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© Scott Myers

About the Author


I’m Scott Myers and I have been a screenwriter for three decades. I broke into the
business when I sold a spec script to Universal Pictures which became the hit movie
K-9 and spawned two sequels. I've written over 30 movie and TV projects for every
major studio and broadcast network, including Alaska (Sony/ Castle Rock), and Trojan
War (Warner Bros.). I have been a member of the Writers’ Guild of America, West since
1987.

I graduated from the University of Virginia with a Bachelor of Arts degree (with Honors)
in Religious Studies and Yale University, where I received a Masters of Divinity degree
cum laude. I’ve variously enjoyed stints as a musician and stand-up comedian.

From 2002-2010, I was an executive producer at Trailblazer Studios, overseeing the


company’s original TV content development for Scripps and Discovery networks.

In my spare time, I took up teaching in 2002 in the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program,
receiving its Outstanding Instructor Award in 2005. For eight years, I was a visiting
lecturer in the Writing for Screen and Stage program at the University of North Carolina
at Chapel Hill. In 2010, I co-founded Screenwriting Master Class with my longtime
friend and professional colleague Tom Benedek whose movie credits include Cocoon.

In 2008, I launched Go Into The Story which for the last five years has been the Official
Screenwriting Blog of the Black List. Some numbers: The site has had over 10 million
unique visits, 20 million page views, and I have posted 20,000+ items for over 3,000
consecutive days. The Go Into The Story Twitter feed has over 43,000 followers.

In November 2015, I went public with the Zero Draft Thirty Challenge – write an entire
script draft in 30 days – and over 1,000 writers joined in. Out of that, the Zero Draft
Thirty Facebook group emerged and as of January 2017 has over 1,400 members.

In 2016, I was excited to be offered and accept the position of Assistant Professor at the
DePaul University School of Cinematic Arts in Chicago where I teach screenwriting to
both undergraduate and graduate students.

The adventure continues...

© Scott Myers
About the Go Into The Story PDF Series
The Go Into The Story PDF Series

Two motivators I had in launching Go Into The Story in May 2008 were:
1. to create an extensive online resource for writers and
2. to provide that information for free.
The world needs more diverse voices in the filmmaking community and making educational
content available to anyone and everyone is my humble way to facilitate that vision.
There are currently over 20,000 posts on my blog and while an impressive number, it can be
overwhelming for readers. So, based on suggestions from several people, I decided to launch
a new initiative:
Make a new Go Into The Story PDF available each month to the public.
I reached out to the GITS community for volunteers to help with this effort and I’d like to
express my deep gratitude to Trish Curtin and George “Clay” Mitchell. They stepped up to
handle the process of taking blog posts and creating the ebooks in this series. A special blast
of creative juju to you both!
You can download the previous editions by clicking on their titles below.

Volume 1: 30 Things about Screenwriting


Volume 2: So-Called Screenwriting Rules
Volume 3: Writing a Screenplay
Volume 4: Rewriting a Screenplay

This is the fourth book in the series, entitled “A Screenwriter’s Guide to Aristotle’s Poetics”

© Scott Myers
Preface
Over all the years that I’ve been interviewing screenwriters, I typically ask what some of
their influences are. One book title comes up over and over again: Aristotle’s Poetics.

Up until 2013, I confess I’d never read the entire thing, only bits and pieces. So I thought:
“Why not do a weekly series of blog posts to provide a structure to compel me to go through
it?” That way we’d all benefit from the process.

This book is a compilation of that 44-week blog series that became a lively and engaged
discourse, with enthusiastic contributions from a traveling feast of Aristotelian scholars.

For background on Aristotle, you can click here to see an extensive article on him in the
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

To download “Poetics” for yourself, you can click here. While the original GITS blog series
was published week-by-week over thirty-three weeks, you'll notice at that link, that the text
has been fittingly split into three larger sections. For this book, it felt appropriate to do the
same. One. Two. Three. Very Aristotelian.

Poetics by Aristotle is considered by many to be the single most important text related to
writing in history. While I’m often quoted as saying in relation to screenwriting that there are
no rules - when it comes to story - I confess that there is some wisdom I do consider,
figuratively of course, to be etched in stone. That in no way precludes the opportunity to
engage with it, to question, consider and use it as a foundation from which to create - quite
the opposite - it is an invitation to do so.
Simply, if you want insights into how to tell a story - Aristotle’s your guy.
Aristotle may be long dead - but his ideas are very much alive, and as illuminating and
relevant today as they have been in every era in which humans have sought to understand
and express their reality through the arts. It’s a long tradition, that has included some of the
greatest minds in human history.
For a relatively short document, (it’s a long pamphlet, rather than a tome) it provides
storytellers with a depth and clarity of understanding that has still not been surpassed.
Impressive. So, along with so many, living and dead - I unashamedly and enthusiastically lay
claim to discipleship - I am an Aristotelian. Peripatetic, if you will.
I’m so glad you decided to walk this path with me.

© Scott Myers
Aristotle's Poetics: Contents

Cover
About the Author
About the Go Into The Story Free PDF Series
Preface
Introduction: The Nature and Purpose of the Arts
Section One………..Contents
Section Two………..Contents
Section Three………Contents

Go Into The Story And Find The Animals


Resources + Links

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 5


Introduction: The Nature and Purpose of the Arts
I took myself off to the library and checked out a translation by Kenneth McLeish, who was
eulegized by the Independent as, “the most widely respected and prolific translator of drama
in Britain.”

Below I am reproducing an excerpt from McLeish’s introduction.

If you love movies, trust me, you will want to read this entire piece because it appears that
‘Poetics’ is directly relevant to the current state of cinema and storytelling.

Introduction: The Nature and Purpose of the Arts


In the last book of his Republic, produced some forty years before Poetics, Plato brought to a
conclusion a series of meditations on the nature and purpose of the arts, meditations which
had preoccupied him for half a century. In summary, he said that if you believe that the prime
human objectives are to discover what ‘virtue’ is and then aspire to it, you should deal only in
truth, in actuality. Since the arts, by definition, are confected, they are distracting at best and
at worst destructive. God creates the ideal — for example the ideal of a table or the ideal of
‘virtue’; human beings create practical examples of that ideal — a functional table or a life
‘virtuously’ lived; art creates merely a simulacrum of such examples — a picture of a table or a
‘virtuous’ dramatic character. Furthermore, the arts encourage emotional response, far from the
rational and considered stance of the genuine seeker after truth.
In Poetics, briefly and bluntly, Aristotle challenges this view. The pleasure offered by the arts — 
something Plato deplored — is, for him, a moral and didactic force. We see imitations of reality
and compare them with reality; this is both pleasurable in itself and also morally instructive.
From infancy human beings learn by imitation, and the process does not stop with maturity,
but is ironically layered and enhanced by it. The pleasure, and the learning, are similar whether
what is imitated is ‘good’ or ‘bad’ — discrimination in the beholder is the deciding factor. The
chief duty of artists is to provide imitations technically as perfect as they can make them, and
in Poetics Aristotle offers hints and suggestions for how this should be done, at least in
literature. The starting-point may be moral or aesthetic philosophy, but Poetics is for the most
part a discussion of ‘best practice’ in the literary artforms. Aristotle rates highest, of those he
discusses, tragedy and epic.
The moral implications of all this must have been even sharper for Aristotle’s audiences than
they are for us today. By his time, in his opinion at least, theatrical writing had become jaded
and degenerate, falling far short of the aims and achievements of the previous century. The
work of Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and others, so far from being a goal to which other
writers aspired, had come to be regarded as out of tune with the sensibilities and style of the
new generation; spectacle had begun to take the place of substance. In part, this process
reflected a change — felt by many thinkers as a decline — in the moral status of the Athenian
population itself. The people of today were not the equals of their parents, grandparents, and
especially the great-great-grandparents who had defeated the Persians and ushered in the era
of Pericles, the Parthenon, Thucydides, Pheidias and Socrates. Plato’s attack on the arts, in
part, was for fostering and abetting this perceived decline; Aristotle in Poetics seems
persistently to imply, without ever saying explicitly, that if more writers of the present followed
the routes taken by geniuses of the past — routes he sets out in detail — both drama and its
spectators would be far healthier.
                                                                                                    

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 6


Let me just say, I want to try to keep the discussion in this series grounded in what we can
learn about the craft of screenwriting specifically and writing generally. That said, what we
have here in comparing Plato and Aristotle is broadly speaking two very different ways of
approaching the dualistic reality of the Ideal and the Material.

Plato argues that Rationality is the path most closely aligned with the Ideal and the Arts
can only offer pale imitations of the Ideal, even worse, “encourage emotional response”
which presumably steers one away from the realm of the Ideal.

Aristotle disagrees.
The Arts in creating imitations, whether ‘good’ or ‘bad’, are “morally instructive”.
Moreover we learn through imitation and that experience is itself pleasurable. And with that
simple assertion, Aristotle opens the door to the wonderful world of metaphor, which is key
to all storytelling.
But it is the last paragraph of this introductory excerpt that has shocking relevance.
For our purposes, let’s consider the decade of the 70s to be the greatest era of American
cinema. That represents the apex of narrative storytelling in movies at least in terms of
domestic releases, those filmmakers our symbolic equivalent of “great-great-grandparents” 
— Scorcese, Coppola, Forman, Polanski, Lucas, De Palma, Spielberg, Cassavetes, Pakula,
Ashby, Friedkin, and of course all the screenwriters, actors, producers, and crew with whom
they worked. Look at the current state of American cinema and compare now to then.
Consider whether you think the following would be a fair assessment:

Now consider whether this would be a relevant observation about movies


today compared to films from four decades ago:

Now imagine Aristotle as a screenwriting guru, speaking at a weekend


seminar, and one of his key points is this:

Moreover what if these “routes” of which Aristotle speaks represent narrative dynamics that
are universal in nature, transcending time and culture? Wouldn’t we want to know and
understand them regardless of what we thought of 70s movies versus contemporary fare,
no matter what type of genre we write, whatever our audience is?
I bet he’d give McKee a run for his money.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 7


And so I invite you to come along with me as we work our way through Aristotle’s “Poetics”.
And by the way, Plato’s claim that rationality offers more truth than emotional experience?
I humbly call bullshit.
Human beings are comprised of multiple layers of being, some of it head, some of it heart,
some of it in between, and we cannot separate truth from any of it.
Which means for our purposes, a screenplay must work on all levels, not just rational, but
emotional. Psychological. Spiritual. Symbolic. And so on.
To think otherwise is to minimize the power and potential of Story.
So the next time, fair writer, you are in a grocery store line or a singles bar, and the
inevitable question arises, “Are you a Platonist or an Aristotelian?”, I think you
know what your answer should be!

When I first posted this introduction on my blog, I put out the call:

“Who’s with me? Let me know in comments.


While you’re there, please share whether you’ve
read Poetics before or not?”

Well, the GITS community certainly did let me know - and as we went along, some
fun, learned and insightful people weighed in on the discussion. You can read
their replies in the Go Into The Story comments archive here. Now I’m putting out
that same call to YOU. Are you with me? Have you read Poetics, or are you going
to dive in for the first time now? Please, keep the conversation alive - join in the
discussion in the comments section of the blog at this link.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 8


Aristotle's Poetics: Section One - Contents

Part 1: Structure and Imitation


Part 2: Moral Character, Types, Tragedy and Comedy
Part 3: Medium, Objects, Manner
Part 4: Poetry and the Development of Tragedy
Part 5: Comedy and Epic Poetry
Part 6: The 6 Parts of Tragedy (Intro and Contents)
A Screenwriting Perspective
Imitation and Purgation
Character and Thought
Tragedy's Six Parts
Plot First, Character Second
Thought Third
Diction Fourth, Song Fifth
Spectacle Sixth
Part 7: Aristotle’s Text
Beginning, Middle, End
Beauty, Magnitude, and Order
Story Length and Change of Fortune
Part 8: Unity
Part 9: Aristotle's Text
Poet and Historian
Possibility, Probability and Necessity
Episodic
Surprise, Cause and Effect
Part 10: Simple and Complex Plots
Part 11: Reversal, Recognition and Suffering

Back to Main Contents Page

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 9


Part 1: Structure and Imitation
I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting the essential quality
of each, to inquire into the structure of the plot as requisite to a good poem; into the
number and nature of the parts of which a poem is composed; and similarly into
whatever else falls within the same inquiry.
Following, then, the order of nature, let us begin with the principles which come first.
Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic poetry, and the music of the
flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in their general conception modes of
imitation. They differ, however, from one another in three respects:
the medium, the objects, the manner or mode of imitation, being in each case distinct.
For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate and represent
various objects through the medium of color and form, or again by the voice; so in the
arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the imitation is produced by rhythm,
language, or ‘harmony,’ either singly or combined.
Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, ‘harmony’ and rhythm alone are
employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd’s pipe, which are essentially
similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone is used without ‘harmony’; for even dancing
imitates character, emotion, and action, by rhythmical movement.
There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and that either in
prose or verse- which verse, again, may either combine different meters or consist of
but one kind- but this has hitherto been without a name. For there is no common term
we could apply to the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on
the one hand; and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any similar
meter. People do, indeed, add the word ‘maker’ or ‘poet’ to the name of the meter,
and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is, hexameter) poets, as if it were not the
imitation that makes the poet, but the verse that entitles them all to the name. Even
when a treatise on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse, the name of
poet is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have nothing
in common but the meter, so that it would be right to call the one poet, the other
physicist rather than poet. On the same principle, even if a writer in his poetic
imitation were to combine all meters, as Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a
medley composed of meters of all kinds, we should bring him too under the general
term poet.
So much then for these distinctions.
There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned - namely,
rhythm, tune, and meter. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry, and also Tragedy
and Comedy; but between them originally the difference is, that in the first two cases
these means are all employed in combination, in the latter, now one means is
employed, now another.
Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium of imitation.
                                                                                                    

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 10


Two big takeaways:

Aristotle asserted that poems, and by extension stories in general, have


structures:

No matter the type of poem — epic, tragedy, comedy — or even song, there is a universality at
work in terms of narrative structure. So right here, we can see the foundation of structural
analysis.
Indeed were it not for Aristotle, Joseph Campbell may never have wound his way toward the
Hero’s Journey, a sense that all stories tell one story. We see echoes of this in relation to
screenwriting. William Goldman famously said:

fitting - in that a script is a blueprint to make a movie.

As we go through Poetics, it will be interesting to see how much flexibility Aristotle allows in
terms of the variability of narrative structure. A basic question to consider:

                                                                                                    

The concept of imitation.


At first, the instinct of screenwriters might be to interpret this in light of how Hollywood
thrives on imitative products, movies that are similar enough to predecessors to benefit
from that audience pre-awareness, but different enough to stand on their own.
But I believe what Aristotle describes here is about the writer or artist capturing something
of real life in the stories we create. Stories imitate aspects of human existence.
In this section of Poetics, Aristotle doesn’t delve into the value of imitation, rather he
identifies some of the ways in which stories can imitate real life: rhythm, language,
‘harmony,’ character, emotion, action.
The ramifications of this basic concept are huge. The very fact stories are imitations links
them to reality. In other words, they are not born out of nothing, but from something.
Moreover we have from the very beginning of this thought process the idea of a relationship.
Story. Reality. A connection between the two. And since we, as humans, interface with reality
every day, we can draw upon that relationship of story to our experience to enable us to
enter into the story universe, not just an exercise in concept, but one of emotional and
psychological meaning.
                                                                                                    

What do you see in this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

The GITS community had plenty to say when this post first hit the blog in 2013. Visit the
Comment Archive to hear what our venerable Aristotelian scholars had to say!
Join in the discussion and add your take on this part in the comments section of the blog here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 11


Part 2: Moral Character, Types, Tragedy and Comedy
Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be either of a
higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly answers to these divisions,
goodness and badness being the distinguishing marks of moral differences), it follows
that we must represent men either as better than in real life, or as worse, or as they
are. It is the same in painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler than they are,
Pauson as less noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.
Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned will exhibit
these differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating objects that are thus distinct.
Such diversities may be found even in dancing, flute-playing, and lyre-playing.
So again in language, whether prose or verse unaccompanied by music. Homer, for
example, makes men better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the
Thasian, the inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the Deiliad, worse
than they are. The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs and Nomes; here too one
may portray different types, as Timotheus and Philoxenus differed in representing their
Cyclopes.
The same distinction marks off Tragedy from Comedy;
for Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life.
                                                                                                    

There is a lot going on here. Looking at these observations from the perspective of a
screenwriter, let me take a whack at parsing some of the key concepts:

Moral Character:

What this appears to acknowledge is what screenwriters know as Good Guys and Bad Guys,
and there are massive implications as a result, most notably an interface of “goodness” and
“badness” as represented by characters that results in conflict.

Types:

Another key assertion because this opens the door to character types.
Goodness as represented by Mentors and Attractors.
Badness as represented by Nemeses.
As they are represented by Protagonists starting a journey which pulls at them to go one
way or the other.
                                                                                                    

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 12


Tragedy and Comedy:

This seems counterintuitive. Wouldn’t Tragedy be about a character ending up in a worse


state and Comedy about a character ending up in a better state?
But my guess: what Aristotle is referring to here is the Tragic Hero who suffers in part as a
result of his/her moral rectitude, while the Comic Character is one crafted for purposes of
ridicule, their ‘bad’ behavior to be derided and laughed at.
From a screenwriting perspective [or writing in general], the subtext here is that characters
have an arc: They ascend or descend on a scale of ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’.
This suggests the dynamic of metamorphosis as essential to story.
Also stories have a ‘mood,’ two key pillars being tragic or comedic.
Here we see the very roots of what we know as genre.

Finally I take this construct as a major validation of working with character archetypes. It’s
great that Joseph Campbell used them, inspired in large part by his studies of Carl Jung
who emphatically embraced them. But some 2,000 years previous, Aristotle was already
laying the groundwork of writers working with types as a way of understanding and crafting
stories.

What do you see in this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

Do yourself a favor and check out what the GITS community had to say when this post first hit
the blog in 2013. You can read in the Comment Archive the developing conversation with
TeamAristotle and others. It should feed your inspiration enough to join the discussion HERE.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 13


Part 3: Medium, Objects, Manner
There is still a third difference - the manner in which each of these objects may be
imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects the same, the poet may
imitate by narration- in which case he can either take another personality as Homer
does, or speak in his own person, unchanged- or he may present all his characters as
living and moving before us.
These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences which distinguish
artistic imitation- the medium, the objects, and the manner. So that from one point of
view, Sophocles is an imitator of the same kind as Homer - for both imitate higher
types of character; from another point of view, of the same kind as Aristophanes - for
both imitate persons acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of ‘drama’ is given
to such poems, as representing action. For the same reason the Dorians claim the
invention both of Tragedy and Comedy. The claim to Comedy is put forward by the
Megarians- not only by those of Greece proper, who allege that it originated under
their democracy, but also by the Megarians of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus, who is
much earlier than Chionides and Magnes, belonged to that country. Tragedy too is
claimed by certain Dorians of the Peloponnese. In each case they appeal to the
evidence of language. The outlying villages, they say, are by them called komai, by
the Athenians demoi: and they assume that comedians were so named not from
komazein, ‘to revel,’ but because they wandered from village to village (kata komas),
being excluded contemptuously from the city. They add also that the Dorian word for
‘doing’ is dran, and the Athenian, prattein.
This may suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes of imitation.
                                                                                                    

These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences which distinguish artistic
imitation: the medium, the objects, and the manner.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 14


This last point raises the concept of Narrative Voice in relation to screenwriting.
What is our point-of-view in relation to the subject matter as we ‘narrate’ events?

So as screenwriters, we not only have to be aware of our medium [screenplay] and our
object [characters], we also have to be cognizant of our manner of imitation, the
specific voice we use to narrate the story. More questions to consider:

All of this would seem to fall under the category of “manner of imitation.”

