By SHAWN COYNE | Published: MARCH 22, 2013
We face two kinds of
decisions in our lives. These decisions define who we are as human
beings.
Accomplished
novelists/storytellers have a deep understanding of how to move their fictional
characters to these two types of crossroads. It’s the same skill narrative
nonfiction writers must have in their arsenal. Instead of creating events, the
nonfiction storyteller must discern when real human beings have faced these
choices, what decisions they made and how those decisions changed their lives
permanently.
We do not live in an
evil/good, joy/misery, satiated/starving kind of world. Never have. Never will.
Because we don’t—we always fall on a spectrum within the confines of each
of these values—we rely on stories to help us figure out how to choose between
two bad decisions or two irreconcilably good decisions (a phrase that my client
Robert McKee uses and I love).
We model what kind of
people we would like to be based upon our knowledge of epic stories. Stories
are essential to negotiate a very complex world. They are what make us human.
Neither horses nor papayas can tell stories, can they? If you want to become
immortal, learn how to tell a story. Homer, Muhammad, Matthew, Luke, Mark and
John anyone?
What do I mean by “The
Best Bad Choice?” Here are two examples, one from the made up world and one
from real life.
You’ve seen the movie Rocky? If you haven’t it’s a very
simple set up. The lead character of the movie is a Philadelphia Lunk
named Rocky Balboa, a boxer with heart and a rapidly fading twinkle of talent.
At the beginning of Sylvester Stallone’s screenplay, Rocky’s at that place we
can all appreciate. He’s accepted his station in life. He makes enough
scratch from the local black hand as an enforcer to live the way he sees
himself deserving to live . . . in a flop house with a sweat and bloodstained
mattress propped on cinderblocks two cans left of a six pack and half eaten
slab of processed meat in the fridge.
Rocky still gets in the
ring and even sometimes wins, but he’s really just . . . as my father used to
say “getting Monday into Tuesday . . . Tuesday into Wednesday . . . and so on.”
Stallone lets us soak up this mook’s life for a good chunk of pages before he
gives us all what we know is coming. Opportunity . . . THE BIG FIGHT . .
. the inciting incident of every boxing novel/movie/story.
Rocky gets picked to fight
the heavyweight champion of the world. Not because he earned it, but because of
his silly pugilistic moniker . . . THE ITALIAN STALLION (do you think that
choice of stage name had anything to do with his Stallone’s own scratching out
a living in the adult film world?).
The chance to fight the
big fight is what we all say we want, isn’t it?
If Random House just took my novel on as a lark . . . they wouldn't even have to give me an advance . . . I’d bust my butt, promote it like Hell and make it a success . . . I’d show them how wrong they are to dismiss my work . . .
We say to ourselves that
given a lock, an opportunity, we’d be our best selves and kick some serious
ass. Would we though? Stallone knew that giving his fictional character
the chance that we all want to get would seriously invest us in Rocky’s
life. Even a ballet dancer or billionaire would relate to this guy.
So where does the BEST BAD
CHOICE come in here? Rocky has no bad choice right? The Gods have
intervened and given him something he always dreamed of . . . what could be bad
about that?
In a brilliant scene that
still sends chills down my spine, Stallone lets’ Rocky explain his situation to
the arthritic, pockmarked old Irish trainer played by Burgess Meredith. There
ain’t nothing wrong with archetypes/stereotypes if you do them right
(specificity please) . . . and who doesn’t love the old battle-scared sensei?
Even though Meredith’s “Mick” shamed Rocky by taking away his locker at the
gym, it’s because he always expected more of Rocky . . . who he says had
“moxie” before he became a bum.
When Mick comes to Rocky’s
dump to offer his services as trainer, Rocky takes a long look at his
situation. He knows he’s being played for the patsy. He has two bad
choices.
The first choice is to
fight the champ and get the crap kicked out of him. The champ is the
greatest fighter of all time and could very likely kill him with one accidental
blow to his head. Not only could he die, at the very least he will be
humiliated . . . he’ll become a barroom joke . . . not just in Philadelphia,
but all over the world. That’s his first choice.
The second choice is
seemingly not so bad. He could beg off, tell the champ he appreciates the
shot, but he’s just not at his level. There would be no shame in that
would there? He’d be able to keep threatening welshers for his mafia boss
and he could stay in his flop for the rest of his life. No one would blame him
for that choice. Really only one person, two actually, would find that choice
cowardly.
Rocky knows that choice,
the second one, is death. And he knows that Mick knows that too. Because
even though Stallone never literally states it, Mick made that choice decades
before . . . this is why Rocky and Mick are a perfect match to take on a power
as great as the champ.
The best bad choice for
Rocky is to fight. He can take a physical beating, but he won’t be able to live
with himself with a psychological one. He’ll always be a bum, but at least
he’ll be an honorable one. Mick knows this . . . this is why he dragged his ass
to Rocky’s row house.
(Stallone
was inspired to write Rocky by the life of the Bayonne Bleeder, Chuck Wepner,
and his 1975 fight with champ Muhammad Ali by the way . . . )
A while back, two men in
powerful positions in the U.S., one a member of Congress and one a Governor
were faced with the same BEST BAD CHOICE situation. Both men, as men seem
to do over and over again, lost themselves in their intoxicating positions of
being highly respected members of government.
A great number of people
relied on these men, sacrificed for these men and believed in them. But if you
had to boil down to the single other human being on the planet who believed in
them the most, you’d have to say their life partners—their wives—sacrificed the
most for them.
I’m sure their wives were
not and still aren’t saints and that the relationships had all of the deeply
serious challenges that any committed one does. But the fact is that there’s
just one rule in a committed relationship that is unassailable.
You must remain faithful.
You cannot cheat.
Both men were weak. They
cheated on their wives. They both made a terrible choice, one that they
most likely continued to make over and over again until they got caught.
(I’m no psychologist, but it’s pretty obvious that everyday people, not
sociopaths, do stupid things more out of self-sabotage than animus).
Both were caught cheating.
One chose to call a press conference, admitted that he did so and eventually
resigned as the Governor, probably destroying his political career for the rest
of his life in the process.
The other said his
computer had been hacked and denied that he did anything inappropriate.
Eventually after overwhelming evidence that he was lying, the second man
finally admitted that he not only did what he said what he didn’t do, but that
he lied about it twice…once to his wife and then to the world.
Both men had to face THE BEST BAD CHOICE . . . admit a
character defect and take the consequences or lie and maybe get away with it.
One man’s bad choice was truly better than the other wasn’t it? The guy who
came clean right off the bat? You have more sympathy for that guy don’t you?
You’re more likely to give that guy a break than the other one wouldn’t you?
This is the stuff of
humanity and by association art. You must understand the concept of the
best bad choice and artfully place your characters is these kinds of situations
and have them choose. The choices they make will tell the
reader/viewer/listener what kind of person they are.
If you’re afraid of doing
this, read this: “Art and Polarity.”
The flip side to the best
bad choice is the concept of irreconcilable goods. I’ll explain what that
means in my next post.
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