The Use of Clones Part 2

John Steinbeck uses a cast of clones in his novel, Of Mice and Men. The armature of that story is that people need companionship. It is both dramatized as well as stated. If it has been a while since you’ve read it, I suggest you reread it soon. It is amazingly well-crafted. He knows what he wants to say and says it over and over again in different ways. And he does give you an intellectual idea on an emotional level.

In the story, George and Lennie are two migrant workers who travel and work together. Lennie, being mentally challenged, is a lot of trouble for George, but his love for Lennie and his needs for companionship are worth the trouble. Other characters even comment on how strange it is for these two to travel together.

One of the first things that happens is that George discovers that Lennie is petting a dead mouse he is keeping in his pocket. Lennie is a huge man and has no sense of his own strength and had killed the mouse by accident. Lennie enjoys the companionship of small, soft animals, and is obsessed with one day having rabbits to take care of.

When the duo reaches the ranch where they are to work, one of the people they meet is the boss’s wife. She often flirts with the ranch hands because her husband doesn’t pay attention to her—she craves companionship.
There is also on this ranch an old man who has on old dog. The other hands in the bunkhouse think the dog is worthless. A man named Carlson suggests that the man shoot the stinky old dog because it has, as he puts it, “‘Got no teeth,’ he said. ‘He’s all stiff with rheumatism. He ain’t no good to you.’”

The scene goes on with Candy, the old man, protesting, but Carlson won’t let go of his idea that the dog should be shot.

Candy looked about unhappily. “No,” he said softly. “No, I couldn't do that. I had ’im too long.”

“He don't have no fun,” Carlson insisted. “And he stinks to beat hell. Tell you what. I'll shoot him for you. Then it won't be you what does it.”

Candy threw his legs off his bunk. He scratched the white stubble whiskers on his cheek nervously. “I’m so used to him,” he said softly. “I had him from a pup.”

“Well, you ain’t bein’ kind to him keepin’ him alive,” said Carlson. “Look, Slim’s bitch got a litter right now. I bet Slim would give you one of them pups to raise up, wouldn’t you, Slim?”

The skinner had been studying the old dog with his calm eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “You can have a pup if you want to.” He seemed to shake himself free for speech. “Carl's right, Candy. That dog ain’t no good to himself. I wisht somebody’d shoot me if I get old an’ a cripple.”

Candy looked helplessly at him, for Slim’s opinions were law. “Maybe it’d hurt him,” he suggested. “I don’t mind takin’ care of him.”

Carlson said: “The way I’d shoot him, he wouldn’t feel nothing. I’d put the gun right there.” He pointed with his toe. “Right back of the head. He wouldn’t even quiver.”

At last Carlson said: “If you want me to, I’ll put the old devil out of his misery right now and get it over with. Ain’t nothing left for him. Can’t eat, can’t see, can’t even walk without hurtin’.”

Candy said hopefully: “You ain’t got no gun.”

“The hell I ain’t. Got a Luger. It won’t hurt him none at all.”

Candy said: “Maybe tomorra. Le’s wait till tomorra.”

“I don’t see no reason for it,” said Carlson. He went to his bunk, pulled his bag from underneath it, and took out a Luger pistol. “Let’s get it over with,” he said. “We can’t sleep with him stinkin’ around in here.” He put the pistol in his hip pocket.

Candy looked a long time at Slim to try to find some reversal. And Slim gave him none. At last Candy said softly and hopelessly: “Awright—take ’im.” He did not look down at the dog at all. He lay back on his bunk and crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

From his pocket Carlson took a little leather thong. He stooped over and tied it around the dog’s neck. All the men except Candy watched him. “Come, boy. Come on, boy,” he said gently. And he said apologetically to Candy: “He won't even feel it,” Candy did not move nor answer him. He twitched the thong. “Come on, boy.” The old dog got slowly and stiffly to his feet and followed the gently-pulling leash.

Carlson takes the dog out to shoot him, and the old man lies on his back looking at the ceiling, and after an agonizingly long time, a shot is heard in the distance. With this, Candy rolls over in his bunk and faces the wall.

We see how much this stinky, old dog means to this man. The dog and the old man are clones of Lennie and George.

How do I know that I’m not reading all of this into the story? One way to know is the repetition of the armature. It is dramatized over and over again. The scene where they shoot the old man’s dog is a well-written scene, but what makes it great is that it nails home the armature using emotion to do so.

THE USE OF CLONES Part 1

“ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WERE THREE LITTLE PIGS… .”

What I am calling clones have been called other names—“mirror characters” and “reflection characters”—but, whatever you call them, they are useful tools of the storyteller’s craft.

A “clone” in story terms is a tool for showing, not telling. Clones are characters in your story that represent what could, should or might happen to the protagonist if s/he takes a particular path.

Two of the Three Little Pigs are clones. It is the failure of the first two pigs that allows us to measure the success of the last pig. This is a simple use of clones, and one of the most obvious to see.