What do you see in this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

When this post first hit the blog in 2013, it sparked some insights and observations from readers.
You can read in the Comment Archive the developing conversation and insights from the GITS
community. You know, that community can include you, too - we’d love to have you. Keep the
conversation alive - go on, give us your take on this part… join the discussion HERE.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 15


Part 4: Poetry and the Development of Tragedy
Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them lying deep in
our nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted in man from childhood, one
difference between him and other animals being that he is the most imitative of living
creatures, and through imitation learns his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the
pleasure felt in things imitated. We have evidence of this in the facts of experience.
Objects which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate when
reproduced with minute fidelity: such as the forms of the most ignoble animals and of
dead bodies. The cause of this again is, that to learn gives the liveliest pleasure, not
only to philosophers but to men in general; whose capacity, however, of learning is
more limited. Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that in
contemplating it they find themselves learning or inferring, and saying perhaps, ‘Ah,
that is he.’ For if you happen not to have seen the original, the pleasure will be due
not to the imitation as such, but to the execution, the coloring, or some such other
cause.
Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the instinct for ‘harmony’
and rhythm, meters being manifestly sections of rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting
with this natural gift developed by degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude
improvisations gave birth to Poetry.
Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual character of the
writers. The graver spirits imitated noble actions, and the actions of good men. The
more trivial sort imitated the actions of meaner persons, at first composing satires, as
the former did hymns to the gods and the praises of famous men. A poem of the
satirical kind cannot indeed be put down to any author earlier than Homer; though
many such writers probably there were. But from Homer onward, instances can be
cited- his own Margites, for example, and other similar compositions. The appropriate
meter was also here introduced; hence the measure is still called the iambic or
lampooning measure, being that in which people lampooned one another. Thus the
older poets were distinguished as writers of heroic or of lampooning verse.
As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he alone combined
dramatic form with excellence of imitation so he too first laid down the main lines of
comedy, by dramatizing the ludicrous instead of writing personal satire. His Margites
bears the same relation to comedy that the Iliad and Odyssey do to tragedy. But when
Tragedy and Comedy came to light, the two classes of poets still followed their natural
bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the Epic poets were succeeded
by Tragedians, since the drama was a larger and higher form of art.
Whether Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and whether it is to be
judged in itself, or in relation also to the audience - this raises another question. Be
that as it may, Tragedy - as also Comedy - was at first mere improvisation. The one
originated with the authors of the Dithyramb, the other with those of the phallic songs,
which are still in use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by slow degrees; each
new element that showed itself was in turn developed. Having passed through many
changes, it found its natural form, and there it stopped.
Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance of the

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 16


Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles raised the number of
actors to three, and added scene-painting. Moreover, it was not till late that the short
plot was discarded for one of greater compass, and the grotesque diction of the earlier
satyric form for the stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced the
trochaic tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry was of the
satyric order, and had greater with dancing. Once dialogue had come in, Nature
herself discovered the appropriate measure. For the iambic is, of all measures, the
most colloquial we see it in the fact that conversational speech runs into iambic lines
more frequently than into any other kind of verse; rarely into hexameters, and only
when we drop the colloquial intonation. The additions to the number of ‘episodes’ or
acts, and the other accessories of which tradition tells, must be taken as already
described; for to discuss them in detail would, doubtless, be a large undertaking.

                                                                                                    

As I’ve noted previously, the lens through which I am reading “Poetics” is screenwriting, so
while leaving some of the more esoteric history and ideas in this chapter to those steeped in
Aristolelianism, let me make these two observations:

First, we have already explored the idea that Aristotle’s notion of imitation is applicable to
screenwriting as a reference to narrative voice, the unique perspective a writer takes toward
telling a story reflected in this nifty little formula:

Per Aristotle, imitation is just one “cause” from which poetry sprung.

The second observation is “harmony” - or a term I prefer…

Rhythm:
Anybody who has immersed themself in the world of cinema and in particular read a lot of
scripts should resonate with the idea of rhythm. As we absorb all these scripts, stories,
structures and styles, we turn around in our own writing and “improvise,” testing out what
we’ve picked up until we can make it our own. In terms of screenwriting, I would take
rhythm to be that Gestalt understanding we derive from our reading and analysis, feeding
an intuitive sense of how a story should go.

In that sense, rhythm is hugely important as a corrective to formulaic writing, perhaps the
single most common critique of screenplays submitted by outsiders into the Hollywood
system.

It is one thing to grab a screenwriting guru’s book on screenplay structure and adopt that
approach to writing a script.

It is quite another thing to take that knowledge, along with a lot of other content, pull all
that left-brain knowledge into our right-brain, and in combination find the rhythm of each
story, to be in harmony with its beating heart and throbbing soul, and create a vibrant living
screenplay.

In teaching a university level course called History of American Screenwriting, I am


especially attuned to the organic and evolving nature of screenplay form.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 17


So when I read this:

I was reminded of the history of movies. How it all started with this, then this, then to short
films like this, then actual short films with plots like this. Then one-reel films. And multiple
reel films. Editorial techniques such as cross-cuts and dissolves. Intertitles to convey
‘dialogue’. Thus when Aristotle reviews the development of the theatrical form of tragedy — 
one actor, second actor, third actor, dialogue, scene-painting, short plot to stories with
“greater compass” — I see a parallel to the evolution of storytelling in cinema.
Here is a takeaway: Screenplays are not a static narrative form, rather an unfolding one,
continually pushed and pressed by writers in conjunction with technological advances and
audience tastes.
And always there is the individual writer’s unique creativity. Yes, there are patterns and
structures and conventional wisdom and all that, and it is critical we know as much as we
can about them.

But they ought not restrict us,


rather we, as writers, should feel free to stretch the boundaries.
First to express our creativity.
Second to push this wonderful narrative form of screenwriting to the next level.
And the next level.
And the next…
Story form evolved in the time of Aristotle.
It continues to evolve today, as does the craft of screenwriting.

What do you see in this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

You can read in the Comment Archive the developing conversation and insights from the GITS
community from the original 2013 post. You know, that community - which includes you - is a
part of the ongoing evolution of the craft of screenwriting - go on… join the discussion HERE.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 18


Part 5: Comedy and Epic Poetry
Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type- not, however,
in the full sense of the word bad, the ludicrous being merely a subdivision of the ugly.
It consists in some defect or ugliness which is not painful or destructive. To take an
obvious example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain. The
successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors of these changes,
are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history, because it was not at first
treated seriously. It was late before the Archon granted a comic chorus to a poet; the
performers were till then voluntary. Comedy had already taken definite shape when
comic poets, distinctively so called, are heard of. Who furnished it with masks, or
prologues, or increased the number of actors- these and other similar details remain
unknown. As for the plot, it came originally from Sicily; but of Athenian writers Crates
was the first who abandoning the ‘iambic’ or lampooning form, generalized his
themes and plots.
Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in verse of characters of
a higher type. They differ in that Epic poetry admits but one kind of meter and is
narrative in form. They differ, again, in their length: for Tragedy endeavors, as far as
possible, to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to exceed this
limit, whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This, then, is a second point of
difference; though at first the same freedom was admitted in Tragedy as in Epic
poetry.
Of their constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar to Tragedy:
whoever, therefore knows what is good or bad Tragedy, knows also about Epic
poetry. All the elements of an Epic poem are found in Tragedy, but the elements of a
Tragedy are not all found in the Epic poem.

                                                                                                    

Comedy has had no history, because it was not at first treated seriously.
Perhaps now we know why the Academy Awards have not given a Best Picture Oscar to a
comedy since Annie Hall in 1977: Because modern folks treat comedy much the same way — 
apparently — that people in ancient Greece did, considering it to be a lesser narrative form.

I would hope someone steeped in Aristotle could go into more depth about why comedy was
considered in this light, but for now I guess all of us who write comedy can take comfort in
the observation made by actor Edmund Gwenn whose dying words reportedly were:

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 19


Which over time has come to be remembered as this:

Moving onto Aristotle’s second subject in this section, I find this intriguing:

Setting aside the contemporary idea of free verse, historically poetry has had certain
narrative forms and patterns. And this is another reason why I think there is a significant
point of comparison between poetry and screenwriting.

Although I resist the use of the term “blueprint” to describe a screenplay  -  because it
somehow feels like it diminishes the creativity of what we do as screenwriters  -  the fact is a
script is the basis upon which the people who actually make a movie make the movie. Thus
by default, a script has certain conventions, seemingly similar to how Aristotle thought
about Epic Poetry and Tragedy.

The trick for screenwriters is to know and understand those conventions, working with and
around them so that the creative expression of our story can shine through, not reduced to
formulaic writing, but instead come alive within the context of a screenplay’s structure.

I will be curious what, if anything, Aristotle has to say about that very subject in the rest of
Poetics.

How about you? What do you take from this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

When this post first hit the blog in 2013, it sparked a conversation, which you can read in the
GITS Comment Archive Here. It should feed your inspiration enough to join the discussion HERE.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 20


Part 6: The Six Parts of Tragedy
Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we will speak
hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal definition, as resulting from
what has been already said.
Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain
magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several
kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative;
through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By ‘language
embellished,’ I mean language into which rhythm, ‘harmony’ and song enter. By ‘the
several kinds in separate parts,’ I mean, that some parts are rendered through the
medium of verse alone, others again with the aid of song.
                                                                                                 

As I read that second paragraph, there seems to be six parts to Aristotle’s articulation of
tragedy:

1. “An Imitation of an action”


2. “Serious, complete and of a certain magnitude”
3. “In language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament,
the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play”
4. “In the form of action, of narrative”
5. “Through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions”
6. “By ‘language embellished’, I mean language into which rhythm,
‘harmony’ and song enter. By ‘the several kinds in separate parts’,
I mean, that some parts are rendered through the medium of verse
alone, others again with the aid of song.

With Part 6, we slam headlong into some really weighty content, so I have broken up this
chapter into sections, so the list below is a mini ‘Table of Contents’ for this section.

Part 6a A Screenwriting Perspective


Part 6a (cont'd) Imitation and Purgation
Part 6b Character and Thought
Part 6c Tragedy's Six Parts
Part 6d Plot First, Character Second
Part 6e Thought Third
Part 6f Diction Fourth, Song Fifth
Part 6g Spectacle Sixth

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 21


Part 6a: A Screenwriting Perspective

1. “An Imitation of an action”


2. “Serious, complete and of a certain magnitude”
3. “In language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament,
the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play”
4. “In the form of action, of narrative”
5. “Through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions”
6. “By ‘language embellished’, I mean language into which rhythm,
‘harmony’ and song enter. By ‘the several kinds in separate parts’,
I mean, that some parts are rendered through the medium of verse
alone, others again with the aid of song.

Coming at this from the perspective of screenwriting, I’ll go through Parts 2, 3, 4 and 6
first, then, in the next section, come back and in the next section, look at the relationship
between 1 and 5 because to me, the pairing of those two seems like pure gold.

2. “Serious, complete and of a certain magnitude”

This reads like Aristotle is saying tragedy must by definition have a certain heft to it and
that heft is achieved through its degree of seriousness, thematic weight, and a sense of
fullness and resolution. In other words, tragedies must be substantial.

3. “In language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament,


the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play”

looks to be about various dramatic forms common to plays with a further suggestion that
there was at the time Aristotle crafted “Poetics” certain accepted practices in that regard,
i.e., what went where.

4. “In the form of action, of narrative”

appears to speak to the fact that a play is performed by actors who convey an actual story.

6. “By ‘language embellished’, I mean language into which rhythm,


‘harmony’ and song enter. By ‘the several kinds in separate parts’,
I mean, that some parts are rendered through the medium of verse
alone, others again with the aid of song.

Seems to be linked to 3. but instead of actual various narrative forms, such as verse or song,
this is about the way these parts are crafted using rhythm and harmony.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 22


Part 6a (cont'd): Imitation and Purgation

1. “An Imitation of an action”


2. “Serious, complete and of a certain magnitude”
3. “In language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament,
the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play”
4. “In the form of action, of narrative”
5. “Through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these
emotions”
6. “By ‘language embellished’, I mean language into which rhythm,
‘harmony’ and song enter. By ‘the several kinds in separate parts’,
I mean, that some parts are rendered through the medium of verse
alone, others again with the aid of song.

Now we come to 1.  imitation  and 5.  purgation,  because this coupling seems to be


essential to why stories work.

1. “An Imitation of an action”


and
5. “Through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these
emotions”

We’ve already considered imitation because Aristotle introduced the idea in Part 1:

For as there are persons who, by conscious are or mere habit, imitate and represent
various objects through the medium of colour and form, or again by the voice; so in
the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the imitation is produced by rhythm,
language, or ‘harmony’, either singly or combined.

Now if I get the meaning right, Aristotle does not mean imitation as copying or mere
mimicry, but rather that other word he couples with imitation here: represent.

Or perhaps better re-present. Stories are not exact copies of reality, but rather re-
presentations of them. So when we, the audience, see a movie, watch a TV show or hear a
story, we know it is different than the real thing, it is a fictionalized account.

This is important because it affords us a certain distance from the reality.

Here is an example. Do you remember the 1996 movie Ransom starring Mel Gibson?

If you don’t remember the movie, you perhaps may recall the throaty growl Gibson’s

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 23


character shouted in the trailer: “Give me back my son!”

That movie was a huge hit, generating $309M in worldwide box office revenue. And I
remember reading at the time in the trades that one of the prime reasons Ransom
succeeded so well is because the numbers were propelled by one particular group of
moviegoers: Parents.

Think about that: Why would parents want anything to do with a movie which premise is
about one of the single worst fears a parent can have  -  the kidnapping of their child?

My theory is because Ransom offered parents a safe way to live out those fears. The movie
was an imitation of reality, there was a distance between the story and actual child
kidnapping, therefore parents could attend a screening and have an opportunity to
experience their worst fears, but in a way they could control and know the story would have
a beginning, middle and most important ending allowing them an eventual escape from this
horrific possibility.

That dovetails into the idea of purgation. It’s an interesting word which conjures up
images of ancient Romans chowing down on food and wine, then purging themselves by
vomiting, so they could go back to partying. But I dug deeper to find what the actual Greek
word was: κάθαρσις or catharsis.

Now that is a word I’ve run into a lot in my studies, particularly in the realm of psychology.
In a meta view, catharsis can be about a major moment when various psychological
dynamics come to a head, leading to a sort of purification of an individuals’ psyche, or at
least a more pure self-understanding.

That is valuable for a writer when thinking about Protagonist characters at key points in
stories where what they have experienced in their journey in the External World of actions
and events combined with what they have experienced in their accompanying journey in the
Internal World of reactions and emotions leads to significant shifts in their being,
commonly known as metamorphosis or transformation.

I doubt that’s what Aristotle is referring to here, but the distinction is only by degrees, for
while it’s possible in theory for an audience member to have such a revelatory experience
while witnessing a play, movie or what-not, more often their catharsis is smaller, although
no less meaningful or real in a psychological sense.

And the key to any sort of catharsis in an audience member to any type of story is their
identification with the situation, events, and especially the characters. To the degree we
resonate with the experience of the characters in a story, we connect with them, we
understand and empathize with their emotions, passions, wants and needs, and in effect we
participate in their experiences. That can lead to catharsis, a roiling of feelings and a release
of those feelings when the story resolves.

So we have this fascinating dynamic articulated by Aristotle that is absolutely true in a


psychological way: Stories are imitations or re-presentations of reality, and therefore offer

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 24


some distance from the real world, which in turns creates a safe spot for audience members
to experience vicariously what happens within the story’s framework. But in order for that
experience to be meaningful and lead to any sort of catharsis for an audience member, we
as writers have to craft a sense of identification with the characters, events and scenarios.

That dual dynamic right there, my friends, is one of the most fundamental reasons why
stories work, an understanding that Aristotle had hit upon over 2,300 years ago.

Wow.

Again, all of you fine Aristotelians, please let me know if I’ve got any of this wrong, it is just my
interpretation of imitation and purgation from the perspective of what it can mean in terms of
screenwriting (specifically) and storytelling (generally).
This post first hit the blog in 2013. The GITS Comment Archive Here will let you access the
original community conversation for all of Part 6a, and if you’d like to continue the dialogue -
you can join the discussion HERE.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 25


Part 6b: Character and Thought
Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily follows in the first place,
that Spectacular equipment will be a part of Tragedy. Next, Song and Diction, for
these are the media of imitation. By ‘Diction’ I mean the mere metrical arrangement
of the words: as for ‘Song,’ it is a term whose sense every one understands.
Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies personal agents,
who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities both of character and thought; for
it is by these that we qualify actions themselves, and these- thought and character- are
the two natural causes from which actions spring, and on actions again all success or
failure depends. Hence, the Plot is the imitation of the action- for by plot I here mean
the arrangement of the incidents. By Character I mean that in virtue of which we
ascribe certain qualities to the agents. Thought is required wherever a statement is
proved, or, it may be, a general truth enunciated.

                                                                                                 

This is interesting because one thing I have heard said about Aristotle is that he perceived
Plot to be preeminent above all else when it came to narrative.

Here, however, his argument  -  

Plot is the imitation of the action - for by plot here I mean the arrangement of the incidents

 necessarily implies that a story would have no plot without “personal agents” who

posess certain distinctive qualities both of character and thought.

Some Aristotelian expert is going to have clear that up for me.

Perhaps Plot may be the most important element of a story, however there is a necessary,
even prior positioning of “personal agents” or what we in the screenwriting trade call
characters.

The use of that term could get a little confusing, seeing as Aristotle has a different definition
for Character and a specific meaning for the concept of Thought:

By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to the agents

This sounds an awful lot like what we may describe as a character’s personality traits or per
Carl Jung the nature of their psyche.

Thought is required wherever a statement is proved, or, it may be, a general truth enunciated

I’ll need some help with this because if Character means personality traits, it would seem to
follow that Thought pertains to the inner mind of a personal agent.
So the former is the way they present themselves to the External World in terms of their
persona, the latter a reflection of their Internal World.
This may not be at all what Aristotle means — again I welcome the insights of those who

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 26


have studied Aristotle and could shed some light on the subject matter — but it seems to
suggest that at least at one level, he is making a distinction between the Internal and
External aspects of a personal agent, and their connection to the personal agent’s actions.

… for it is by these that we qualify actions themselves, and these - thought


and character - are the two natural causes from which actions spring.

If that is accurate, then it drives home to screenwriters the importance of linking “personal
agents” (characters) to actions, and the Internal World of beliefs and ideas as well as the
External World of personality and habits to those actions, and as importantly exploring
both realms to fully understand the actors in our story universe.

How about you? What do you take from this part of Aristotle’s “Poetics”?

The GITS Comment Archive Here will let you access the original community conversation on this
section, from the original 2013 blog posting - those interactions were great fun, and made this
series one of my favorites! Let’s continue the dialogue in the comments section of the blog, and
make your take on this part, a part of the ongoing discourse. You can join the discussion HERE.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 27


Part 6c: Tragedy's Six Parts
Every Tragedy, therefore, must have six parts, which parts determine its quality -
namely, Plot, Character, Diction, Thought, Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts
constitute the medium of imitation, one the manner, and three the objects of imitation.
And these complete the fist. These elements have been employed, we may say, by the
poets to a man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular elements as well as
Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.

                                                                                                 

The two parts that “constitute the medium of imitation” I would take to be Diction and Song.
Song would musical components of the piece. Diction I figure has to do with the metrical
structure of the written lines.

The one part tied to “manner” would, I think, be Spectacle. And that I’m assuming is the set
design, costumes, and what other elements of the play to make it appealing to the audience,
primarily on a visual level.

