Vertigo: 3-act structure

 

This post is part of the Background to the series
Learning from Alfred Hitchcock
— for writers, movie makers, and viewers

I think that Vertigo exemplifies all three of the kinds of structures I’ll eventually be discussing in this series of posts:

• 3-act structure,
• 2-act structure, and
• chapter structure.

To begin with, it has the 3-act structure I’ve talked about in Star Wars, Lets check over the criteria and definitions I gave. 

There certainly is a protagonist: Scottie Ferguson (James Stewart).

According to Criterion 1, in the previous post, the first act should end when Scottie “makes a commitment that leads to the main action of the movie: Acts 2 and 3.”

He does this so many times that our only problem would be selecting the one that seems best. I have my own nomination, selected more because I have a gut feeling about it than because it fits any after-the-fact rationalizations.

After Madeleine (Kim Novak) jumps into San Francisco Bay and Scottie fishes her out and brings her to his apartment, they have what, for me, is one of the most unusual conversations ever filmed. I mean, here she wakes up nude in a strange man’s bed only to learn that she’s fallen into the bay and he’s rescued her. The two of them pretend they don’t know each other, yet they immediately begin speaking in a civilized, intimate tone — almost like colleagues, fellow conspirators in some plot they’re both eager to see succeed. He’s obviously in love with her, and perhaps she could be with him, but with no apparent effort he repeatedly, gracefully sidesteps the fact that their love might present a conflict of interest in his relationship with her husband, Gavin Elster (Tom Helmore), who’s in constant phone contact.

Some 7 1/2 minutes into that conversation, Madeleine says that it’s her first time jumping into the Bay. It’s the first time for Scottie, too. He offers her more coffee, reaches for her cup, and touches her hand instead. They have an instant of recognition — interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

Although Scottie has previously agreed to help Madeleine, and although he’s previously acted like he’s in love with her, I think this moment is the decisive one in which he first consciously knows that he loves her and that solving her problem and protecting her is the most important thing in his life. He commits — totally.

3-act Structure — Star Wars (original)

This post is part of the Background to the series
Learning from Alfred Hitchcock
— for writers, movie makers, and viewers

Don’t blame me. The screenwriting books ruined everything. It’s almost impossible now to sell your script to Hollywood without paying lip-service to “3-act structure.”

The thing that gripes me is that it’s such simple-minded stuff. They keep chanting, “Every good screenplay has a beginning, a middle and an end.”

Yeah: like every good donut has a top, a center, and a bottom. Right. Sure. Of course.

Not automatically a useful concept for analytical purposes . . . or, if I make donuts and want to get good at it.

To be practical, the definitions would have to fit an operational reality: “Some donuts have a donut, a filling, and a glaze.” This would tell me that, for that particular type of donut, I’d need to mix my batter, my filling, and my glaze separately. Though I’d need more information, I’d have a start.

But, if you question these people, they just repeat it again, slowly, patronizingly — “Every good screenplay has a beginning, a middle and an end.” — as if I’m the one too dense to understand.

All right. All right. I see that I’m letting my sarcasm run away with me.

I’ll try to be more constructive.

Why is 3-act structure an important concept that needs to be understood?

Three reasons:

Introduction to Longitudinal Structure

This post is part of the Background to the series
Learning from Alfred Hitchcock – for writers, movie makers, and viewers

Alfred Hitchcock directing Kim Novak in Vertigo

Movies can have several different kinds of structures at once.

This may seem like a complicated idea, but it isn’t really.

Just think of your body. In one sense, your structure is provided by your skeleton. But, all by itself, that wouldn’t be enough. You’d be just a heap of bones on the floor if you didn’t have another counterbalancing structure of muscles and tendons to keep the bones together, to enable them to stand erect, and to enable them to move. You have other kinds of structure, too: the “organization” provided by your organs, and the structure of perception and action provided by your brain and your nerves.

Normally, you’re not consciously aware of any of this complexity — and you don’t need to be — unless you’re in some kind of training. We’re in training to make (or watch) movies.

When people talk about film “structure,” they usually refer just to one kind: “3-act structure,” which is a lengthwise, or “longitudinal,” division of the movie into three segments, or “acts.”

There are other kinds of longitudinal structure. Hitchcock’s movies are not conspicuous for true 3-act structure. Some show more obviously a “2-act structure” — and many show an episodic “chapter structure.” Most have some combination of the three kinds.

It’s difficult to see the mixed structures of Hitchcock’s movies without having a clear sense of the three basic kinds. So my plan for the first few posts is