But clones exist in more complicated stories as well. In J.R.R. Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings, the pitiful character of Golem is used to show what might happen to the hero Frodo if he is seduced by the power of a magic ring. Just as in the story of the three pigs, we measure the success of one character by the failure of another.

In Tootsie, the woman who is the object of Dustin Hoffman’s desire is dating a lying womanizer. In one scene, Dustin, as a woman, confronts the womanizer and tells him that he understands his womanizing ways better than he thinks. This is a way for Dustin to “see” and confront himself.

The television show ER uses clones to great effect. Often a character will have a problem that is then mirrored by a patient. If a doctor has a drinking problem, for instance, the next thing you know she is treating a drunk driver. With that, she, and we, see what might happen if the character doesn’t change her ways.

Going back to The Wizard of Oz, all three of Dorothy’s companions are clones. They, like she, are looking for something they already have. Having clones is a way of dramatizing ideas; again, a way of showing instead of telling. As I said earlier, the audience sees that the Scarecrow has brains from the very first scene and it is reinforced throughout the story. Perhaps you may remember the line, “Don’t cry, you’ll rust again,” said to the Tin Man. Hmm, turns out he does have a heart, after all.

RITUAL PAIN part 3

The Apartment has two characters who change, but they both learn essentially the same lesson.
Because change is never easy, and is resisted, it is your job as a storyteller to apply as much pressure on your characters as possible. You must back them into a corner and force them to change. Make it as painful as you can. Bring them to the brink of physical or emotional death if you possibly can. Your protagonist will be measured by the size of her struggle, so don’t pull any punches.
Those who believe in reincarnation believe that we die and are reborn until we learn whatever we were sent to learn in life. When we finally attain wisdom, we ascend to a higher plane of existence. We are rewarded.
You don’t need to believe in reincarnation to see this idea played out. Many of us know people who repeat the same mistakes over and over in their lives. They might, for instance, keep dating people who disrespect them. Until they realize that they bring this on themselves, they will never be happy. They will never get their reward.

Groundhog Day is a great example of this concept in story form. Bill Murray is, in a sense, reborn every day. At one point he even tries to kill himself to get out of this cycle, but it doesn’t work. It is only when he starts to focus on things outside of himself, and becomes a better person, that he is able to reap his reward. He then “ascends” and is able to move on to a higher level of existence.

A character always knows what he wants, but hardly ever what he needs. In the end, the character usually gets close to what he wants and chooses the need instead. For example, in Casablanca, Bogart gets the girl—the very thing he’s wanted through the entire story. But he tells her to go with her husband. His need is to get over Ingrid Bergman. When he is holding tightly to his want he is a bitter, selfish man. He even says, “I stick my neck out for no one.” In the end, he risks his neck to assure that the woman he loves can leave with her husband. We know he is a better person. He has grown. He has ascended.

In The Apartment, Jack Lemmon gets the promotion he’s been after from the beginning of the story. But he is done compromising his self-respect, and turns down the job. He has ascended. This act helps him get his real reward, the woman he loves.

In E.T., Elliot wants his friend to stay with him, but helps him get home. He puts the needs of his friend ahead of his own desires. It is painful for him, but it is the right thing to do. Elliot ascends to a better place through suffering ritual pain.

Most viewers of E.T. are unaware that they are watching the transformation of a character from a selfish child to a caring human being, but they do feel it.

Ritual pain means painfully killing off one aspect of a character’s personality to make room for something new.

Character transformation and growth is one of the most powerful forms of invisible ink, and you would do well to include it in your work.

RITUAL PAIN part 2

James Cameron took what could have been a little B movie and made Terminator into a surprise box office hit. He put Linda Hamilton’s character, Sarah Connor, through the ritual pain of being hunted down and nearly killed. In the end she is transformed into a woman who knows that her life matters. She has also been hardened by the experience and seems less girlish. Grown up.

In Terminator 2, it is Sarah Connor who becomes the terminator. It is she who tries to kill a man for something he will do in the future. Through ritual pain she realizes that she has become the very thing she hates.

In Aliens, Cameron had Sigourney Weaver’s character, Ripley, is plagued by nightmares of the creature she had survived in the first film. Through the ritual pain of battling these creatures again, she purges herself of these nightmares and takes back her life.

Billy Wilder understood the power of character change so well that when the American Film Institute listed the top one hundred films of all time, four were his.

In Sunset Boulevard, Wilder had character Joe Gillis, an out-of-work Hollywood screenwriter, sell out for a little security and become the kept man of an older ex-movie star. He becomes her pet. In fact, when they first meet, the pet chimp of the has-been star has just died. It is no mistake that it is following this that Joe Gillis moves into the woman’s home. At one point in the film she dresses Joe in a tux—sometimes called a monkey suit. It is through the ritual pain of being a kept man that Joe Gillis learns that having a swimming pool isn’t worth selling out his principles.

This idea of selling out shows up again and again in Wilder’s films. In The Apartment, Jack Lemmon plays a man who, to climb the corporate ladder, lends his apartment out to adulterous executives at the insurance company where he works. Sometimes this means not getting into his own apartment and having to sleep in the park. He, of course, learns to stand up for himself.