The three parts related to the “objects of imitation” would be Plot, Character, and Thought.
Plot, as we have read, is the “imitation of the action… the arrangement of the incidents.”
By Characters, I suspect Aristotle is referring not only to the “personal agents” whose
actions are intimately involved in the “incidents” of the Plot, but also those aspects of
personality we, as audience members, associate with individuals.
And Thought? As suggested previously, “Thought pertains to the inner mind of a personal
agent,” a reflection that in a story there is an External World of action and dialogue, and an
Internal World of intention and subtext.

Now I’m going to embrace my inner Carl Jung and go all alchemist here by adapting
meaning from each of these six that we, as contemporary screenwriters, might find more
specific resonance in them for our craft:

▪ Plot: I think we can all pretty much live with the concept of it being: “the
arrangement of the incidents.”
▪ Character: Also the idea of “personal agents” can work within the context of a
screenplay.
▪ Thought: We haven’t gotten there yet in Poetics, but I suspect Aristotle is going to
suggest that a Character’s actions are closely tied to, even driven by their Thought,
that is what is going on in their Inner Self [my words, not his]. And in my mind, this
is absolutely critical in developing a story. Plot does not emerge in a vacuum, rather
it derives from a specific collection of characters in a specific narrative context, each
character of whom has their unique Wants, Needs, Conscious, Unconscious,
Subconscious, and Backstory influences. I like the idea of Thought as a reference to
all of that ‘stuff,’ although it does risk minimizing Feelings, Emotions, Passions, and
the like which are equally, if not more powerful influences than mere ‘thought’. But if
we look at Thought broadly as referring to the entirety of a Character’s internal

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 28


workings, including the emotional aspects, it can be a helpful touch point.

▪ Diction: Since screenplays do not have any formalized sense of meter, although
screenwriters do (generally) cherish tight, lean writing, perhaps we can adapt Diction
to mean what I call Narrative Voice, essentially the attitude of the writer toward the
telling of the story as personified in the story’s invisible narrator. I even have that
nifty formula for it you may remember from earlier:

So Diction can refer to the distinctive ‘voice’ we bring to everything we write in a story 
- scene description, dialogue, scene construction, transitions  - the personality of our
Narrator as evidenced in the words we use to convey the story.

▪ Song: Again adapting the concept, what if we look at this as the Rhythm of the
narrative? It’s pace, the balance between action scenes and interaction scenes,
between night and day, outside and inside, the harmonies we create through the
interplay of our scenes and sequences?

▪ Spectacle: Here we land on pretty solid ground as movies are primarily a visual
medium and thus Spectacle would seem to best fit referring to the story’s cinematic
potential. What is it about our screenplay that is going to capture the ‘eyes’ of the
reader, and through that experience, their imagination? We must remember movies
were once (and sometimes still are) called ‘motion pictures,’ each word spotlighting
visuality. Motion. Picture. So Spectacle would seem to be a good reminder that we
must always think first about the visual narrative, how to arouse a reader’s sense of
what they can see. Note: “Spectacles” historically referred to someone’s eyeglasses,
so again the word steers us toward the idea of playing to a reader’s visual
sensibilities.

Well, that was fun! At the time of writing (in 2013), I was still awaiting the wisdom of our noble
Aristotelians to bring their heft to the comments on the blog, which they did HERE - but I was
then, and am still now, comfortable appropriating these six concepts into a modern framework,
hopefully in the spirit of their original intention. A reminder: I am looking at “Poetics” through the
lens of screenwriting - its relevance to the craft in contemporary times.
I welcome your thoughts, too. Keep the conversation alive - Join the discussion on the blog.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 29


Part 6d: Plot First, Character Second
But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy is an imitation,
not of men, but of an action and of life, and life consists in action, and its end is a
mode of action, not a quality. Now character determines men’s qualities, but it is by
their actions that they are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is not
with a view to the representation of character: character comes in as subsidiary to the
actions. Hence the incidents and the plot are the end of a tragedy; and the end is the
chief thing of all. Again, without action there cannot be a tragedy; there may be
without character. The tragedies of most of our modern poets fail in the rendering of
character; and of poets in general this is often true. It is the same in painting; and here
lies the difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus. Polygnotus delineates character
well; the style of Zeuxis is devoid of ethical quality. Again, if you string together a set
of speeches expressive of character, and well finished in point of diction and thought,
you will not produce the essential tragic effect nearly so well as with a play which,
however deficient in these respects, yet has a plot and artistically constructed
incidents. Besides which, the most powerful elements of emotional interest in Tragedy
- Peripeteia or Reversal of the Situation, and Recognition scenes - are parts of the plot.
A further proof is, that novices in the art attain to finish of diction and precision of
portraiture before they can construct the plot. It is the same with almost all the early
poets.
The plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul of a tragedy; Character
holds the second place. A similar fact is seen in painting. The most beautiful colors,
laid on confusedly, will not give as much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait.
Thus Tragedy is the imitation of an action, and of the agents mainly with a view to the
action.

                                                                                                 

If you remember anything of Aristotle in relation to writing, it’s probably this:


Plot is the first principle.
He is unequivocal about that point, repeating it often.
How he gets to that point is intriguing. It appears he starts by drawing a distinction between
action and quality.
Of the former he associates words and phrases such as incidents, life, mode of action.
Even his assignation for what we, as screenwriters, would refer to as a ‘character’ - 
personal agent — implies action.
Of the latter he draws a connection to the term character, but I think he means it in this
way: moral or ethical quality. As in, “She is a person of high character.”

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 30


So purely at the most basic sense of things, it’s hard to argue against Aristotle’s point: If
Tragedy is:

then it is ultimately dependent upon the

That is Plot.

And yet as I indicated in previous posts, I can’t get away from what seems to me to be an
equally inescapable fact: you can not have incidents, action, life or Plot without Characters.
Or not to confuse matters because of his use of the term in this section -  

and by character here, I take it he means a moral or ethical quality of an individual, then
let’s say it this way:

Plots do not exist in a vacuum. By necessity, they require Personal Agents.


Or else how would a story have incidents, actions, or life?
Who creates those incidents or actions, or has a life, but characters?
Let me try to make this point by referencing another ancient text:
The two creation myths in the book of Genesis from the Bible.

In the first account (Genesis 1:1–2:3):


God creates the universe and everything in it in six days: The first three days acts of
division: darkness from light, waters above from waters below, sea from land. The next
three days, God populates this new environment, the darkness and light with sun, moon
and stars, the seas and skies with fish and birds, the land with animals and finally
humans.

Great, right? Here we have this place and these generic people.
At this point, it is an origin narrative, but without a plot.

In the second account (Genesis 2:4–2:25):


God creates a man, literally breathing the “breath of life” into man formed out of the “dust
of the ground.” And it was this man, Adam who desired a helpmate. So God put Adam
into a deep sleep, removed one of his ribs, and created a woman, named Eve.

And we all know what happens next. The serpent, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and
Evil; The commandment not to eat its fruit… which Adam and Eve do…
and they Fall from Grace. Now you have a story! A Tragedy at that.

So - to drive home my point, consider the last paragraph from Poetics featured today:

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 31


If by ‘Character’ here Aristotle means moral or ethical values, they would be the “beautiful
colors” associated with a static painting. But we, as humans, want more than that, we want
stories, even the simple “pleasure” of a “chalk outline” which provides a structure of the
narrative. And in order to have that narrative, we need:

Therefore when Aristotle talks about Plot, he implies the presence of Personal Agents.
You can not dissociate them.
So if what you have thought about Poetics is that Aristotle puts Plot first and Character
second, that is, in my view, a misunderstanding of terms. Moral or ethical values, those
“beautiful colors,” sure, they are secondary in importance to Plot. But since we cannot have a
Plot without Personal Agents, both must by definition exist side-by-side in their importance
in crafting a story.
Why is this particularly important in terms of screenwriting? Because in my view, there is
way too much focus on screenplay structure, and not enough focus on developing characters.
Properly perceived, when developing characters, we concurrently develop plot. And when
developing plot, we concurrently develop characters.
As the creation myths in Genesis remind us, we cannot have a story unless we have
characters who create incidents, events, actions and have lives.

How about you? What do you take from this part of Aristotle’s “Poetics”?

A reminder: I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting - its relevance to the craft
in contemporary times. And I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set me straight
as I’m just trying to work my way through this content the best I can. If you’d like to catch up,
You can read the Comments Archive from the original post. Why not add your own observations?
Keep the conversation alive and evolving on the blog by joining the discussion here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 32


Part 6e: Thought Third
Third in order is Thought- that is, the faculty of saying what is possible and pertinent in
given circumstances. In the case of oratory, this is the function of the political art and
of the art of rhetoric: and so indeed the older poets make their characters speak the
language of civic life; the poets of our time, the language of the rhetoricians.
Character is that which reveals moral purpose, showing what kind of things a man
chooses or avoids. Speeches, therefore, which do not make this manifest, or in which
the speaker does not choose or avoid anything whatever, are not expressive of
character. Thought, on the other hand, is found where something is proved to be or
not to be, or a general maxim is enunciated.

                                                                                                 

Per Aristotle, a play that is a tragedy has six component parts:


The first two are — in order of their importance — Plot, then Character. Third is Thought.
What is Thought? Aristotle offers two takes on the concept here:

Saying. Enunciated. This would suggest that unlike the idea of thought being an inner activity
of our mind, Aristotle’s take on Thought is something that emerges into the External World
through the act of speech. It is, however, more than simply words, rather it is language that

This takes me into the arena of theme. It could be an articulation of what is “possible and
pertinent” within the context of the overall narrative.
It could be the enunciation of a “general maxim” central to the story.
It could be a premise that is “proved to be or not to be.”
But it does seem to me that the way Aristotle views Thought, at least as he describes it
here, and a general notion of Theme as we typically refer to it nowadays are related.

With these first three components of Tragedy, clearly we see we cannot take them on face
value:

Plot is not just the structure of events, but as mythos, how those incidents
are organized to convey a coherent articulation of something of meaning.

Character refers to moral or ethical quality, not individuals in a story


[Aristotle refers to them as “personal agents”].

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 33


Thought is not a mental activity, but an articulation of moral purpose and
character, a conveyance of a story’s themes.

All of which is to say, if we read “Poetics” merely at the surface level of meaning, we will
likely miss the essence of what Aristotle intended and certainly of what value we can glean
from his ideas as they relate to screenwriting.

Okay, Aristotelians. Is this analysis anywhere near the ballpark?

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting - its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set me straight as I’m
just trying to work my way through this content the best I can. If you’d like to catch up, You can
read the Comments Archive from the original post.

Add your own observations! Keep the conversation alive - by joining the discussion here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 34


Part 6f: Diction Fourth, Song Fifth
Fourth among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean, as has been
already said, the expression of the meaning in words; and its essence is the same both
in verse and prose. Of the remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the
embellishments.
                                                                                                 

Per Aristotle, a play that is a tragedy has six component parts:


The first two are — in order of their importance — Plot, then Character. Third is Thought.
In order of importance, Diction is fourth, Song fifth.
Aristotle has little to say here about Diction and I’m guessing he pretty much concludes this
is the domain of actors as they deliver the “expression” of the words.
Song is an “embellishment”, so presumably not even necessary for a play, but a pleasurable
addition nonetheless.
From the perspective of contemporary screenwriting, I have little to add except to suggest
that here again, we find our way into and through this aspect of a filmed script through a
deep immersion in our characters, not only to know them so well we ‘hear’ their words which
we articulate as dialogue, but also drill down into each ‘personal agent’ and their Core
Essence so that actors can grasp what is essential about them. That is the perhaps the best
way a writer may ensure an actor will take the dialogue as written and give “expression to
the meaning in words” in a way that reflects the writer’s take on the story.
With regard to song, this has virtually nothing to do with screenwriting, but I sure wish
modern filmmakers would stop thinking they have to fill every second of a movie with
soundtrack music. Watch these scenes from a few classic movies :

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969):Knife Fight Scene

Taxi Driver (1976): Mirror Scene - You talking to me?

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 35


One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975): Ball Game Scene

Notice that? Characters. Dialogue. Action. And no soundtrack music.


In fact, if you pay attention to precisely this point and screen some of the greatest movies of
the 60s and 70s, it’s amazing how little accompanying music they have.
Every time I think of bringing up the subject of how damned annoying the unending music is
in contemporary films, I know I’ll come across as a stupid old fart, but here I’ve finally
found some cover for my wrinkled ass: Aristotle!

Song is an EMBELLISHMENT!

Not a necessity.

So please, any of you who go on to make movies, you don’t have to squeeze every sixteenth
note from your composer to amortize the project’s music budget. You don’t have to
telegraph with music what we’re supposed to feel each second of the story.

Give the characters and the narrative some room to breathe, stretches of quiet so the
audience members can process what’s going on rather than be assaulted by a ceaseless
cacophony of symphonic noise.

Embellishment. Not necessity.

If you think I sound like a grumpy geezer now, just wait until we discuss the 6th element of
Tragedy which Aristotle considers to be at the very bottom in terms of importance.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 36


I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, what is its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I heartily welcomed the observations of any Aristotle experts to set me straight
as I’m just trying to work my way through this content the best I can.
To add your own voice to the ongoing discussion on the Go Into The Story blog, go here.

I updated my blog post from the comments archive - with an observation by Jennine
Lanouette, author of the paper “The Uses and Abuses of Aristotle’s Poetics in Screenwriting
How-to Books” To see that paper, click here. Thanks so much for your contribution to the
discourse, Jennine.

I did my own immersion study of the Poetics about 15 years ago when, after I had
already been teaching screenwriting for a few years, I went back to graduate school
to brush up on drama history. I soon learned that what I had been taught about the
Poetics in film school was not entirely accurate. I decided to write a term paper on
all the misinterpretations of the Poetics I was finding in screenwriting how-to books,
a subject I found rather distressing, but that my (theater) professor thought was
hilarious. Thus, I have since endeavored, as far as possible, to seek a deeper
understanding. A couple of thoughts on the discussion so far:
I think it’s important to keep in mind that the Poetics marks only the beginning of
drama theory, not the end. Much more has come to be understood since then and
more is yet to be learned. Also, it was written in a specific cultural and historical
context that we can’t know fully, which is further complicated by our dependence on
translations. I would caution, therefore, against getting too minute and too literal
with the text. Better to simply appreciate the general principles.
For example, there are those out there who would like to read Aristotle’s prioritizing
of plot over character in a literal manner to justify cardboard character action films.
But this doesn’t take into account that for Aristotle the word Character was with a
capital C, meaning the inherent moral qualities of an individual, as opposed to
personality traits or psychology, and that frequently, in those days, Character was
portrayed through declamatory recitation, either by the chorus or the character
himself.
It was the tendency to describe a character’s inherent moral qualities through
dialogue that Aristotle was arguing against by relegating Character to second place.
This came from his philosophical belief that the true measure of a person’s moral
character is in his actions. It was also why he considered Tragedy a superior art
form to the Epic Poem, in that it provides the opportunity to show moral character
through a person’s actions rather than just talking about it. It was the relatively new
practice of revealing story elements through action that he was giving priority to by
putting plot first.
What does this tell us about screenwriting? First, we can let go of the idea that
character is secondary to plot since our understanding of character by now is quite
expanded from Aristotle’s, including as it does personality and psychology. He
couldn’t possibly have meant character as we know it because it didn’t exist in his
world. But more so, when Aristotle placed plot first, he was referring to structure,
which is to say the manner in which the actions are organized. What distinguishes
drama (Tragedy then, movies now) from narrative (the epic poem then, the novel
now) is the ability to use action to tell the story. But in order to be successful, the
action must be organized in a coherent structure. This was the radical new idea in
Aristotle’s time that still holds true today.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 37


Part 6g: Spectacle Sixth
The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but, of all the parts, it is
the least artistic, and connected least with the art of poetry. For the power of Tragedy,
we may be sure, is felt even apart from representation and actors. Besides, the
production of spectacular effects depends more on the art of the stage machinist than
on that of the poet.
                                                                                                 

I was all set to go off on a rant about Hollywood’s obsession with ginormous CGI
(Computer Generated Imagery) movies with aliens, robots, monsters, superheroes,
vampires, zombies, global disasters…

You know, spectacle movies.

Armed with Aristotle’s Totem Pole of Tragedy Elements and spectacle sitting right there at
the very bottom of importance, I was going to gleefully dance all over the mindless detritus
which was Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, the paradigm of this type of movie, a
product so utterly caught up in the spectacle of violence and destruction, my then almost
nine year-old son summed it up aptly when I asked him what the movie was about. His
succinct response: “Blowing stuff up.”

But I have to pull my punches here for three reasons:

• That bombast of a movie blew up at the box office, generating a worldwide total of
$836M, so that should pretty much shut me up right there.
• Aristotle’s perception of what ‘spectacle’ was is light years away from what the CGI
and VFX wizards are capable of producing nowadays, coming a looooooong way
from the “stage machinsts” of old.
• And that brings up another big point: If Aristotle were alive today, what would he
think of the seemingly limitless visual possibilities available to storytellers?

Might he embrace them? Indeed, might he be really into them?

What if he was one of those obsessed cosplay Comic-Con souls? Maybe he would have
enjoyed Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen?

Or maybe not. For he draws what in effect is equivalent to above-the-line / below-the-line:

Above-The-Line: “The art of poetry.”

Below-The-Line: “The least artistic.”

I’ll have to rely on our Aristotelian experts for further analysis of this question:
When Aristotle says,

by ‘emotional attraction’ is he relegating spectacle to a lesser domain of human experience


with poetry providing an intellectual and/or moral (“character”) attraction?

If so, I think the point offered previously still stands:

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 38


For a story to mean anything,it must be tethered to (especially)
Plot, Character, and Thought, as well as to Diction and Song.

And if that is true, then we can introduce the idea of a “character driven” story.
Yes, it can be high concept.
It may have spectacle.
But for it to constitute something more than just “blowing stuff up”, the events that happen
to the personal agents in a story must be grounded in who, what, why and how those
characters are.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set me straight as I’m
just trying to work my way through this content the best I can. The lively discussions in the
comment archive are well worth the read, and helped make this series one of my all-time favorites.
How about you? Click here and keep the conversation going on the blog. What do you take from
this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 39


Part 7

Below is all of Part 7, but again, we'll handle it in sections.

Beginning, Middle, End.


These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper structure of the Plot,
since this is the first and most important thing in Tragedy.
Now, according to our definition Tragedy is an imitation of an action that is complete,
and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there may be a whole that is wanting in
magnitude. A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning
is that which does not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which
something naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which itself
naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing
following it. A middle is that which follows something as some other thing follows it. A
well constructed plot, therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but
conform to these principles.

Beauty, Magnitude and Order.


Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any whole composed of
parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement of parts, but must also be of a
certain magnitude; for beauty depends on magnitude and order. Hence a very small
animal organism cannot be beautiful; for the view of it is confused, the object being
seen in an almost imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can one of vast size be
beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once, the unity and sense of the whole
is lost for the spectator; as for instance if there were one a thousand miles long. As,
therefore, in the case of animate bodies and organisms a certain magnitude is
necessary, and a magnitude which may be easily embraced in one view; so in the
plot, a certain length is necessary, and a length which can be easily embraced by the
memory.

Story Length and Change of Fortune.


