissioning editors and foundations require that a treatment for a verite film describe the protagonist’s quest, articulate the central question, and then envisage the conflicts the protagonist will face during the course of the production schedule.

The "central question" in Byambasuren Davaa and Luigi Falorni's "The Story of the Weeping Camel" is not about the family's survival in the harsh Gobi desert. It is, "Can the camel mother be persuaded to nurse her offspring?"

Act One Climax

Each act in the three-act structure concludes with a climax, an emotionally charged plot point that takes the story in a new direction and makes necessary the ensuing events. In Metallica, the first act’s climax occurs 32 minutes into the film, after a series of creative quagmires and arguments prompt lead singer James Hetfield to enter rehab.  Sometimes, the first act climax is the inciting incident.  For example, in the Oscar-nominated film The Story of the Weeping Camel, the first twenty minutes of the 88-minute film introduce us to a family of herders in the Gobi Desert.  The real story begins a quarter way into the film (the textbook length for the first act) when the herders help deliver a baby camel-only to discover the mother will have nothing to do it.  The film’s narrative arc answers the question:  can the mother camel be persuaded to nurse her offspring and keep it alive?

Act Two:  The Long and Winding Road

In act two, the protagonist encounters obstacles as she pursues her goal.  In a two-hour feature film, the second act will typically last 60-70 minutes.  This vast stretch of progressive complications, also known as “development”, lacks the guiding mandates of act one (set up, inciting incident, defining of the central question).  Subsequently, many screenwriters attempt to gain their bearings with the help of a guidepost halfway through the long act called the “midpoint”. 

The Midpoint

The midpoint is a crisis, often of life and death proportions, that provides the second act with both momentum and direction. In character-driven films, the midpoint may spell hazard to a character’s old way of being, or to the life of a relationship.  In Metallica, singer James Hetfield returns from an alcohol recovery program a quarter of the way through the second act.  “I’m in a very different place,” he tells his band mates.  And indeed, James has learned to identify and express his feelings.  But he is still a control freak.  At the midpoint (67 minutes into the 140 minute film), the relationship between band members faces a life-threatening crossroads. Drummer Lars accuses James of “controlling us with rules,” and warns, “I don’t want to end up like Jason,” a reference to a former bass player who quit the band due to James’ oppressive personality.  The midpoint scene also marks the start of James’ true transformation.  Prior to the midpoint, James controls the band’s membership, musical tempo and practice schedule.  After the midpoint, he works in an increasingly self-effacing and collaborative fashion to produce the best album possible.

In Capturing the Friedmans, the midpoint marks the internal transformation of Elaine Friedman.  Prior to the midpoint, Elaine is a dutiful mother and faithful wife. Then, 53 minutes into a 105 minute film, Elaine begins to question family dynamics.  At 58 minutes she calls her husband “a rat” and at 58 minutes gets angry for the first time, exploding at her son David, “Why don’t you try for once to be supportive of me?”  As Elaine’s passive persona dies at the midpoint, a new aspect of character is born.  By the end of the film, after she divorces her husband, Elaine says, “That’s when I really started to become a person”.  Her transformation from long-suffering housewife to self-actualized person is complete.  The midpoint marked the tilt.

The Problem of Pacing

Many editors’ biggest challenge in act two is sustaining momentum.  Since act two is the longest act (a little more than half the film), it is imperative that the editor ratchets up conflict.  A screenwriter can plot progressive complications without being constrained by journalistic ethics, but what can a documentary filmmaker do if the actual chronology of conflict ebbs and flows rather than steadily escalates?  How can the editor ramp up the protagonist’s opposition while staying true to the facts?

One solution is to shuffle the order of events, recognizing that a chronicle does not have to unfold chronologically to be true.  For example, an editor can begin act two chronologically and then reveal a crisis that happened years earlier.  The backstory is placed where it provides maximum impact, raising the stakes for the protagonist and contributing to an escalating sense of crisis.  For example, late in the second act of Metallica, archival footage from MTV introduces an important backstory:  the so-called Napster controversy, which turned Metallica into a target for angry fans. This stormy backstory achieves two important structural goals.  First, it steps up momentum at the required time–as the story approaches the climax of the second act.  In addition, the Napster backstory raises the stakes for the very next scene, in which band members discuss going on tour and whether or not their album will be a hit.