Also in The Apartment, Shirley Maclaine plays a woman who is having an affair with one of the aforementioned executives. This idea of selling out, or prostituting oneself, hits hard when the executive, not having time to buy a Christmas present for his mistress, hands Shirley a hundred dollar bill as a gift. It is through the ritual pain of being made to feel cheap that Shirley learns to respect herself enough to be with a man who will commit to her fully.

RITUAL PAIN part 1

James Cameron took what could have been a little B movie and made Terminator into a surprise box office hit. He put Linda Hamilton’s character, Sarah Connor, through the ritual pain of being hunted down and nearly killed. In the end she is transformed into a woman who knows that her life matters. She has also been hardened by the experience and seems less girlish. Grown up.

In Terminator 2, it is Sarah Connor who becomes the terminator. It is she who tries to kill a man for something he will do in the future. Through ritual pain she realizes that she has become the very thing she hates.

In Aliens, Cameron had Sigourney Weaver’s character, Ripley, is plagued by nightmares of the creature she had survived in the first film. Through the ritual pain of battling these creatures again, she purges herself of these nightmares and takes back her life.

Billy Wilder understood the power of character change so well that when the American Film Institute listed the top one hundred films of all time, four were his.

In Sunset Boulevard, Wilder had character Joe Gillis, an out-of-work Hollywood screenwriter, sell out for a little security and become the kept man of an older ex-movie star. He becomes her pet. In fact, when they first meet, the pet chimp of the has-been star has just died. It is no mistake that it is following this that Joe Gillis moves into the woman’s home. At one point in the film she dresses Joe in a tux—sometimes called a monkey suit. It is through the ritual pain of being a kept man that Joe Gillis learns that having a swimming pool isn’t worth selling out his principles.

This idea of selling out shows up again and again in Wilder’s films. In The Apartment, Jack Lemmon plays a man who, to climb the corporate ladder, lends his apartment out to adulterous executives at the insurance company where he works. Sometimes this means not getting into his own apartment and having to sleep in the park. He, of course, learns to stand up for himself.

Also in The Apartment, Shirley Maclaine plays a woman who is having an affair with one of the aforementioned executives. This idea of selling out, or prostituting oneself, hits hard when the executive, not having time to buy a Christmas present for his mistress, hands Shirley

What August Wilson Taught Me About Being A Writer

When I first met August Wilson, I thought, Here is a guy who can help me understand my craft. I was in a little mall on Seattle's Capital Hill and I looked over and there he was – a living legend. Mr. Wilson, as I called him then, was reading the paper and standing by himself. He was arguably America's greatest living playwright and undoubtedly the most successful African-American playwright ever. He was internationally respected and almost any dramatist would give anything to be standing where I was at that very moment; I decided that I could not let this opportunity pass by. I approached him nervously and asked if he was August Wilson. He looked at me like I was going to serve him a subpoena and nodded. I told him what I would witness many people telling him over the years: that he was great and his work was great, etc. He'd heard it all before and was polite, but didn't seem to want to talk about himself. August Wilson was not a self-centered man.

Over the next few years our conversations became longer. He was not just an interesting man – he was an interested man. He was much more at home talking to people about themselves than having them gush over him.

He even became a fan of my work. (It's still weird to write those words down.) He really liked a film I made called White Face and dashed across a busy street to tell me he had seen it and how much he liked it. He went on and on laughing and reciting lines from the film. From then on he treated me like a peer. I mentioned the story structure class that I teach and he suggested that he should take it. I was blown away. I said, "You have two Pulitzers to my zero! Why would you want to take my class?"

He told me a story about a guy he knew who had once met the great jazz saxophonist John Coltrane. The man sheepishly mentioned to Coltrane that that he too played the saxophone. Coltrane's response was: "What can you teach me?" August wanted to know what I could teach him. In fact, once I was on my cell phone and August approached and hovered around until I got off the phone. He then asked me for advice on his new play. I told him what I thought and he took notes and listened.

At first I thought I was part of an exclusive club, being friends with August Wilson. As it turned out, August was there for anyone who was courageous enough to approach. He made friends (real honest-to-goodness friends) with passing homeless people and crack addicts. He knew things about their lives that when revealed made these street people into three-dimensional human beings. Most of us avoid even making eye contact with these people, but August Wilson would engage them in conversation.

Of the people August would meet almost every morning for coffee, I was the only writer. He was not a cliquish man. Anyone was welcome into the circle. August Wilson was not the kind of writer who observed life without getting involved in it. He was both an observer and a participant.

When I first met August Wilson, I thought he would teach me about the craft of writing, but he ended up asking me more questions than I ever asked him. What I realize now is that he was teaching me that a writer is always learning and willing to learn. He taught me that living life is the best way gather material. He taught me that the crack addict on the street may teach you more about life than a college professor. He taught me that you can ask of anyone you meet: "What can you teach me?" He taught me that if you reach for the humanity in others that you will find it within yourself. All of these things will make you a better writer, and a better human being.

August Wilson died Sunday, October 2, of liver cancer.