The limit of length in relation to dramatic competition and sensuous presentment is no
part of artistic theory. For had it been the rule for a hundred tragedies to compete
together, the performance would have been regulated by the water-clock as indeed
we are told was formerly done. But the limit as fixed by the nature of the drama itself
is this: the greater the length, the more beautiful will the piece be by reason of its size,
provided that the whole be perspicuous. And to define the matter roughly, we may
say that the proper magnitude is comprised within such limits, that the sequence of
events, according to the law of probability or necessity, will admit of a change from
bad fortune to good, or from good fortune to bad.
                                                                                                 

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 40


Part 7a: Beginning, Middle, End
These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper structure of the Plot,
since this is the first and most important thing in Tragedy.
Now, according to our definition Tragedy is an imitation of an action that is complete,
and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there may be a whole that is wanting in
magnitude. A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning
is that which does not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which
something naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which itself
naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing
following it. A middle is that which follows something as some other thing follows it. A
well constructed plot, therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but
conform to these principles.
                                                                                                    

Okay, here we go. Arguably this second paragraph is the foundation stone of what we have
come to know as Three Act Structure:

Three parts. Three movements. The number “3” is an interesting one:


• Three is first odd prime number and the second smallest prime
• There are three types of galaxies: elliptical, spirals, and irregulars
• Three basic Earth divisions: Igneous- Metamorphic- Sedimentary
• Freud suggested that psyche was divided into three parts: Ego, Super-Ego, Id
• Holy Trinity: Father -  Son - Holy Ghost
• The three R’s: Reading - ‘Riting - ‘Rithmetic

There is an inherent sense of structure to the number 3:


• a triangle of three points
• three pitches in a triad, the most basic form of a chord.

There is also a sense of finality upon experiencing that third part:


• third’s a charm;
• three strikes and you’re out.

Furthermore there are innate cycles in the physical universe, which reflect three movements:
• Sunrise - Day  -  Sunset
• Departure -  Journey - Return
• Birth  - Life  - Death.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 41


So, too, in the world of ideas:
• Hegel’s dialectic of Thesis - Antithesis - Synthesis
• classical music’s sonata form of Exposition - Development  -  Recapitulation.

The idea of these three movements is so fundamental to the human experience, it is little
wonder that story structure evolved to Beginning, Middle and End. Nor I guess that
Aristotle should land on this articulation as well.

Indeed, directly related to screenwriting, these three movements of


Beginning, Middle, and End
undergird all elements of script structure:

• Every scene should have a Beginning -  Middle - End.


• Every sequence should have a Beginning -  Middle - End.
• Every subplot should have a Beginning -  Middle  -  End.
• Every screenplay should have a Beginning -  Middle - End.

There are those nowadays who claim Three Act Structure in relation to a screenplay is a
“myth,” such as here and here. In my view, they do so at their peril.
Does each act have a substructure? Certainly.
May we divide each act into smaller sequences? Yes.
But almost invariably, those smaller components can be interpreted as comprising an act or
acts, and the overall narrative of a screenplay will more than likely have three overarching
movements.

The foundation of a “well constructed plot.”

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set me straight as I’m
just trying to work my way through this content the best I can. The lively discussions in the
comment archive are well worth the read, and helped make this series one of my all-time favorites.
How about you? Click here and keep the conversation going on the blog. What do you take from
this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 42


Part 7b: Beauty, Magnitude and Order
Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any whole composed of
parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement of parts, but must also be of a
certain magnitude; for beauty depends on magnitude and order. Hence a very small
animal organism cannot be beautiful; for the view of it is confused, the object being
seen in an almost imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can one of vast size be
beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once, the unity and sense of the whole
is lost for the spectator; as for instance if there were one a thousand miles long. As,
therefore, in the case of animate bodies and organisms a certain magnitude is
necessary, and a magnitude which may be easily embraced in one view; so in the
plot, a certain length is necessary, and a length which can be easily embraced by the
memory.

                                                                                                    

Three substantive concepts in one short sentence. I trust our Aristotelians will provide more
background on each. Here is my quick take from what we’ve read thus far in “Poetics”
including this excerpt:

Order:
An “orderly arrangements of parts,” such as in a story Beginning, Middle and End.
Presumably not just those three aspects, but a balance between the three parts and
the overall appearance or experience of the parts in combination as a coherent
whole.

Magnitude:
As I read the excerpt above, I was reminded of the Goldilocks fable, how the
porridge of the Three Bears was too hot or too cold, their beds too big or too small,
the little girl only finding satisfaction with something in the middle. Likewise per
Aristotle, an object cannot be beautiful if it is too small  -  “for the view of it is
confused, the object being seen in an almost imperceptible moment of time” - nor
too big - “for as the eye cannot take it all in at once, the unity and sense of the whole
is lost for the spectator”. It must have sufficient magnitude, a “certain length” at
minimum, but one that can be “easily embraced by the memory” so not too large.

Beauty:
Dredging into my brain cells housing knowledge implanted there in college, I seem
to remember some talk about Aristotle equating Beauty with Truth. However I
don’t think he’s using the term in that way here, rather in the context of discussing
Tragedy and plays, Beauty is an aesthetic description of a process whereby an artist
creates something. And I must say, the use of this concept in relation to writing
truly appeals to me. No matter the scope of a creative breakthrough, from a big

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 43


thing like a key understanding of a character to a small item such as the choice of a
perfect descriptive word, I experience Beauty often as I write. Even the balance of
black ink and white space on a screenplay page can be Beautiful to the eye. Indeed
for all the hardships the creative life involves, the act of writing is fundamentally a
beautiful thing, an expression of the Self, making Something from Nothing.

In fact, these three concepts — Beauty, Magnitude and Order — lead me to believe that


Aristotle would find a screenplay as a narrative form to be quite pleasing. There is such an
emphasis on structure in writing a script, so Order is a priority. The story has to be long
enough to allow for a plot to play out and characters to go through their respective
transformations, yet not overly long to dilute the power of the narrative, and that implies
Magnitude. And like poetry, a screenplay can be a beautiful form to read, at least before it
goes into the hands of those involved in the movie’s production.

Indeed if we were to mix up all three concepts, I think we could easily land on a word I
mentioned above: Balance. So much of what we do in a screenplay is achieve to find
balance — page count, scene length, subplots, dialogue compared to action, act length,
exterior and interior scenes, day and night scenes, action and interaction scenes, themes and
motifs, and so on.

So these concepts of Beauty, Magnitude and Order would seem to have great applicability
for a contemporary screenwriter in plying their craft in the creation of a feature length
screenplay.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set me straight as I’m
just trying to work my way through this content the best I can. The lively discussions in the
comment archive are well worth the read, and helped make this series one of my all-time favorites.
How about you? Click here and keep the conversation going on the blog. What do you take from
this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 44


Part 7c: Story Length and Change of Fortune
The limit of length in relation to dramatic competition and sensuous presentment is no
part of artistic theory. For had it been the rule for a hundred tragedies to compete
together, the performance would have been regulated by the water-clock as indeed
we are told was formerly done. But the limit as fixed by the nature of the drama itself
is this: the greater the length, the more beautiful will the piece be by reason of its size,
provided that the whole be perspicuous. And to define the matter roughly, we may
say that the proper magnitude is comprised within such limits, that the sequence of
events, according to the law of probability or necessity, will admit of a change from
bad fortune to good, or from good fortune to bad.
                                                                                                    

It seems that Aristotle’s point about story “length” reflects his previous comments about
magnitude, that “the more beautiful will the piece be by reason of its size,” suggesting that — 
ahem — size does matter. ! (That's the only emoji I'm giving you - this is serious)

the greater the length, the more beautiful will the piece be
by reason of its size, provided that the whole be perspicuous.

Then Aristotle adds this point: “…provided that the whole be perspicuous.” If that twenty-
five cent word throws you, basically it means intelligible. So it’s not enough for a plot to
have merely a Beginning, Middle and End, or a random chain of events. Rather there has to
be a coherence to the narrative, it has to convey meaning that is understandable to the
audience.It’s that last part that really grabs my attention: 

…that the sequence of events, according to the law of probability or necessity,


will admit of a change from bad fortune to good, or from good fortune to bad
(emphasis added)

Change, either ‘positive’ or ‘negative,’ must occur. And once again, we have a direct
connection of Character, as in our current use of the term, or Personal Agents per Aristotle,
to Plot. Because good fortune or bad fortune happens to Characters, it is their fates that
change. Thus it would seem Aristotle assumes this narrative element to be an essential part
of Plot.

Of course, this dovetails directly into Joseph Campbell’s perspective that the whole point of a
Hero’s Journey is the transformation that happens to the Hero, their change. And in my
view, that links up beautifully with Carl Jung’s notion of individuation, the process
whereby an individual moves toward wholeness by engaging and understanding all aspects of
their psyche. It confirms the approach I take in teaching Core I: Plot which combines
Aristotle, Campbell, Jung and the Whammo Theory, all four combining to create a solid
theoretical foundation for screenplay structure as well as one grounded in the pragmatic
realities of working in Hollywood.

Observations by the Aristotle experts who graced the blog discussions when this material was first
published in 2013 can be found in the comment archive are well worth the read, and helped
make this blog series one of my all-time favorites on Go Into The Story. Why not add your take?

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 45


Part 8: Unity
Unity of plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the unity of the hero. For
infinitely various are the incidents in one man’s life which cannot be reduced to unity;
and so, too, there are many actions of one man out of which we cannot make one
action. Hence the error, as it appears, of all poets who have composed a Heracleid, a
Theseid, or other poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the
story of Heracles must also be a unity. But Homer, as in all else he is of surpassing
merit, here too- whether from art or natural genius- seems to have happily discerned
the truth. In composing the Odyssey he did not include all the adventures of Odysseus-
such as his wound on Parnassus, or his feigned madness at the mustering of the host-
incidents between which there was no necessary or probable connection: but he
made the Odyssey, and likewise the Iliad, to center round an action that in our sense
of the word is one. As therefore, in the other imitative arts, the imitation is one when
the object imitated is one, so the plot, being an imitation of an action, must imitate one
action and that a whole, the structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of
them is displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed. For a thing
whose presence or absence makes no visible difference, is not an organic part of the
whole.
                                                                                                    

Well!
We are clearly into some substantial ideas here, ones that relate to the very essence of story.
Let me cull out some key parts:

As therefore, in the other imitative arts,


the imitation is one when the object imitated is one,
so the plot, being an imitation of an action, must imitate one action…
We must not assume that unity derives from a character, assuming that since they are a
single individual, the narrative arising from them will be somehow unified. No, characters,
reflecting as they do the lives of human beings, have multiple aspects to their persona,
experience, personal history, and so forth. Rather unity derives from “one action” and the
imitation of it as represented in a plot.

An obvious question to an outsider living in the modern age [read: me] is this:

What does Aristotle mean by the term action?


On the one hand, it reads like an inciting incident that sets into motion a plot, and I would
assume that he means only one plot is possible to derive from that initial action. But doesn’t
that depend upon where the writer stands in relation to the story? If I have typed FADE
OUT / THE END, I can look back at the plot and perhaps say, “Yes, this narrative is the only
possible way things could have gone.” However if I stand at the front of the plotting process,
there are, in fact, an endless number of plot choices I could make. Even if I was to immerse
myself in the lives of the characters, the fact is they, too, would have innumerable choices.
So then I’m led to think, by action does Aristotle mean the entire plot of a story? This must
be more on target, yes? For again, if I stand at FADE OUT / THE END, I have a vantage
point which allows me to see the unity of the plot, having worked out its details.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 46


Of course, Aristotle never had to work with movie studios, producers, and talent who all
have ideas about what the plot should be, and frankly how unified can a screenplay be if it is
written and rewritten by multiple writers?

that a whole, the structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of
them is displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed.

This all writers ought to be able to understand. Whether we can assess a piece of material
from a vaunted perspective of Unity or a more proletariat vantage point whereby this scene
leads to that scene which leads to that scene, we get that there is a flow of events that if
altered runs the risk of being disrupted and become ‘disunified.’

For a thing whose presence or absence makes no visible difference,


is not an organic part of the whole

We also should be able to grasp this: If a scene or character contributes nothing to the
story, it is not an inherently valuable, beneficial, necessary or “organic” part of the whole.

Therefore the whole “unity” angle is something screenwriters know and struggle with in
crafting a story. However I want some clarity on precisely what Aristotle means by “action”.
Is it the inciting incident? The entire plot? Or does it describe something else?

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set me straight as I’m
just trying to work my way through this content the best I can. The lively discussions in the
comment archive are well worth the read, and helped make this series one of my all-time favorites.
How about you? Click here and keep the conversation going on the blog. What do you take from
this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 47


Part 9
Part 9 has a lot of stuff going on - so it too, is broken into sections in the following pages.

Poet and Historian


Possibility, Probability and Necessity
Episodic
Surprise, Cause and Effect

Here's the text in its entirety: I'll discuss it in the above-listed sections in the following
pages:
It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the function of the poet to
relate what has happened, but what may happen- what is possible according to the law of
probability or necessity. The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose.

The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a species of history,
with meter no less than without it. The true difference is that one relates what has
happened, the other what may happen.

Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history: for poetry tends to
express the universal, history the particular. By the universal I mean how a person of a
certain type on occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or necessity; and it
is this universality at which poetry aims in the names she attaches to the personages. The
particular is- for example- what Alcibiades did or suffered.

In Comedy this is already apparent: for here the poet first constructs the plot on the lines of
probability, and then inserts characteristic names - unlike the lampooners who write about
particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the reason being that what is
possible is credible: what has not happened we do not at once feel sure to be possible; but
what has happened is manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have happened.

Still there are even some tragedies in which there are only one or two well-known names,
the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known- as in Agathon's Antheus, where
incidents and names alike are fictitious, and yet they give none the less pleasure.

We must not, therefore, at all costs keep to the received legends, which are the usual
subjects of Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt it; for even subjects that are
known are known only to a few, and yet give pleasure to all.

It clearly follows that the poet or 'maker' should be the maker of plots rather than of verses;
since he is a poet because he imitates, and what he imitates are actions. And even if he
chances to take a historical subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason why
some events that have actually happened should not conform to the law of the probable
and possible, and in virtue of that quality in them he is their poet or maker.
Of all plots and actions the episodic are the worst. I call a plot 'episodic' in which the

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 48


episodes or acts succeed one another without probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets
compose such pieces by their own fault, good poets, to please the players; for, as they write
show pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity, and are often forced
to break the natural continuity.
But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but of events inspiring fear
or pity. Such an effect is best produced when the events come on us by surprise; and the
effect is heightened when, at the same time, they follow as cause and effect. The tragic
wonder will then be greater than if they happened of themselves or by accident; for even
coincidences are most striking when they have an air of design. We may instance the statue
of Mitys at Argos, which fell upon his murderer while he was a spectator at a festival, and
killed him. Such events seem not to be due to mere chance. Plots, therefore, constructed on
these principles are necessarily the best.

                                                                                                 

So, here we go! Stick with me while we make our way through the sections of Part 9.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 49


Part 9a: Poet and Historian
It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the function of the poet
to relate what has happened, but what may happen-what is possible according to the
law of probability or necessity.
The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose.
The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a species of
history, with meter no less than without it. The true difference is that one relates what
has happened, the other what may happen.

                                                                                                    

Based on what follows in Part 9 and elsewhere, I think it’s safe to make the assumption
Aristotle is speaking about how many, if not most plays of the time were based upon or
grounded in historical events and/or figures. Later in Part 9, he does mention Agathon’s
Antheus,

“where incidents and names alike are fictitious,”


but the detail into which Aristotle goes in articulating his line of reasoning suggests he is
talking about stories based upon actual occurrences in the past.

Given that frame of reference, we can see why this point he makes here -

one (historian) relates what has happened, the other (poet) what may happen

-  which seems quite obvious is a critical one worth underscoring. Whereas an historian’s
domain is about what is already known, the poet’s area of focus is on what is not known,
that is the outcome of the story’s plot.

As a result, there is a kind of dynamism that derives from the latter that history cannot
replicate for as long as a writer can create a narrative with the potential for anything to
happen, that is in theory at least more compelling and engaging for the audience: the
mystery of what will happen, how will it turn out, how will it get to the point where it does
resolve itself.

As a screenwriter, this speaks to me in a powerful way relative to the dynamic of Time that
exists in a script universe. As we discussed earlier, screenplays are written in the present
tense, unlike most novels and short stories which are composed in the past tense. That
means there is an immediacy in the action that pulls the reader into the narrative
because of an experience we have that it is unfolding in The Now.

But there is, I believe, something more going on in The Present of a script: There is
the push of the Backstory and everything that happens post-FADE IN after the fact,
what we may call Present-Past, and there is the pull of Narrative Destiny and
everything that lies ahead, what we may call Present-Future. So that in any given
scene, there can be this dynamic tension between the Past and Future, each tugging
on and influencing the Present.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 50


And that is where I plug into Aristotle’s idea that unlike historians, poets craft stories about
“what may happen.” A screenplay that unfolds in the Present and carries with it in each
moment the mystery and potential of what may happen can be a powerful thing. That aura
of an indeterminate Future influenced by the forces of the Past looms large over any script
we write. Hopefully.

But as we shall see, Aristotle has a vigorous view about how “what may happen” must be
grounded in logic, not just some random set of events.

We pick that up as we continue our exploration of Part 9 of Poetics.

A reminder: I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting - its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I’m just trying to work my way through this content the best I can.
When the contents of this book was first published as a weekly series of GITS blog posts back in 2013, I
welcomed and relished the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who gathered to engage weekly in
the discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this material via the GITS free ebook series, you should
really go back and read the comments archive, as the folks who participated have added incredible
insight into this seminal work by Aristotle. Why not add your own take to the discussion?
To read the Comment Archive click here. To add your voice to the discourse, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 51


Part 9b: Possibility, Probability and Necessity
It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the function of the poet
to relate what has happened, but what may happen-what is possible according to the
law of probability or necessity. The poet and the historian differ not by writing in
verse or in prose. The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be
a species of history, with meter no less than without it. The true difference is that one
relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more
philosophical and a higher thing than history: for poetry tends to express the universal,
history the particular. By the universal I mean how a person of a certain type on
occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or necessity; and it is this
universality at which poetry aims in the names she attaches to the personages. The
particular is- for example- what Alcibiades did or suffered. In Comedy this is already
apparent: for here the poet first constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and
then inserts characteristic names- unlike the lampooners who write about particular
individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the reason being that what is
possible is credible: what has not happened we do not at once feel sure to be
possible; but what has happened is manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have
happened. Still there are even some tragedies in which there are only one or two
well-known names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known- as in
Agathon’s Antheus, where incidents and names alike are fictitious, and yet they give
none the less pleasure. We must not, therefore, at all costs keep to the received
legends, which are the usual subjects of Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to
attempt it; for even subjects that are known are known only to a few, and yet give
pleasure to all. It clearly follows that the poet or ‘maker’ should be the maker of plots
rather than of verses; since he is a poet because he imitates, and what he imitates are
actions. And even if he chances to take a historical subject, he is none the less a poet;
for there is no reason why some events that have actually happened should not
conform to the law of the probable and possible, and in virtue of that quality in them
he is their poet or maker.
                                                                                                    

To start the discussion, let me excerpt this from a comment made by Jennine Lanouette:
The fifth sentence begins “Poetry, therefore, . . .” giving a clear indication that what
follows will shed light on what came before. He then says that poetry is a higher form than
history because, whereas history is for reporting the particular (i.e., chronicling factual
incident), poetry is for expressing the universal (i.e., drawing larger meaning from the
specific incidents). Considering this, I disagree that Aristotle sees the poet’s area of focus
as being on the outcome of the story’s plot. Over and over, he uses the phrase “of
probability and necessity” which to me pretty easily translates to what we call “cause and
effect,” the backbone of dramatic structure. Thus, he is not saying that the outcome of
the plot is unknown (indeed, if it’s based on a historical incident, the outcome is known)
so much as that it is the poets job to draw cause and effect relationships between the
particular incidents in order to illuminate their larger meaning. To my reading, the
remainder of that paragraph also supports the idea that, while the historian chronicles a
series of events, the poet looks for cause and effect relationships among those events
and structures their account accordingly. The implication being that it is the structuring of
those cause and effect relationships that elevates the story to a higher universal
expression.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 52


This strikes me as an excellent articulation of the primary point of cause and effect, a
discussion that appears to put us squarely into the arena of “unity of action,” a continuous
and seamless chain of events constituting story structure. To which pgronk added this
observation:

>>uncertainty of the Future.