In "Complaints of a Dutiful Daughter" (1994), about the filmmaker's relationship with her mother who is suffering from Alzheimer's, Deborah Hoffmann uses a "reversal" to solve the problem of pacing. (Photo by Tom Erikson; courtesy of Women Make Movies

Reversal

Another way to deal with the mandate of escalating suspense is to allow the protagonist a taste of success, or a respite from the fray, just before a particularly stormy turn of events.  In her personal documentary Complaints of a Dutiful Daughter (1994), filmmaker Deborah Hoffmann uses a plot reversal to portray her struggle to come to terms with her mother’s Alzheimer’s disease.  In act two, the ruthless progression of the disease supplies a predictable structure of increasing tension, but the truth is, there were times when life seemed to get better for Debbie and her mother.  As a filmmaker, how could Hoffmann stay true to what happened while satisfying the structural demands for increasing conflict?

Act two is fraught with mounting difficulties, until it finally dawns on Debbie in what she calls “a liberating moment” that if her mother thinks that the two of them went to college together, what does it matter?  Life gets easier for a while.  Then Debbie discovers that her 84-year-old mother has locked herself outside her San Francisco apartment at night.  Debbie, who has always valued her mother’s independence, must face the fact that her mother cannot continue to live alone.  The placement of this second act climax directly on the heels of Debbie’s reprieve is a clever “calm before the storm” juxtaposition.  By abruptly reversing the languid mood, the second act climax jolts us into act three.

MTV producer Lauren Lazin could pinpoint the third act climax of her 2003 documentary "Tupac: Resurrection" before production: the 1996 drive by shooting of the gangsta rap star.

Act Three:  Answering the Central Question

Screenwriters know that at the end of act two, things should be as bad as they can imaginably get.  Then in act three, they get even worse.  The function of the third act is to ramp up suspense to a crisis that is so unbearable that the protagonist must call forth a supreme effort.  This crisis, the story climax, will answer with finality the film’s central question:  did the protagonist get what she desired? 

Screenwriters often begin plotting a film with two points in mind; the inciting incident and the story climax.  With these two coordinates firmly in place, they can chart progressive complications from inception of quest to quest pinnacle.  In the documentary world, only backward-looking films can provide a treatment paper with a conclusive climax.  For example, in the Oscar-nominated Tupac: Resurrection ($7.7 million, 2003), MTV producer Lauren Lazin could pinpoint the film’s climax as the 1996 drive-by shooting murder. In verite films, of course, the ending is impossible to predict.  By extension, so are the production schedule and costs–which is why observational films are unpopular with funders.  Verite films that are good bets for funding are likely to be structured around a contest, an election, a performance, or even an effort, i.e., having a baby or organizing a trade union.  These measurable endeavors furnish predictable obstacles and probable climaxes within foreseeable time constraints.  For example, in Spellbound (2002), a film about a national spelling bee contest, or Journeys with George (2002), a verite film about George W. Bush’s first campaign for president, there is an obligatory scene (the contest or election) that can supply a treatment paper with an obvious third-act climax.

While funding may be hard to come by, filmmakers undertaking less predictable verite films can take heart.  A verite documentary can deliver a powerful third-act punch precisely because the ending is unexpected.  In Daughter From Danang (2003), the startling story climax earned the film an Academy Award nomination. 

"Daughter From Danang" (2003), a verite documentary by Gail Dolgin and Vicente Franco, delivered a powerful third-act climax that neither the audience nor the filmmaker could have predicted. (Photo courtesy of filmmakers and American Experience.)

Denouement:  Giving Good Closure

The denouement (also called “resolution”) should give the viewer two valuable aspects of closure:  a chance to catch their breath after an emotional climax, and a glimpse of what life is like now that the protagonist has concluded her journey.  The denouement is occasionally constructed as an epilogue, a device more commonly found in documentaries than in narrative films.  As in Daughter From Danang, the epilogue can take the form of a “two years later” verite snapshot.  Or, the epilogue may be solely comprised of end cards that tie up loose ends and update viewers on character’s lives. Some films, like Capturing the Friedmans, combine both verite snapshots and textual cards to resolve the story.

Whatever form the denouement takes, it should not drag on. Ambitious attempts to spell out the film’s meaning, or the influx of new conflicts that require a bumpy double climax, can fatally flaw a film.  Audiences want one ending, not two.  And they appreciate a denouement that will let them exit the theater with enough energy to ponder the story’s meaning in their own company, not the director’s.

Audiences today bank on the promise that non-fiction cinema will thrill them with the hero’s call to adventure-bringing them into a real world they have never visited before-and then safely guiding them through the obstacles, reversals and climaxes of a meaningful story.  And while screenwriters no longer have a lock on good narratives, they can still offer invaluable structural guidance to today’s emerging documentary storytellers.

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