And isn’t that the riddle of the Sphinx every writer has to answer?
She has to (eventually) figure out:
1) How the story ends.
2) Build a chain of cause and effect that leads to that end and makes it believable.
3) With an emotional payoff (That, imho, is the central focal point of Aristotle’s inquiry
into tragedy; he was trying to figure out the mechanics of how it happens, explain how it
is possible to evoke fear and pity in an audience.)
4] BUT do it all in a way that keeps the audience in the semi-dark, guessing, wondering,
worrying, hoping about what may happen — the future.

Yes, not only a riddle, but a fundamental reality for a writer of rubber meeting the road.
How to do that, indeed! I have two further things to add re this part, one a question, one a
crazy interpretation that may be of some help in that regard:

Thing one: question


Notice how Aristotle uses “law of probability or necessity” twice at toward the front
of Part IX, but then at the end writes, “law of the probable and possible.” Are the
terms “necessity” and “possible” interchangeable? Or do they mean different
things? The first two instances — with “necessity” — he uses “or”. The last instance — 
with “probable” — he uses “and”. So does “probability or necessity” represent two
divergent paths whereas “probable and possible” represents paths than can
converge?
I suspect one interpretation can arise from the perspective of time:
If we are talking about a story at its beginning, then might that not be where
possibility is most relevant because the entire chain of impending events awaits in
the future.
If we are talking about a story in its middle, then might that not be where
probability is most relevant because we will have experienced enough of the chain
of events to be able to see patterns and deduce certain potential outcomes.
If we are talking about a story at its end, then might that not be where
necessity is most relevant because we will know how the chain of events played
out all the way through to its resolution.
Thing Two: crazy interpretation
In addition to what Aristotle may have meant and the above interpretation per time,
I can extract an additional way to think about the three terms, and tie them back
into pgronk’s point via my obsession: Character.

What if we, as writers, looked at the dynamic of 'possibility'


from the specific perspective of an individual character,
and even more specifically — the Protagonist?

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 53


They are alive in the moment. Every scene is the present to them. Furthermore they
believe themselves to be free agents with free will. So whatever goal they have in
mind, whether a macro one related to the overall narrative or a near-term objective
in this scene or that, wouldn’t the Protagonist operate under the assumption that
they are living in the realm of possibility?
Now let’s widen the perspective to include all of the characters in that particular
story universe (let’s call them the Collective). Each of them would act as
Protagonists in their own story and, therefore, would bring with them the attitude
articulated above: Everything is possible to them individually. And yet they know
that cannot be true ultimately because by virtue of existing amidst a whole set of
other characters as a Collective, some are going to win, some are going to lose,
some are going to live, some are going to die, some goals will be achieved, some will
not. So once we move from the Protagonist to the Collective level, isn’t this more the
domain of probability, characters assessing the possibilities and figuring out the
odds, which in turn would impact the choices they make and the actions they take?
Finally let’s step outside the story universe entirely to the vantage point of the
writer. We see the Protagonist and their critical role within the overall narrative.
Likewise we can observe and analyze the nature of the interrelationships of the
Collective, and determine the cause and effect each individual will have upon the
plot. But there’s also this:

If we dig down deep enough into the Protagonist and grasp the essence of their
Metamorphosis, can we not discern the narrative destiny implied therein?
How the possibilities the Protagonist believes are present, and the probabilities the
entire Collective of other characters believe to be in play, are actually all tethered to
the Protagonist’s own fate as grounded upon their transformation-journey.
Thus from a writer’s perspective outside the story universe, we can divine and
understand the necessity of the chain of events.

And so, circling back to pgronk’s point about the “riddle of the Sphinx”, the trick may be for
us, as writers, understanding the necessity of the chain of events, where the narrative destiny
must go, but by writing each scene from the perspective of the Protagonist, who believes in
possibility, and the Collective, which traffics in probability, we can imbue our writing
with that sense of potential — anything can happen — while at the same time moving the
plot forward toward its inevitable conclusion.

In other news… I think I just broke my brain…


When the contents of this book was first published as a weekly series of GITS blog posts back in 2013, I
welcomed and relished the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who gathered to engage weekly in
the discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this material via the GITS free ebook series, you should
really go back and read the comments archive, as the folks who participated have added incredible
insight into this seminal work by Aristotle. Why not add your own take to the discussion?
To read the Comment Archive click here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 54


Part 9c: Episodic

Of all plots and actions the episodic are the worst. I call a plot ‘episodic’ in which the
episodes or acts succeed one another without probable or necessary sequence. Bad
poets compose such pieces by their own fault, good poets, to please the players; for,
as they write show pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity,
and are often forced to break the natural continuity.
                                                                                                    

I chose to excerpt this small section because it is important in at least two ways.
First, the concept of an ‘episodic’ plot helps Aristotle drive home what ‘unity’ means.
Let’s remember this from Part 8:

As therefore, in the other imitative arts, the imitation is one when the object imitated is
one, so the plot, being an imitation of an action, must imitate one action and that a
whole, the structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them is displaced
or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed.

Note:

“imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union.”

Each of these three expressions is a reflection of the idea of unity of action. Combined with
the discussion in the first half of Part 9, where the focus is on possibility, probability and
necessity, the sort of guiding principles for a writer in constructing a narrative, then if a
story has “acts that succeed one another without probably or necessary sequence,” we are
dealing with something that is ‘episodic’ in nature.

My take on this is that ‘unity of action’ is not just about a story being about one thing, it
must also have a flow from scene to scene, event to event that is as well both probable and
necessary.

The second point is this: In terms of screenwriting, where we have limited time to tell a story
(as compared to a novel), we must create that sense of flow, or what can be called
narrative drive.

William Goldman (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Princess Bride, Marathon Man)

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 55


says this in his essential book, “Adventures in the Screen Trade”:

Rule of thumb: You always attack a movie scene as late as you possibly can. You
always come into the scene at the last possible moment, which is why when you
see a scene in a movie where a person is a teacher, for instance, the scene always
begins with the teacher saying, ‘Well, class…’ and the bell rings. And then you
get into another scene because it’s very dull watching a man talk to people in a
room… In a book you might start with some dialogue, and then describe your
clothing, and more dialogue. The camera gets that in an instant. Boom, and
you’re on. Get on, get on. The camera is relentless. Makes you keep running.
[emphasis added]

How to deal with a “relentless” camera? It almost always involves some sort of ‘engine’ to
propel the plot forward. If we do not find that ‘engine,’ if our story has little or no narrative
drive, scenes happening one after the other in a kind of random or thoughtless manner, a
script reader is likely to critique the script for being ‘episodic.’

In fact, I have a name for this: The Dreaded Episodic Curse! I came up with that because
when I receive notes on a script where a producer or exec says, “It feels episodic,” I know I’ve
got work to do.

It’s a complex circumstance because some movies which have a rather free-form or random
feel to scene placement and transitions can work fine in part because that is a conscious
part of the filmmaker’s style or more likely the characters are so compelling, our emotional
connection to those characters creates a narrative drive of our own, our desire to learn what
happens to them propels us through the script, one page after the other.

But for most mainstream commercial movies, we have to find that ‘engine’ that moves the
story forward, one scene to the next.

So a takeaway from Parts 8 and 9 of “Poetics” for a contemporary screenwriter is that the
narrative we construct must move, scene to scene, according to what is probable and what is
necessary, as Aristotle states. If not, that in and of itself will lead to a story that feels
‘episodic.’

But that is not enough. We also need to create some type of narrative drive to propel the
story ahead because even if each event is probable and necessary, it can nonetheless suffer
from The Dreaded Episodic Curse.

A reminder: I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting - its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I’m just trying to work my way through this content the best I can.
When the contents of this book was first published as a weekly series of GITS blog posts back in 2013, I
welcomed and relished the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who gathered to engage weekly in
the discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this material via the GITS free ebook series, you should
really go back and read the comments archive, as the folks who participated have added incredible
insight into this seminal work by Aristotle. Why not add your own take to the discussion?

To read the Comment Archive click here. To add your voice to the discourse, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 56


Part 9e: Surprise, Cause and Effect
But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but of events
inspiring fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced when the events come on us by
surprise; and the effect is heightened when, at the same time, they follow as cause
and effect. The tragic wonder will then be greater than if they happened of
themselves or by accident; for even coincidences are most striking when they have
an air of design. We may instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which fell upon his
murderer while he was a spectator at a festival, and killed him. Such events seem not
to be due to mere chance. Plots, therefore, constructed on these principles are
necessarily the best.
                                                                                                    

Unfamiliar with the story of Mitys at Argos, I did some research. There’s not much I could
find beyond Aristotle’s description. Mitys is slain by his murderer. Later a statue is erected
in Mitys’ honor. The murderer stands before the statue, presumably inspecting and/or
admiring. Then the statue falls on the murderer killing him.
Something like this: YouTube Video - A Monumental Demise
- Okay, probably not much like that, but still it’s a visual reference.

What I gather from Aristotle’s comments in referencing the fate of Mitys’ killer is the best
type of stories have these type of twists, especially as endings, featuring two aspects:

Surprise: Some sort of reversal or twist which the reader will not expect (i.e., the statue falls
on the killer).
Cause and Effect: The surprising event, upon reflection by the reader, will seem not to be born
out of happenstance, but in fact is in retrospect inevitable within the context of the dynamics set
into motion in the narrative.
Thus an echo of something Aristotle raised previously in this chapter: While we may
experience the surprise in the present as a possibility, albeit one we could not have anticipated,
when we look back on it as a past event, we will see it as having been tied to narrative destiny.
This is good advice, it seems to me, for all writers, you can click on these links to witness these
notable movie surprises:

YouTube Video - The Sixth Sense (1999) Twist Reveal

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 57


And this:

YouTube Video - The Usual Suspects (1995) - Ending


And this:

YouTube Video - The Shawshank Redemption - Andy’s Escape

Each a surprise in the moment. Each inevitable in retrospect due to cause and effect.

A reminder: I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting - its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I’m just trying to work my way through this content the best I can.
When the contents of this book was first published as a weekly series of GITS blog posts back in 2013, I
welcomed and relished the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who gathered to engage weekly in
the discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this material via the GITS free ebook series, you should
really go back and read the comments archive, as the folks who participated have added incredible
insight into this seminal work by Aristotle. Why not add your own take to the discussion?

To read the Comment Archive click here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 58


Part 10: Simple and Complex Plots
Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of which the plots are
an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction. An action which is one and
continuous in the sense above defined, I call Simple, when the change of fortune
takes place without Reversal of the Situation and without Recognition A Complex
action is one in which the change is accompanied by such Reversal, or by
Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from the internal structure of the plot,
so that what follows should be the necessary or probable result of the preceding
action. It makes all the difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc or
post hoc.
                                                                                                    

Here Aristotle draws a distinction between two general types of plots: Simple and Complex.
It’s interesting how he describes the former through what it is missing, namely Reversal and
Recognition.

What a Simple plot actually consists of is rather amorphous based on what Aristotle
presents here. The use of the phrase post hoc, literally “after this,” suggests that a Simple
plot is comprised of a set of events that while continuous in nature lacks a sense of causality.

A Complex plot is propter hoc, literally “because of this,” which means there is a sense of
causality in the emergence of events.

We will delve more fully into Reversal and Recognition in Part 11, but for purposes of our
discussion here, my initial take on these two concepts is this:

Reversal: A dramatic change in plot circumstances to the point


where it can be seen to come full circle.

Recognition: An awareness of some key realities or truths


on the part of characters within the story.

If that is anywhere close to Aristotle’s meaning, that intrigues me for two reasons in relation
to screenwriting:

1. A screenplay universe is comprised of two realms:


External World, the domain of Action and Dialogue;
Internal World, the domain of Intention and Subtext.

The former is where we see and hear events played out.


The latter is where we intuit and interpret the meaning of those events. In other words:

External World = Physical Journey

Internal World = Psychological Journey

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 59


Reversal would seem to slot most fully into the External World.
Recognition would seem to be most connected to the Internal World.

Thus it seems safe to infer that for Aristotle, a successful Complex plot must traffic in
and service both the Physical journey and the Psychological journey.

2. This connection of Reversal and Recognition brings to mind the cosmogonic cycle
as represented in the Hero’s Journey:
You can see both Reversal and Recognition at work:
The former in the way the Hero comes full circle in their journey,
the latter with those key words revelation and especially transformation.

At its most basic, the Hero’s Journey is comprised of three movements:


⁃ Separation
⁃ Initiation
⁃ Return

echoing Aristotle’s idea of narrative as having a:


⁃ Beginning
⁃ Middle
⁃ End

Joseph Campbell asserted that the whole point of the Journey is transformation:
1. the Hero separates from the Old World
2. is initiated in the New World (those events and actions impacting the Hero)
3. who then returns home a changed individual.

This linking of the Psychological World with the Physical World is another way of driving
home the difference between a Simple and Complex plot: The interweaving connections
between events in the plot and the change that occurs within a character’s psyche puts the
story in propter hoc territory. Indeed from a screenwriting standpoint, it speaks to the
narrative destiny of a Protagonist, reflected in the harmonic convergence of plot events and
personal transformation.

A reminder: I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting - its relevance to the craft in
contemporary times. I’m just trying to work my way through this content the best I can.
When the contents of this book was first published as a weekly series of GITS blog posts back in 2013, I
welcomed and relished the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who gathered to engage weekly in
the discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this material via the GITS free ebook series, you should
really go back and read the comments archive, as the folks who participated have added incredible
insight into this seminal work by Aristotle. Why not add your own take to the discussion?

To read the Comment Archive click here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 60


Part 11: Reversal Recognition and Suffering
Reversal of the Situation is a change by which the action veers round to its opposite,
subject always to our rule of probability or necessity. Thus in the Oedipus, the
messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him from his alarms about his mother, but
by revealing who he is, he produces the opposite effect. Again in the Lynceus,
Lynceus is being led away to his death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning to slay
him; but the outcome of the preceding incidents is that Danaus is killed and Lynceus
saved.
Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to knowledge,
producing love or hate between the persons destined by the poet for good or bad
fortune. The best form of recognition is coincident with a Reversal of the Situation, as
in the Oedipus. There are indeed other forms. Even inanimate things of the most trivial
kind may in a sense be objects of recognition. Again, we may recognize or discover
whether a person has done a thing or not. But the recognition which is most intimately
connected with the plot and action is, as we have said, the recognition of persons.
This recognition, combined with Reversal, will produce either pity or fear; and
actions producing these effects are those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents.
Moreover, it is upon such situations that the issues of good or bad fortune will depend.
Recognition, then, being between persons, it may happen that one person only is
recognized by the other - when the latter is already known - or it may be necessary
that the recognition should be on both sides. Thus Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by
the sending of the letter; but another act of recognition is required to make Orestes
known to Iphigenia.
Two parts, then, of the Plot- Reversal of the Situation and Recognition - turn upon
surprises. A third part is the Scene of Suffering. The Scene of Suffering is a destructive
or painful action, such as death on the stage, bodily agony, wounds, and the like.
                                                                                                    

From my reading of this, it appears that Reversal (Peripeteia) and Recognition


(Anagnorisis) are linked in at least two ways:

Both “turn upon surprises.”


A Reversal is “a change by which the action veers round to its opposite.” The unanticipated
nature of this change would by definition translate into a surprising development.
Meanwhile Recognition is “a change from ignorance to knowledge” which in its “best form”
is “coincident with a Reversal of the Situation,” and therefore also a surprising turn.

One flows from the other.


Whereas Reversal appears to be something that transpires in the External World, the realm
of events and happenings, Recognition would seem to be situated primarily in the Internal
World, the realm of characters and their inner lives (i.e., feelings, thoughts, impressions).
Yet they would seem to be linked as Recognition follows from Reversal. Even in the
examples Aristotle notes, there is an event that happens in the External World (a character
appears), followed by another character’s response (Recognition).

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 61


Maybe a bit like this:

As I was reading this, what I thought was a good example of these two dynamics in tandem
came to mind:

The conversion experience of Paul


as described in the Acts of the Apostles 9:-3–9:

As he [Paul] neared Damascus on his journey, suddenly a light from heaven


flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice say to him,
“Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”
“Who are you, Lord?” Saul asked.
“I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting”, he replied. “Now get up and go into the city,
and you will be told what you must do.”
The men traveling with Saul stood there speechless; they heard the sound but
did not see anyone. Saul got up from the ground, but when he opened his
eyes he could see nothing. So they led him by the hand into Damascus. For
three days he was blind, and did not eat or drink anything.

Two things:

First, we have to note that up to this point in his life, Paul (known as Saul), actively
persecuted those who professed faith in Jesus as the Christ. After this conversion experience,
Paul became an advocate for the faith, even coming to be known as one of the Apostles.

Second, his conversion is what precipitated him changing his name from Saul to Paul,
signifying a distinction between his new life from his old life. Paul veering around to his
“opposite” way of being and believing exemplifies, I think, Reversal and Recognition.

As to the third part — the “Scene of Suffering” (Pathos) — I’m a bit in the gray on this. Is
Aristotle suggesting there is some sort of inherent causality within a tragedy that requires

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 62


this turn at the end of a story? Or is this an awareness the writer brings to the story-
crafting process whereby they steer the plot, granting that this turn has to be both probable
and necessary?
In screenwriting, whether a story has a happy ending or a tragic one, what transpires during
the climax of the narrative resolves stakes at work in the External World of the plot and
stakes present in Internal World of the characters’ emotional and psychological experiences,
but also what screenwriter Michael Arndt suggests is a third arena: philosophical stakes.
Combining all three in a holistic, interconnected manner can translate into catharsis, which
suffuses a story’s conclusion with meaning on multiple levels, what Arndt typifies as an
“insanely great ending”.

I realize this is not Suffering per se, but the idea of catharsis during the story’s Final
Struggle does seem to derive from the interplay of Reversal and Recognition.

The GITS community had plenty to say when this post first hit the blog in 2013. Visit the
Comment Archive to hear what our venerable Aristotelian scholars had to say! Join in the
discussion and add your take on this part in the comments section of the blog here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 63


Aristotle's Poetics: Section Two - Contents

Part 12: Prologue, Episode, Exode and Chorus


Part 13: Aristotle’s Text
A Perfect Tragedy
A Well-Constructed Plot
Part 14: Aristotle’s Text
Fear and Pity
The Conditions of a Tragedy
Part 15: Aristotle’s Text
Four Qualities of a Tragic Hero
The Unraveling of the Plot
The Example of Good Portrait Painters
Part 16: Recognition
Part 17: Plot and Episode
Part 18: Aristotle’s Text
Complication and Denouement
Four Kinds of Tragedy
Multiplicity of Plots
Chorus

Back to Main Contents Page

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 64


Part 12: Prologue, Episode, Exode and Chorus

The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole have been
already mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts - the separate parts into
which Tragedy is divided - namely, Prologue, Episode, Exode, Choric song; this last
being divided into Parode and Stasimon. These are common to all plays: peculiar to
some are the songs of actors from the stage and the Commoi.
The Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the Parode of the Chorus.
The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which is between complete choric songs.
The Exode is that entire part of a tragedy which has no choric song after it. Of the
Choric part the Parode is the first undivided utterance of the Chorus: the Stasimon is a
Choric ode without anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos is a joint
lamentation of Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as
elements of the whole have been already mentioned.
The quantitative parts- the separate parts into which it is divided - are here
enumerated.

                                                                                                    

Let me just acknowledge up front: I’m reaching out to our honored group of Aristotelians to
provide a deeper context and analysis of how Greek plays operated thousands of years ago
as the specifics listed here are largely outside my realm of study. However, I do have three
musings on this section:

1. Contemporary screenplays and ancient Greek tragedies have this


in common: They are both heavily structured.
While a screenplay’s structure would seem to be tied to it being — at some point — a
blueprint to make a movie, as I thought about it more, it seemed to me there might
be more of a parallel to Greek plays in this respect: Back then as well as today,
audiences would bring a certain set of expectations about what they would see and
hear, even down to the order of the narrative. While a modern screenplay doesn’t
precisely parallel the structure of a Greek tragedy, the overall arc may be quite
similar in telling a story with a Beginning, Middle and End.

2. Is it too simplistic to think of it this way?

My guess: Probably.
I look forward to more feedback from our resident experts.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 65


3. As I understand it, the chorus was a major component of ancient
Greek tragedies.
Indeed if I recall correctly from my college studies, plays of that era were often
heavily musical. I have written previously about classical music’s sonata form and
how there is a parallel between its three parts and three-act structure:

So there is precedence for a connection between music structure and screenplay


structure. But what of the chorus in contemporary filmmaking? If one of its
functions is to convey key exposition to the audience, might a parallel to today be
flashbacks, flash-forwards, dreams, memories, and the like? Or perhaps voiceover
narration? Essentially any device that ‘breaks into’ the narrative to convey key
information? This gets down to what the underlying function of the chorus was and
I hope our Aristotelians will provide some clarity on that front.

Bottom line from my reading of this part of “Poetics”:


I come away inclined to see more commonality between storytelling then and storytelling
today, at least insofar as screenplays are concerned.

If you have just stumbled onto this material via the GITS free ebook series, you should know that
when I first published this content as a weekly blog series, the contributions and engagement of
bright and engaging Aristotelian scholars was a real highlight, and often an eye-opener for me.
You can read their illuminating observations on each section of Poetics as we go along - the links
are below. What did you take from this part of Aristotle’s Poetics - Why not keep the conversation
alive? Share your observations and engage with Aristotle and the GITS community!
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 66


Part 13: Aristotle's Text
As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider what the
poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing his plots; and by what
means the specific effect of Tragedy will be produced.
A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the simple but on the
complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions which excite pity and fear, this
being the distinctive mark of tragic imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that
the change of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought
from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear; it merely shocks us.
Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to prosperity: for nothing can be
more alien to the spirit of Tragedy; it possesses no single tragic quality; it neither
satisfies the moral sense nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the downfall of
the utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless, satisfy the moral
sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear; for pity is aroused by unmerited
misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man like ourselves. Such an event, therefore,
will be neither pitiful nor terrible. There remains, then, the character between these
two extremes- that of a man who is not eminently good and just, yet whose misfortune
is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty. He must be one
who is highly renowned and prosperous- a personage like Oedipus, Thyestes, or other
illustrious men of such families.
A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue, rather than double as
some maintain. The change of fortune should be not from bad to good, but, reversely,
from good to bad. It should come about as the result not of vice, but of some great
error or frailty, in a character either such as we have described, or better rather than
worse. The practice of the stage bears out our view. At first the poets recounted any
legend that came in their way. Now, the best tragedies are founded on the story of a
few houses- on the fortunes of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes,
Telephus, and those others who have done or suffered something terrible. A tragedy,
then, to be perfect according to the rules of art should be of this construction. Hence
they are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows this principle in his
plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the right ending. The best
proof is that on the stage and in dramatic competition, such plays, if well worked out,
are the most tragic in effect; and Euripides, faulty though he may be in the general
management of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic of the poets.
In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first. Like the
Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite catastrophe for the good
and for the bad. It is accounted the best because of the weakness of the spectators; for
the poet is guided in what he writes by the wishes of his audience. The pleasure,
however, thence derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper rather to Comedy,
where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies- like Orestes and Aegisthus-
quit the stage as friends at the close, and no one slays or is slain.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 67


Part 13a: A Perfect Tragedy
As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider what the
poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing his plots; and by what
means the specific effect of Tragedy will be produced.
A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the simple but on the
complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions which excite pity and fear, this
being the distinctive mark of tragic imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that
the change of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought
from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear; it merely shocks us.
Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to prosperity: for nothing can be
more alien to the spirit of Tragedy; it possesses no single tragic quality; it neither
satisfies the moral sense nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the downfall of
the utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless, satisfy the moral
sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear; for pity is aroused by unmerited
misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man like ourselves. Such an event, therefore,
will be neither pitiful nor terrible. There remains, then, the character between these
two extremes- that of a man who is not eminently good and just, yet whose misfortune
is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty. He must be one
who is highly renowned and prosperous - a personage like Oedipus, Thyestes, or other
illustrious men of such families.
                                                                                                    

I find this pretty fascinating on several fronts.


First, Aristotle’s specific articulation of what constitutes a “perfect tragedy”:
…arranged not on the simple but on the complex plan

This circles back to what Aristotle discussed in Part 10:

A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such Reversal, or


by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from the internal structure of
the plot, so that what follows should be the necessary or probable result of the
preceding action

…imitate actions which excite pity and fear:

Apparently the emotional goal of the writer for a Tragedy.

Then, three examples of what a Perfect Tragedy is not:

• the change of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man
brought from prosperity to adversity
• Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to prosperity.
• Nor, again, should the downfall of the utter villain be exhibited.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 68


Then what arouses “pity”:

…unmerited misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man like ourselves.

In the end, Aristotle presents an ideal character as the subject for a Perfect Tragedy:

…a man who is not eminently good and just, yet whose misfortune is brought
about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty.

So it would seem Aristotle is playing the sympathy card:


1) A character with whom we can relate.
2) The cause of the Tragedy cannot emerge from wanton and egregious acts of
debilitation, but rather a more nuanced cause: errors, frailty.

In both cases, Aristotle grounds sympathy in the proximity of the character to the audience.
They are a “man like ourselves.” They are not hugely overrun by consumptive or corrupting
instincts, but rather mere mortals prone to mistakes.
In modern parlance, we might refer to this character as a “good guy” or “good gal.”

What this reminds me of is how in screenplays, one of our primary goals is to create reader
(or audience) identification with the Protagonist. This is critical to engage a reader and get
them hooked on the journey and outcome of the narrative. Sympathy and proximity are a
solid one-two punch to engender that identification.
All of which leads me to my second thought:
Why was Tragedy such a big deal to the Greeks?
Why was it considered to be the acme of contemporary literature and cultural art? How and
why did ancient Greeks find Tragedies so entertaining? Something to do with the power of
morality tales? Witnessing misfortunes befalling a “good guy” and left to think, “There but
the grace of God go I”?

Next there is Aristotle’s use of the Greek word ἁµαρτία (Hamartia). Here “errors.”
In the New Testament, it is translated as “sin.” While the latter would seem to have more
existential heft to it (sin against God), they both have this in common: Bolstering the
universality of the human experience.

Each of us has made errors. Each of us has frailties. Each of us has sinned and “fallen short
of the glory of God.”

It’s that guy (or gal), the mere mortal, who is the subject of Tragedies per Aristotle, which
helps us to relate to such characters.

Final thought: Whereas Aristotle may have found “pity and fear” to be something of a
“pleasurable” experience, mainstream Hollywood movies for the most part go in an entirely
opposite direction. Not pity and fear, but empathy and hope… for a happy ending. So in
effect, Aristotle as a representative and cheerleader for Tragedy could serve as a reverse
barometer for contemporary commercial movies at least as far as Hollywood’s conventional
wisdom is concerned, that most consumers want upbeat resolutions to stories.

This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The conversation got
quite lively. To check it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 69


Part 13b: A Well-Constructed Plot
A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue, rather than double as
some maintain. The change of fortune should be not from bad to good, but, reversely,
from good to bad. It should come about as the result not of vice, but of some great
error or frailty, in a character either such as we have described, or better rather than
worse. The practice of the stage bears out our view. At first the poets recounted any
legend that came in their way. Now, the best tragedies are founded on the story of a
few houses- on the fortune of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes,
Telephus, and those others who have done or suffered something terrible. A tragedy,
then, to be perfect according to the rules of art should be of this construction.
Hence they are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows this principle
in his plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the right ending. The
best proof is that on the stage and in dramatic competition, such plays, if well worked
out, are the most tragic in effect; and Euripides, faulty though he may be in the
general management of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic of the poets.
In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first. Like the
Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite catastrophe for the good
and for the bad. It is accounted the best because of the weakness of the spectators; for
the poet is guided in what he writes by the wishes of his audience.
The pleasure, however, thence derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper
rather to Comedy, where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies – like
Orestes and Aegisthus- quit the stage as friends at the close, and no one slays or is
slain.
                                                                                                    

This section is intriguing on multiple fronts.


First, there is the iteration of what constitutes a “well-constructed plot”:

⁃ A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue.


⁃ The change of fortune should be… from good to bad.
⁃ It should come about as the result… of some great error or frailty.

Of course, by “well-constructed plot”, Aristotle infers that by aesthetic necessity, it must be


a tragedy. One striking aspect of this articulation is how, dare I say, formulaic it sounds.
Note the three uses of the word “should.” No equivocating or nuance here. Anything less
than these three dynamics in a play and presumably it would fall short of a “well-
constructed plot.”

Looking at these attributes from the perspective of a modern screenplay, “single in its issue”
suggests a story that has a tight, clear narrative focus. “From good to bad” seems obvious if
a writer is to maximize the dramatic nature of a character’s ‘fall.’

“Of some great error or frailty” I find to be particularly interesting. While waiting for our
Aristotelians to weigh in on these two concepts and their more specific historical meaning, I
can extrapolate this from a screenwriting perspective:

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 70


Error: An event or events that occur in the External World (Plotline).

Frailty: A psychological, emotional, or spiritual condition of key characters


in the Internal World (Themeline).

To really work for our purposes, we would have to change the conjunction from “or” to this:
“Of some great error and frailty.” The events in the plot of a contemporary screenplay have
to be intimately tied to inner lives of the characters, specifically the Protagonist, one feeds
the other which impacts the other which feeds the other again which impacts the other
again, and so on, a continuous interweaving that translate into a transformational
narrative.

As to the meaning of the second paragraph, it would appear Aristotle is suggesting that the
best writing aims for some sort of aesthetic purity rather than attempting to satisfy the
whims of an audience. Perhaps an early stab at the dynamic tension between art and
commerce? Based on this, I doubt Aristotle would have much success going up for open
writing assignments in Hollywood where one of the most important questions a
screenwriter, agent, producer or studio executive can ask about any given project is this:
Who is the audience?

Fortunately there were no Hollywood movie moguls back in the time of Aristotle. I guess we
had to wait for Shakespeare to come along to concretize the notion of ‘popcorn
entertainment’… before there was any popcorn, of course!

This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The conversation got
quite lively. To check it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 71


Part 14: Aristotle's Text

Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also result from
the inner structure of the piece, which is the better way, and indicates a superior poet.
For the plot ought to be so constructed that, even without the aid of the eye, he who
hears the tale told will thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes Place. This is
the impression we should receive from hearing the story of the Oedipus. But to
produce this effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method, and dependent on
extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular means to create a sense not of the
terrible but only of the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose of Tragedy; for we must
not demand of Tragedy any and every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper
to it. And since the pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from
pity and fear through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be impressed upon
the incidents.
Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as terrible or pitiful.
Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either friends or
enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy kills an enemy, there is nothing to
excite pity either in the act or the intention- except so far as the suffering in itself is
pitiful. So again with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident occurs between
those who are near or dear to one another- if, for example, a brother kills, or intends
to kill, a brother, a son his father, a mother her son, a son his mother, or any other
deed of the kind is done- these are the situations to be looked for by the poet. He may
not indeed destroy the framework of the received legends- the fact, for instance, that
Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon- but he ought to show of
his own, and skilfully handle the traditional. material. Let us explain more clearly
what is meant by skilful handling.
The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons, in the
manner of the older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes Medea slay her children.
Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but done in ignorance, and the tie of
kinship or friendship be discovered afterwards. The Oedipus of Sophocles is an
example. Here, indeed, the incident is outside the drama proper; but cases occur
where it falls within the action of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas,
or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a third case- [to be about to
act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act. The fourth case] is when some
one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance, and makes the discovery
before it is done. These are the only possible ways. For the deed must either be done
or not done- and that wittingly or unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act
knowing the persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It is shocking without being
tragic, for no disaster follows It is, therefore, never, or very rarely, found in poetry.
One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon threatens to kill Creon.
The next and better way is that the deed should be perpetrated. Still better, that it
should be perpetrated in ignorance, and the discovery made afterwards. There is then

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 72


nothing to shock us, while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case is
the best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her son, but, recognizing
who he is, spares his life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister recognizes the brother just in
time. Again in the Helle, the son recognizes the mother when on the point of giving
her up. This, then, is why a few families only, as has been already observed, furnish
the subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance, that led the poets in search
of subjects to impress the tragic quality upon their plots. They are compelled,
therefore, to have recourse to those houses whose history contains moving incidents
like these.
Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents, and the right
kind of plot.
                                                                                                   

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 73


Part 14a: Fear and Pity
Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also result from
the inner structure of the piece, which is the better way, and indicates a superior poet.
For the plot ought to be so constructed that, even without the aid of the eye, he who
hears the tale told will thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes Place. This is
the impression we should receive from hearing the story of the Oedipus. But to
produce this effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method, and dependent on
extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular means to create a sense not of the
terrible but only of the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose of Tragedy; for we must
not demand of Tragedy any and every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper
to it. And since the pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from
pity and fear through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be impressed upon
the incidents.
                                                                                                    

We have encountered Aristotle’s rather dismissive attitude toward “spectacle” as in Part 4:

The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but, of all the
parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with the art of poetry. For the
power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even apart from representation and
actors. Besides, the production of spectacular effects depends more on the art
of the stage machinist than on that of the poet.

In Part 14, he drives home the same point in two additional ways. First, Aristotle contrasts
spectacle to the “inner structure of the piece.” In modern film, we might say “special
effects” vs. “narrative.” And I think we could all agree that the former without the context of
the latter is pretty much just a bunch of eye candy and noise, devoid of any emotional
meaning (re: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen).

Aristotle goes even further with his second point:


”Those who employ spectacular means to create a sense not of the terrible but
only of the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose of Tragedy.”

There is a certain kind of reliance upon the “spectacular” that can take a story completely
out of the realm of Tragedy. I can’t help but get the feeling Aristotle is saying this as a kind
of warning, perceiving the “spectacular” to have some sort of lure to writers, a seemingly
easy path to creating a reaction in the audience. However that would seem to be a path
toward ‘cheap’ writing, not worthy of Tragedy, nor likely to produce content that is
consistent with the genre.

Which leaves us with this: What of “fear”? What of “pity”? We have seen this coupling
before in Parts 9, 11 and 13. Clearly it is significant. What precisely does Aristotle intend in
the use of these two concepts?

I await the insight of our faithful Aristotelians, steeped in the literature as they are.
In the meantime, here is my speculative response:

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 74


Pity:
Pity would seem to be pretty clear to understand, based on the empathy the
audience might feel for characters who undergo tragic experiences. In other words,
we might feel sorry for them.

Empathy:
If empathy can lead to a sense of identification, then perhaps fear is a vicarious
experience, seeing and hearing tragic events happening to characters which raises a
concern: These, too, could befall us.

Over the course of our ongoing discussion, I seem to remember an observation that the idea
of “audience identification” was not a goal for ancient Greek dramatists, caught up more
generally in the wonder of superheroes, gods and goddesses circumnavigating a series of
sizable challenges.

However “audience identification” is important  — critically so!  — for contemporary


screenwriters. This is how we shrink the distance between what is written on the page and
the reader’s imagination, luring them into our stories through their connection with key
characters, most notably the Protagonist.

Moreover it is the dynamic of “audience identification” that helps to create one of the most
powerful aspects of a story: The ability for the audience to safely experience fearful and
pitiful events.

I recall the 1996 movie Ransom in which a mother and father go through a parent’s worst
nightmare: The kidnapping of their child. The movie grossed $309M worldwide, hugely
successful. Here’s the shocker: The primary audience members were parents! Why would
they willingly pay money to watch a movie that features the trauma of a child’s kidnapping?

Precisely because Ransom provided a safe haven in which parents could live out their
darkest fears. Through their identification with the parents Tom (Mel Gibson) and Kate
(Rene Russo), we experience what they experience. We feel their fears. We feel pity for them.
Those emotions are real… even if the story is not. And precisely because the story is not real,
that enables us, as audience members, to enter fully into it, knowing it is a contained,
fictional environment.

Thus for certain stories, we would aim to arouse fear and pity in script readers and audience
members. How to do that? Best not through spectacle, but rather the “inner structure of the
piece” (narrative). And at least for contemporary stories, aim to create a sense of audience
identification with the characters and events in the stories we write.

This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The conversation got
quite lively. To check it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 75


Part 14b: The Conditions of a Tragedy
Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as terrible or pitiful.
Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either friends or
enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy kills an enemy, there is nothing to
excite pity either in the act or the intention- except so far as the suffering in itself is
pitiful.
So again with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident occurs between those
who are near or dear to one another – if, for example, a brother kills, or intends to kill,
a brother, a son his father, a mother her son, a son his mother, or any other deed of the
kind is done – these are the situations to be looked for by the poet. He may not indeed
destroy the framework of the received legends – the fact, for instance, that
Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon- but he ought to show of
his own, and skilfully handle the traditional material. Let us explain more clearly what
is meant by skilful handling.
The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons, in the
manner of the older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes Medea slay her children.
Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but done in ignorance, and the tie of
kinship or friendship be discovered afterwards. The Oedipus of Sophocles is an
example. Here, indeed, the incident is outside the drama proper; but cases occur
where it falls within the action of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas,
or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a third case – (to be about to
act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act. The fourth case) is when some
one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance, and makes the discovery
before it is done. These are the only possible ways. For the deed must either be done
or not done- and that wittingly or unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act
knowing the persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It is shocking without being
tragic, for no disaster follows. It is, therefore, never, or very rarely, found in poetry.
One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon threatens to kill Creon.
The next and better way is that the deed should be perpetrated. Still better, that it
should be perpetrated in ignorance, and the discovery made afterwards. There is then
nothing to shock us, while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case is
the best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her son, but, recognizing
who he is, spares his life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister recognizes the brother just in
time. Again in the Helle, the son recognizes the mother when on the point of giving
her up. This, then, is why a few families only, as has been already observed, furnish
the subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance, that led the poets in search
of subjects to impress the tragic quality upon their plots. They are compelled,
therefore, to have recourse to those houses whose history contains moving incidents
like these.
Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents, and the right
kind of plot.

                                                                                                    

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 76


Aristotle lays down several conditions related to story as tragedy:

Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are
either friends or enemies or indifferent to one another.

This speaks to the respective narrative functions of characters involved in the story and sets
up for the use of archetypes in terms of story development (Protagonist, Nemesis, Attractor,
Mentor, Trickster).

These next four refer to the “skillful handling” of a tragedy:

• The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons.
• …the deed of horror may be done, but done in ignorance.
• …to be about to act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act.
• …when some one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance,
and makes the discovery before it is done.

This reads like classic Aristotelian logic, reminiscent of his explanation (Part 7) of
beginning, middle and end:

A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning


is that which does not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after
which something naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is
that which itself naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity,
or as a rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is that which follows
something as some other thing follows it.

From a screenwriting perspective, I find myself agreeing with Aristotle’s contention that the
best way of handling a story is when a character is about to “do an irreparable deed through
ignorance,” then “makes the discovery before it is done.”
That elevates both Fear and Pity to the maximum state of intensity. It also seems to follow
the old Hollywood dictum about movie endings: “Give the audience what they expect, then
give them what they want.”

Expect: Character A to unknowingly kill her friend Character B.


Want: At the last second, Character A recognizes Character B as her lover
and refrains from killing him.

Of course, Shakespeare took this approach and went one step further with the play “Romeo
and Juliet” by having one character commit suicide — when Romeo mistakenly thinks Juliet
is dead, an unwitting act -  then the other commits suicide - when Juliet kills herself
knowing that Romeo has actually died. That is some serious tragedy.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 77


One other point:
The way Aristotle breaks down the various possible ways of handling a tragic narrative
brings to mind something screenwriters face on a daily basis: forks-in-the-road.
Do we take this approach or that?
Do we try this narrative path or that?
We both feel and think our way through such choices, test them out, see if they work. If not,
we go back and try another path.
What Aristotle points out is often there is an inherent logic to these forks-in-the-road. That
logic can derive from the writer exploring various options, however the final choice any
character makes must work within the context of their own internal world view, way of
being, belief system, etc.

This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The conversation got
quite lively. To check it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 78


Part 15: Aristotle's Text
In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First, and most important,
it must be good. Now any speech or action that manifests moral purpose of any kind
will be expressive of character: the character will be good if the purpose is good. This
rule is relative to each class. Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though
the woman may be said to be an inferior being, and the slave quite worthless. The
second thing to aim at is propriety. There is a type of manly valor; but valor in a
woman, or unscrupulous cleverness is inappropriate. Thirdly, character must be true
to life: for this is a distinct thing from goodness and propriety, as here described. The
fourth point is consistency: for though the subject of the imitation, who suggested the
type, be inconsistent, still he must be consistently inconsistent. As an example of
motiveless degradation of character, we have Menelaus in the Orestes; of character
indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla, and the speech of
Melanippe; of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis- for Iphigenia the suppliant in no
way resembles her later self.
As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character, the poet should
always aim either at the necessary or the probable. Thus a person of a given
character should speak or act in a given way, by the rule either of necessity or of
probability; just as this event should follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It
is therefore evident that the unraveling of the plot, no less than the complication, must
arise out of the plot itself, it must not be brought about by the Deus ex Machina- as in
the Medea, or in the return of the Greeks in the Iliad. The Deus ex Machina should be
employed only for events external to the drama- for antecedent or subsequent events,
which lie beyond the range of human knowledge, and which require to be reported
or foretold; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all things. Within the action
there must be nothing irrational. If the irrational cannot be excluded, it should be
outside the scope of the tragedy. Such is the irrational element the Oedipus of
Sophocles.
Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the common level, the
example of good portrait painters should be followed. They, while reproducing the
distinctive form of the original, make a likeness which is true to life and yet more
beautiful. So too the poet, in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have
other defects of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it. In this way
Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer.
These then are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect those appeals to
the senses, which, though not among the essentials, are the concomitants of poetry;
for here too there is much room for error. But of this enough has been said in our
published treatises.
                                                                                                 

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 79


Part 15a: Four Qualities of a Tragic Hero
In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First, and most important,
it must be good. Now any speech or action that manifests moral purpose of any kind
will be expressive of character: the character will be good if the purpose is good. This
rule is relative to each class. Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though
the woman may be said to be an inferior being, and the slave quite worthless. The
second thing to aim at is propriety. There is a type of manly valor; but valor in a
woman, or unscrupulous cleverness is inappropriate. Thirdly, character must be true
to life: for this is a distinct thing from goodness and propriety, as here described. The
fourth point is consistency: for though the subject of the imitation, who suggested the
type, be inconsistent, still he must be consistently inconsistent. As an example of
motiveless degradation of character, we have Menelaus in the Orestes; of character
indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla, and the speech of
Melanippe; of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis- for Iphigenia the suppliant in no
way resembles her later self.
                                                                                                    

Let’s just bracket the culturally specific bias against women and slaves represented here — 
thankfully, humankind has made some progress on those fronts  -  to focus on “four things
to be aimed at,” what I think we can describe as ‘qualities.’ But before we go there, don’t we
need to revisit the subject of what Aristotle meant by character?

From Part 2 on Moral Character:


“… for moral character mainly answers to these divisions, goodness and badness being the
distinguishing marks of moral differences”

From Part 6: Character and Thought

“By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to the agents.”

From Part 6: Plot First, Character Second


“Dramatic action, therefore, is not with a view to the representation of character:
character comes in as subsidiary to the actions.”

If I have got this right, Aristotle uses ‘character’ to refer to virtue and one’s moral standing.
What we would mean by a character in a story, Aristotle employs the term “personal agent.”

Thus when Aristotle ascribes these “four things” in “respect to Character,” I take it he is
talking about moral virtue. Furthermore that character is represented by this quartet of
qualities:
⁃ A hero must be good.
⁃ This goodness must be proper to the nature of the hero.
⁃ The goodness must also feel realistic.
⁃ The exhibition of character by a hero must be consistent.

In terms of contemporary storytelling, the concept of good is elastic, not rigid.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 80


In TV, Tony Soprano (The Sopranos), Nancy Botwin (Weeds), Dexter Morgan (Dexter),
Jackie Peyton (Nurse Jackie), Walter White (Breaking Bad), and Carrie Mathison
(Homeland) to name only a few represent a wide spectrum of morally ambiguous
characters, each with some ‘good’ qualities to go along with their personal flaws and skewed
world views.

That said most mainstream movies feature Protagonists who are in essence ‘good’ people.
They may begin in an inauthentic psychological state and/or have some significant
unresolved issues in their past, but ‘heroic’ nonetheless. This is especially so with big
blockbuster movies like 2013 hits Gravity, The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, Star Trek:
Into Darkness, Thor: The Dark World, World War Z, Frozen, and Captain Phillips.

Thus while there may be more latitude in terms of modern story heroes in terms of their
‘goodness,’ it is still a pretty relevant quality for most Protagonist figures.
The other three qualities — propriety, realistic, consistency — are all completely in line with
modern screenwriting and TV writing sensibilities. If a character’s goodness fails on any of
these fronts, that character is an example of flawed execution.

Finally I love this observation:


“For though the subject of the imitation, who suggested the type,
be inconsistent, still he must be consistently inconsistent.”

That brought to mind this character:

Consistently inconsistent. That describes beautifully the Joker’s schemes. He embraces


chaos, but there is a consistency, even a thoroughness to his inconsistency. We don’t know
how and where he’ll wreak havoc, but we are sure that he will do so.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To check
it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 81


Part 15b: The Unraveling of the Plot
As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character, the poet should
always aim either at the necessary or the probable. Thus a person of a given
character should speak or act in a given way, by the rule either of necessity or of
probability; just as this event should follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It
is therefore evident that the unraveling of the plot, no less than the complication, must
arise out of the plot itself, it must not be brought about by the Deus ex Machina – as in
the Medea, or in the return of the Greeks in the Iliad. The Deus ex Machina should be
employed only for events external to the drama – for antecedent or subsequent
events, which lie beyond the range of human knowledge, and which require to be
reported or foretold; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all things. Within
the action there must be nothing irrational. If the irrational cannot be excluded, it
should be outside the scope of the tragedy. Such is the irrational element the Oedipus
of Sophocles.
                                                                                                    

Aristotle returns to a subject he covered in Part 9: Probability and Necessity.

And to me, this speaks primarily about where the narrative drive originates. Does it derive
from the characters within the story universe? Or does it derive from the writer from
outside the story universe? The former is what I take Aristotle to mean. The latter can be an
example of deus ex machina or as I refer to it in my teaching: writer’s convenience. That is,
we force something to happen in the story universe to fit our needs as writers. That is
inauthentic. An authentic plot is one driven by the characters and their needs.

Once again, this is,  in my view - where plot goes directly back to character. Each character,
and in particular the Protagonist, has a destiny. What they do derives from the probability
of the choices they make. What happens then is tied to the necessity of those choices. It’s
what I call the narrative imperative and I believe that aligns nicely with Aristotle’s
articulation here.

From a screenwriting perspective, here is something interesting. Previously, I posted this:


All the Things That Are Wrong With Your Screenplay in One Handy Infographic, from a
professional reader who calculated certain problems common to 300 scripts covered for
some major Hollywood studios. Notice how many of the issues relate to probability and
necessity:
⁃ The character logic is muddy
⁃ The ending is completely anti-climatic
⁃ The script suffers from arbitrary complexity
⁃ The script goes off the rails in the third act
⁃ The script’s questions are left unanswered
⁃ The story is a string of unrelated vignettes
⁃ The plot unravels through convenience/contrivance
⁃ The script is totally confused
⁃ The ending is a case of deus ex machina

Every single one of these problems could be resolved if a writer dug deeply into their
characters (especially the Protagonist), determining what their Disunity is, what their Core

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 82


Essence is, what their Unity is, all of which informs the very nature of the physical journey
and psychological journey comprising the substance of the narrative. It is a writer’s
understanding of those dynamics feed both probability and necessity in terms of character
action and, therefore, the plot.

Interesting, too, the script reader’s use of the word “unravels” which has a negative
connotation in contrast to Aristotle which I take to mean “unspools” or “plays out,” the
natural chronology of events and in a well-constructed story.

Bottom line, when we craft a story, that’s what we want: a narrative that flows organically
and by necessity.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To check
it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 83


Part 15c: The Example of Good Portrait Painters
Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the common level, the
example of good portrait painters should be followed. They, while reproducing the
distinctive form of the original, make a likeness which is true to life and yet more
beautiful. So too the poet, in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have
other defects of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it. In this way
Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer. These then are rules the poet should
observe. Nor should he neglect those appeals to the senses, which, though not among
the essentials, are the concomitants of poetry; for here too there is much room for
error. But of this enough has been said in our published treatises.

                                                                                                    

I’m sure our Aristotelians will be able to put some historical context to this point Aristotle
makes and provide some deep insight.

Me? I confess I laughed out loud when I read this:

“So too the poet, in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or
have other defects of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it.”

Or in Hollywood speak: “Could you make the character more sympathetic?”

It’s an age-old battle between writers and suits.

Writers know that the greater the distance for a character to travel in their psychological
and emotional journey, the better. It makes for better drama and a more satisfying
resolution of the story. So most writers’ instincts pretty much default to starting our stories
with — in particular — Protagonists in a decided state of Disunity, whether the character is
aware of this fact or not. This is where the infamous “character flaw” that always gets
kicked around in development circles has its roots.

The suits tend to operate from a different perspective. They are concerned about many
things, of course, but here are two big ones:

1. Is the Protagonist one audiences will care about?


2. Is the Protagonist an actor will want to play?

And that’s the root of the tension: Writers starting the character as far away as possible
psychologically from where they need to end up and the good folks on the other side of the
desk worrying a character that flawed may be off-putting.

“Can’t you make her more likeable?”


You know, like a “good portrait painter.” The character can be “true to life,” but please,
make them “beautiful.” They may be “irascible” or “indolent” or have other “defects,” but
for the love of God make sure they are “ennoble.”

I have had a variation of this discussion dozens of times. Go here for just one example.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 84


That said, there seems to be more latitude in this regard the last 5–10 years or so with the
emergence of so many anti-heroes as cultural icons, especially on TV (The Sopranos, The
Shield, Breaking Bad, Dexter, Sons of Anarchy). Perhaps we are in a dark mood at a trans-
global level, I don’t know. But even if you are working with an anti-hero who may not be
particularly sympathetic, the pressure is there to at least make him/her empathetic. We
may not approve of their worldview, but we need to understand it, grasp its logic within the
character’s place in the story universe.

If you’re gonna make the character a pig, at least put lipstick on them…
you know… like a good portrait painter.

A related point to Aristotle’s idea of beauty. I’d love to see our Aristotelians weigh in on the
subject because to me beauty is perhaps the single most important touch point for
contemporary storytelling. For starters, when we experience beauty, we are lifted out of the
mundane and transported somewhere special, a modern approximation of the ‘sacred’. Next
beauty transcends the boundaries of human experience. Tragedy or comedy, high brow or
low brow, big events or tiny moments, something can happen within any genre which we
experience as beauty.

My guess is Aristotle had what I guess we could call a more traditional sense of beauty,
reflective of his time and cultural milieu… as in how good portrait painters know how to
make a subject “beautiful.” But as I suggested above, contemporary stories can have beauty
emerge across the breadth of human experience.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To check
it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 85


Part 16: Recognition
What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate its kinds.
First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most commonly employed-
recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital – such as ‘the spear which the
earth-born race bear on their bodies,’ or the stars introduced by Carcinus in his
Thyestes. Others are acquired after birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as
scars; some external tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the
discovery is effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful treatment. Thus in the
recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery is made in one way by the nurse, in
another by the swineherds. The use of tokens for the express purpose of proof- and,
indeed, any formal proof with or without tokens – is a less artistic mode of recognition.
A better kind is that which comes about by a turn of incident, as in the Bath Scene in
the Odyssey.
Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that account wanting
in art. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals the fact that he is Orestes. She,
indeed, makes herself known by the letter; but he, by speaking himself, and saying
what the poet, not what the plot requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault
above mentioned – for Orestes might as well have brought tokens with him. Another
similar instance is the ‘voice of the shuttle’ in the Tereus of Sophocles.
The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens a feeling:
as in the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks into tears on seeing the
picture; or again in the Lay of Alcinous, where Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play
the lyre, recalls the past and weeps; and hence the recognition.
The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori: ‘Some one
resembling me has come: no one resembles me but Orestes: therefore Orestes has
come.’ Such too is the discovery made by Iphigenia in the play of Polyidus the
Sophist. It was a natural reflection for Orestes to make, ‘So I too must die at the altar
like my sister.’
So, again, in the Tydeus of Theodectes, the father says, ‘I came to find my son, and I
lose my own life.’ So too in the Phineidae: the women, on seeing the place, inferred
their fate- ‘Here we are doomed to die, for here we were cast forth.’ Again, there is a
composite kind of recognition involving false inference on the part of one of the
characters, as in the Odysseus Disguised as a Messenger. A said [that no one else was
able to bend the bow; … hence B (the disguised
Odysseus) imagined that A would] recognize the bow which, in fact, he had not seen;
and to bring about a recognition by this means – the expectation that A would
recognize the bow- is false inference.
But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the incidents themselves,
where the startling discovery is made by natural means.
Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia; for it was natural that
Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter. These recognitions alone dispense with the
artificial aid of tokens or amulets. Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning.
                                                                                                    

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 86


I believe the Greek word Aristotle uses here for the term “recognition” is Anagnorisis
(ἀναγνώρισις). One definition I found online:
The recognition or discovery by the protagonist of the identity of
some character or the nature of his own predicament, which leads
to the resolution of the plot; denouement.

The root of the Greek word is related to “gnosis” which means “knowledge,” thus
recognition is tied to some new knowledge a character learns that pivots their understanding
of their situation.

Aristotle’s list of five types of recognition evolves from least “artistic” to most. Briefly they
are:
⁃ Signs or marks
⁃ Contrived by author
⁃ Prompted by memory
⁃ Deductive reasoning

There appears to be an intriguing arc at work here. The first two would seem to be the most
obvious examples of a writer’s handprint. The next two are elevated in status because they
move the recognition from outside the story universe — the writer’s hand — to inside, rooted
in the experience of the characters. Memory would seem to be less than deductive reasoning
because the former is more internal in nature while the latter lends itself to an interactive
experience with the audience whereby we participate in the character’s revelatory process.

Based upon what we have studied thus far, it is abundantly clear why the last type on the list
ranks the highest in Aristotle’s opinion:

“But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the incidents themselves,
where the startling discovery is made by natural means” (emphasis added).

This reads like classic Aristotle, taking us back to the ideas of ‘necessity’ and ‘probability’
whereby it is the events in the plot themselves that create the circumstances of the
revelation. And this makes perfect sense as from an audience standpoint, it represents the
most immersive way of participating in the recognition — as the character experiences
occurrences which lead to discovery, so too do we.

Yet even as Aristotle talks about “incidents” that drive the revelation, thus seemingly
grounded in plot, there is an implicit connection to character: For the very idea of
‘recognition’ requires a character to do the recognizing. That is, the incidents are
meaningless unless they mean something revelatory to specific characters.

In other words, revelation can happen in the plot. But recognition requires an awareness
arising within a character.

So once again in “Poetics,” a discussion about plot necessarily involves character, a fact
which continues to support my ongoing take about Aristotle’s theories: Plot cannot be
separated from character.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 87


Consider one of the most famous recognitions in recent film history — the ending of The
Sixth Sense where Malcolm (Bruce Willis) realizes he is dead:

The Sixth Sense (1999) : Malcolm’s Recognition (Ending)

This recognition falls entirely into Aristotle’s fifth category, Malcolm looking back at key
incidents in his experience, stitching them together and now seeing them in a different light.
But they are his memories and his emotions that create and drive the recognition. The
incidents are meaningless without the meaning Malcolm ascribes to them in this moment of
revelation.

How about you? What do you take from this part of Aristotle’s Poetics?
I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, its relevance to the craft in contemporary
times. I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set me straight as I’m just trying to work my
way through this content the best I can. The lively discussions in the comment archive are well worth
the read, and helped make this series one of my all-time favorites.
Click here and keep the conversation going on the blog.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 88


Part 17: Plot and Episode
In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction, the poet should
place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes. In this way, seeing everything with
the utmost vividness, as if he were a spectator of the action, he will discover what is in
keeping with it, and be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The need of such a
rule is shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus was on his way from the
temple. This fact escaped the observation of one who did not see the situation. On the
stage, however, the Piece failed, the audience being offended at the oversight.
Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power, with appropriate
gestures; for those who feel emotion are most convincing through natural sympathy
with the characters they represent; and one who is agitated storms, one who is angry
rages, with the most lifelike reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy gift of nature
or a strain of madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any character; in
the other, he is lifted out of his proper self.
As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs it for himself, he
should first sketch its general outline, and then fill in the episodes and amplify in
detail. The general plan may be illustrated by the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed;
she disappears mysteriously from the eyes of those who sacrificed her; she is
transported to another country, where the custom is to offer up an strangers to the
goddess. To this ministry she is appointed. Some time later her own brother chances to
arrive. The fact that the oracle for some reason ordered him to go there, is outside the
general plan of the play.
The purpose, again, of his coming is outside the action proper. However, he comes,
he is seized, and, when on the point of being sacrificed, reveals who he is. The mode
of recognition may be either that of Euripides or of Polyidus, in whose play he
exclaims very naturally: ‘So it was not my sister only, but I too, who was doomed to
be sacrificed’; and by that remark he is saved.
After this, the names being once given, it remains to fill in the episodes. We must see
that they are relevant to the action. In the case of Orestes, for example, there is the
madness which led to his capture, and his deliverance by means of the purificatory
rite. In the drama, the episodes are short, but it is these that give extension to Epic
poetry. Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly. A certain man is absent
from home for many years; he is jealously watched by Poseidon, and left desolate.
Meanwhile his home is in a wretched plight- suitors are wasting his substance and
plotting against his son. At length, tempest-tost, he himself arrives; he makes certain
persons acquainted with him; he attacks the suitors with his own hand, and is himself
preserved while he destroys them. This is the essence of the plot; the rest is episode.

                                                                                                    

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 89


This should feel like pretty familiar territory to any writer, perhaps especially screenwriters
who work with a narrative form (screenplay) that is so much about story structure. And
frankly, it’s a hoot to see Aristotle provide a story synopsis not once, but twice in this
chapter, sounding very much like a writer giving an elevator pitch to a producer or studio
exec: “So Odysseus, see, he’s stuck, a long way from home, desperate to get back to his
beloved wife. But this god Poseidon’s got other plans…”

Moreover Aristotle suggesting writing process: 

“he [the writer] should first sketch its general outline,


and then fill in the episodes and amplify in detail”

 sounds incredibly like the approach I take in prep-writing, figuring out the story’s major
Plotline points, then working out all the subplots and character dynamics accordingly. Or I’d
be on safer ground if I said my approach resembles his!

Here again Aristotle emphasizes how the plot needs to flow from within the nature of the
story universe, not the writer manipulating events from the outside. As I suggested
previously, the best way I have found to accomplish this end is immerse oneself in the story’s
characters and allow them to lead us through the emerging narrative.

Finally I am intrigued by the relationship in this part between plot and episode. As far as I
can tell, Aristotle’s use of ‘plot’ here refers to the overall narrative, while ‘episode’ refers to
the sets of events that transpire within the larger story.

What would be the closest parallel to episode in contemporary screenwriting?

Would it be the plot point, a significant event that twists the plot in a new direction?

Would it be a sequence, a set of scenes, each one with its own beginning, middle and end,
each moving seamlessly, one to the other?

I’d be curious to hear what our wonderful band of Aristotelians think on the matter,
hopefully providing a clearer definition of ‘episode’ per Aristotle’s usage.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 in a weekly series on my blog Go Into The
Story. The enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts made for a lively discourse.
To check out those conversations, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 90


Part 18: Aristotle's Text

Every tragedy falls into two parts- Complication and Unraveling or Denouement.
Incidents extraneous to the action are frequently combined with a portion of the
action proper, to form the Complication; the rest is the Unraveling. By the
Complication I mean all that extends from the beginning of the action to the part
which marks the turning-point to good or bad fortune. The Unraveling is that which
extends from the beginning of the change to the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of
Theodectes, the Complication consists of the incidents presupposed in the drama, the
seizure of the child, and then again ... [the Unraveling] extends from the accusation of
murder to
There are four kinds of Tragedy: the Complex, depending entirely on Reversal of the
Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where the motive is passion)- such as the
tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the Ethical (where the motives are ethical)- such as the
Phthiotides and the Peleus. The fourth kind is the Simple. [We here exclude the purely
spectacular element], exemplified by the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and scenes laid
in Hades. The poet should endeavor, if possible, to combine all poetic elements; or
failing that, the greatest number and those the most important; the more so, in face of
the caviling criticism of the day. For whereas there have hitherto been good poets,
each in his own branch, the critics now expect one man to surpass all others in their
several lines of excellence.
In speaking of a tragedy as the same or different, the best test to take is the plot.
Identity exists where the Complication and Unraveling are the same. Many poets tie
the knot well, but unravel it Both arts, however, should always be mastered.
Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not make an Epic
structure into a tragedy- by an Epic structure I mean one with a multiplicity of plots- as
if, for instance, you were to make a tragedy out of the entire story of the Iliad. In the
Epic poem, owing to its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the drama
the result is far from answering to the poet's expectation. The proof is that the poets
who have dramatized the whole story of the Fall of Troy, instead of selecting portions,
like Euripides; or who have taken the whole tale of Niobe, and not a part of her story,
like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or meet with poor success on the stage. Even
Agathon has been known to fail from this one defect. In his Reversals of the Situation,
however, he shows a marvelous skill in the effort to hit the popular taste- to produce a
tragic effect that satisfies the moral sense. This effect is produced when the clever
rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or the brave villain defeated. Such an event is
probable in Agathon's sense of the word: 'is probable,' he says, 'that many things
should happen contrary to probability.'
The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be an integral part of
the whole, and share in the action, in the manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles. As
for the later poets, their choral songs pertain as little to the subject of the piece as to
that of any other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere interludes- a practice first
begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between introducing such choral
interludes, and transferring a speech, or even a whole act, from one play to another.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 91


Part 18a: Complication and Denouement
There is a further point to be borne in mind. Every tragedy is in part Complication and
in part Denouement; the incidents before the opening scene, and often certain also of
those within the play, forming the Complication; and the rest the Denouement. By
Complication I mean all from the beginning of the story to the point just before the
change in the hero’s fortunes; by Denouement, all from the beginning of the change
to the end. In the Lynceus of Theodectes, for instance, the Complication includes,
together with the presupposed incidents, the seizure of the child and that in turn of the
parents; and the Denouement all from the indictment for the murder to the end. Now
it is right, when one speaks of a tragedy as the same or not the same as another, to do
so on the ground before all else of their Plot, i.e. as having the same or not the same
Complication and Denouement. Yet there are many dramatists who, after a good
Complication, fail in the Denouement. But it is necessary for both points of
construction to be always duly mastered.
                                                                                                    

Having once mispronounced denouement in a meeting with a studio exec, this term is pretty
much seared into my consciousness, having consulted several dictionaries to gain more
precision in my understanding of the word’s meaning… and how to say it [day-new -mah].

From the French, its literal meaning is “untying.” So we may think of Complication, as used
here by Aristotle, to signify “tying,” as in the various strands of a rope, and the Denouement
then the untying of those strands, so that by the end of the story, the knot (the core of the
Complication) is undone and the narrative resolved.

I’m also able to amortize some of the cost of my college education as I remember having
studied this part of “Poetics” wherein we learned the concepts of rising action and falling
action, the former related to Complication, the latter to Denouement.

Going one level deeper into my brain cells, I seem to recall that rising action related
primarily to the circumstances surrounding the Protagonist while falling action occurred
after a reversal, thus the narrative flow turned against the Antagonist.

As to whether Aristotle’s writings support this perspective specifically or even generally, I


leave that to our moveable feast of Aristotelians. I’m just reporting directly from the mush
which lies within my cranium.

Speaking from the perspective of contemporary screenwriting, Denouement has come to


take on a somewhat different function, if not meaning, representing that scene or scenes
which occur after the Final Struggle and Resolution.
As was explained to me by a veteran screenwriter once [paraphrased]:

After the climax of the story, you wanna give the audience a glimpse
of what it all means to the hero. To the victor goes the spoils.
The denouement is seeing the spoils.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 92


A good example of this is the 1983 comedy Trading Places.
Check out this video
About the 1:00 minute mark, Dan Aykroyd explains how his character (Louis) along with
Eddie Murphy’s (Billy Ray) outwitted the Duke brothers (Final Struggle/Resolution)
Then the Denouement featured at the 1:59 mark on:
“Looking good, Billy Ray” / “Feeling good, Louis” 
- champagne, pretty girls, desert isle and all. Spoils, indeed!

So, two basic screenwriting takeaways from this first part of Part XVIII:

1. Typically, a story builds tension, then ultimately resolves it.


2. The resolution of the story — the untying of the knot — is every bit
as important as the setup and development of the story — the
tying of the knot.

“But it is necessary for both points of construction to be always duly mastered. ”

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To check
it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 93


Part 18b: Four Kinds of Tragedy
There are four kinds of Tragedy: the Complex, depending entirely on
Reversal of the Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where the motive is passion)
– such as the tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the Ethical (where the motives are ethical)
– such as the Phthiotides and the Peleus. The fourth kind is the Simple. [We here
exclude the purely spectacular element], exemplified by the Phorcides, the
Prometheus, and scenes laid in Hades. The poet should endeavor, if possible, to
combine all poetic elements; or failing that, the greatest number and those the most
important; the more so, in face of the caviling criticism of the day. For whereas there
have hitherto been good poets, each in his own branch, the critics now expect one
man to surpass all others in their several lines of excellence.

                                                                                                    

Complex. Pathetic (as in “pathos”). Ethical. Simple.

If Tragedy is equivalent to what we mean nowadays when we say Genre, then would these
four “kinds” be considered sub-genres?

Not quite. Whereas Romantic Comedy or Contained Thriller are examples of sub-genres,
these four categories Aristotle cites feel more like narrative approaches. Two of them — 
Pathetic and Ethical — seem like they fall into the arena of Theme, what sort of meaning the
writer may be attempting to work with, whereas the other two — Complex and Simple — 
appear to be more about the scope of the story.

This comment -

The poet should endeavor, if possible, to combine all poetic elements 


- is intriguing as it suggests a good story ought to have multiple dynamics at work, both in
terms of plot construction and breadth, as well as theme and meaning [with the caveat
Aristotle notes in the following paragraph, which we will analyze in the next section,
wherein he tells writers to avoid “Epic structure… multiplicity of plots”].

I like to think of those “multiple dynamics” as layers, how a story can function at different
levels of our human experience. There is Conscious, Subconsious, and Unconscious. Within
Conscious, there is Emotional, Rational, Intuitive, Symbolic, and so forth [obviously these
are all artificial categories, but ironically in keeping with Aristotle who does the same
thing!]

This is yet another reason why my son’s advice — “Go into the story and find the animals” — 
was so prescient because one way of perceiving the use of that term “animals” is that it can
refer to the multiple layers of a story. As writers, we are tasked with going beneath the
surface of the narrative, finding those layers, determining how they can work as story
dynamics, then do our best to wrangle everything into a coherent and comprehensive whole.
That is a lot of theoretical jargon, which basically means, “Write a compelling story.”

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 94


Finally there’s this observation by Aristotle:

For whereas there have hitherto been good poets, each in his own branch, the
critics now expect one man to surpass all others in their several lines of excellence.

It’s been said, “We stand on the shoulders of those who have come before us.” Aristotle
seems to be suggesting that is an imperative for writers: You must climb above those who
have preceded you! Whereas previously, a ‘good’ writer is one who employed one or two of
these different “kinds” of tragedy, we are tasked with doing better, and one way of achieving
that is to use all four narrative approaches: Complex, Pathetic, Ethical, Simple.

For screenwriters, it’s the same thing. We cannot simply replicate movies that have been
produced. Rather must find a way to do something distinctive, interesting, surprising,
elevate our stories beyond past iterations.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To check
it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 95


Part 18c: Multiplicity of Plots
Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not make an Epic
structure into a tragedy- by an Epic structure I mean one with a multiplicity of plots –
as if, for instance, you were to make a tragedy out of the entire story of the Iliad. In
the Epic poem, owing to its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the
drama the result is far from answering to the poet’s expectation.
The proof is that the poets who have dramatized the whole story of the Fall of Troy,
instead of selecting portions, like Euripides; or who have taken the whole tale of
Niobe, and not a part of her story, like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or meet with poor
success on the stage. Even Agathon has been known to fail from this one defect. In his
Reversals of the Situation, however, he shows a marvelous skill in the effort to hit the
popular taste- to produce a tragic effect that satisfies the moral sense. This effect is
produced when the clever rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or the brave villain
defeated.
Such an event is probable in Agathon’s sense of the word: ‘is probable,’ he says, ‘that
many things should happen contrary to probability.’
                                                                                                    

These observations drive me back to Aristotle’s notion of “unity of action,” how a play
should have one main action. Once again, it makes me feel like Aristotle would have bonded
with the narrative form of a screenplay because a vast majority of mainstream commercial
Hollywood movies are of this paradigm: Single Protagonist, positive transformation.

True, there are movies like Babel, Crash, and Traffic, known as hyperlink cinema, what I call
‘multilinear’ storytelling, however they are in a tiny minority. It is much easier to write — and
for an audience to access and comprehend — a single Protagonist story which is one major
reason why they are so prevalent.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 96


This phenomenon extends to the traditional biopic, akin to what Aristotle cites as an
example: “the entire story of Illiad.”
How to tell a person’s life story?
So many threads that suggest multiple subplots.
Nowadays writers have increasingly chosen not to try to cover the entirety of a real person’s
life, but rather spotlight a specific ‘chapter’ in their existence and use that as the basis of a
story, a lens through which to interpret the character.

I discussed this with screenwriter Arash Amel in our interview about his movie Grace of Monaco:

And the idea of taking a very limited period of somebody’s life — a


snapshot — and also a female character, something that I hadn’t actually
explored before, was really interesting to me. There’s a long story behind
why Princess Grace — but to cut it short, she was the first media princess
before the concept had been invented and the last true fairytale princess,
to a whole generation she was an icon and totally forgotten and such a
great tragic story never really told.

Increasingly we see these snapshot biographies and that reflects the sentiments of Aristotle’s
main point in this section of “Poetics”.

This is not to suggest we should feel constrained from pursuing a multilinear story if that’s
what emerges in our creative process. However this is a harder path to tread, a sentiment
with which both Aristotle and today’s studio executives would agree.
This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The conversation got
quite lively. To check it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 97


Part 18d: Chorus
The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be an integral part of
the whole, and share in the action, in the manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles. As
for the later poets, their choral songs pertain as little to the subject of the piece as to
that of any other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere interludes – a practice
first begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between introducing such choral
interludes, and transferring a speech, or even a whole act, from one play to another.
                                                                                                    

I find this fascinating because the way Aristotle refers to the Chorus is pretty much how I
talk about what I call Narrative Voice.

First, a definition of Greek chorus:


“A Greek chorus (Greek: χορός, koros) is a homogeneous, non-individualized group
of performers in the plays of classical Greece, who comment with a collective voice
on the dramatic action.”
I’m hopeful our band of Aristotelians will provide more background and insight into the
nature and function of the chorus in classical Greek tragedies.

As to Narrative Voice, think of it as the storytelling sensibility a writer brings to a screenplay


through his/her writing style. I even have a nifty formula for it:

What are the points of connection between how Aristotle refers to chorus in this
section of “Poetics” and Narrative Voice?

The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors:

I think of Narrative Voice as a screenplay’s invisible character, but a character


nonetheless, present primarily in scene description.

It should be an integral part of the whole:

A writer should develop their sense of Narrative Voice in conjunction with the tone,
atmosphere and feel of the story.

And share in the action:

As opposed to approaching a screenplay’s style as some sort of generic thing,


Narrative Voice implies a specific connection to the story’s genre — genre affecting
style, style conveying genre.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 98


There is another parallel:
when Narrative Voice editorializes on the action, very much like a Greek chorus
commenting on the proceedings.

Here are some examples from the screenplay for the movie American Hustle, written by
Eric Warren Singer and David O. Russell (the editorializing in scene description italicized):

P.7: Irving looks over and shrugs his shoulders. Not


surprised at all the way this is going and horrified to
be in the room with these guys.

P.38: Irving stares at Sydney with confusion. He’s never seen


her like this before.

P.39: Richie stares at Edith elated that she just stuck up for
him. He’s really enjoying this position of power she’s
putting him in.

P.71: Irv is touched. He sees it is a sincere gift from


Carmine, because Carmine likes him; not cynical in any
way.

So while the Greek chorus may have vanished over time, it’s interesting to think about a
possible legacy in screenwriting: Narrative Voice.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To check
it out, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 99


Aristotle's Poetics: Section Three - Contents

Part 19: Thought and Diction

Part 20: Language

Part 21: Words

Part 22: Word Choice

Part 23: Unity of Action

Part 24: Tragedy and Epic Poem

Part 25: Impossible and Improbable

Part 26: Tragedy vs. Epic Poems

Go Into The Story And Find The Animals


Resources + Links

Back to Main Contents Page

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 100


Part 19: Thought and Diction
It remains to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of Tragedy having been
already discussed. concerning Thought, we may assume what is said in the Rhetoric,
to which inquiry the subject more strictly belongs. Under Thought is included every
effect which has to be produced by speech, the subdivisions being: proof and
refutation; the excitation of the feelings, such as pity, fear, anger, and the like; the
suggestion of importance or its opposite. Now, it is evident that the dramatic incidents
must be treated from the same points of view as the dramatic speeches, when the
object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear, importance, or probability. The only
difference is that the incidents should speak for themselves without verbal exposition;
while effects aimed at in should be produced by the speaker, and as a result of the
speech.
For what were the business of a speaker, if the Thought were revealed quite apart
from what he says?
Next, as regards Diction. One branch of the inquiry treats of the Modes of Utterance.
But this province of knowledge belongs to the art of Delivery and to the masters of
that science. It includes, for instance- what is a command, a prayer, a statement, a
threat, a question, an answer, and so forth. To know or not to know these things
involves no serious censure upon the poet’s art. For who can admit the fault imputed
to Homer by Protagoras- that in the words, ‘Sing, goddess, of the wrath, he gives a
command under the idea that he utters a prayer?
For to tell some one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a command. We may,
therefore, pass this over as an inquiry that belongs to another art, not to poetry.

                                                                                                    

I may be taking a simplistic view here, but let me run with this and see what our Aristotelian
experts have to say on Part 19: Isn’t this simply Aristotle’s way of drawing a distinction
between what screenwriters would call Dialogue and Action?

Dialogue:
Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced by speech *

Action:
Now, it is evident that the dramatic incidents* must be treated from the same points
of view as the dramatic speeches
(*emphasis added)

Dialogue = Speech Action = Incidents

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 101


Moreover, as in a screenplay, the impact Dialogue and Action may have on the plot is the
same. Aristotle lists the “effects” as being:

proof and refutation; the excitation of the feelings, such as pity, fear,
anger, and the like; the suggestion of importance or its opposite.

In other words, make something happen.

As to the observations about Diction, I’m thinking this is an implicit nod to the nature of
ancient plays which were, I am supposing, heavily dialogue oriented. They are, after all,
considered to be “poetry”, not some other “art”.

Of course with the advent of motion pictures, especially during the silent film era, the
emphasis switched almost entirely to visual storytelling.

Motion. Pictures. Both visual words. To this day, movies are primarily a visual medium. As
screenwriters, our scripts may very well have a
“command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a question, an answer, and so forth”
but whatever dialogue we write can be best served while maximizing the visual trappings of
a scene. In any event, the distinction between Dialogue and Action is an important one,
reminding screenwriters to find a balance between the two, something that can differ genre
to genre, story to story, but should always be a consideration in the writer’s consciousness.

Furthermore as Dialogue and Action occur in the physical realm of a movie, what we hear
and what we see, there is an implied meaning in the psychological realm, what we interpret
and intuit. For Dialogue, we may call that Subtext. For Action, we may call that Intention.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story.
The conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts .
To catch up on the comments, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 102


Part 20: Language
Language in general includes the following parts: Letter, Syllable, Connecting Word,
Noun, Verb, Inflection or Case, Sentence or Phrase.
A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only one which can
form part of a group of sounds. For even brutes utter indivisible sounds, none of which
I call a letter. The sound I mean may be either a vowel, a semivowel, or a mute.
A Vowel is that which without impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound. A
semivowel that which with such impact has an audible sound, as S and R. A mute, that
which with such impact has by itself no sound, but joined to a vowel sound becomes
audible, as G and D. These are distinguished according to the form assumed by the
mouth and the place where they are produced; according as they are aspirated or
smooth, long or short; as they are acute, grave, or of an intermediate tone; which
inquiry belongs in detail to the writers on meter.
A Syllable is a nonsignificant sound, composed of a mute and a vowel: for GR without
A is a syllable, as also with A – GRA. But the investigation of these differences belongs
also to metrical science.
A Connecting Word is a nonsignificant sound, which neither causes nor hinders the
union of many sounds into one significant sound; it may be placed at either end or in
the middle of a sentence. Or, a nonsignificant sound, which out of several sounds,
each of them significant, is capable of forming one significant sound- as amphi, peri,
and the like. Or, a nonsignificant sound, which marks the beginning, end, or division
of a sentence; such, however, that it cannot correctly stand by itself at the beginning
of a sentence- as men, etoi, de.
A Noun is a composite significant sound, not marking time, of which no part is in itself
significant: for in double or compound words we do not employ the separate parts as
if each were in itself significant. Thus in Theodorus, ‘god-given,’ the doron or ‘gift’ is
not in itself significant.
A Verb is a composite significant sound, marking time, in which, as in the noun, no
part is in itself significant. For ‘man’ or ‘white’ does not express the idea of ‘when’; but
‘he walks’ or ‘he has walked’ does connote time, present or past. Inflection belongs
both to the noun and verb, and expresses either the relation ‘of,’ ‘to,’ or the like; or
that of number, whether one or many, as ‘man’ or ‘men’; or the modes or tones in
actual delivery, e.g., a question or a command. ‘Did he go?’ and ‘go’ are verbal
inflections of this kind.
A Sentence or Phrase is a composite significant sound, some at least of whose parts
are in themselves significant; for not every such group of words consists of verbs and
nouns – ‘the definition of man,’ for example – but it may dispense even with the verb.
Still it will always have some significant part, as ‘in walking,’ or ‘Cleon son of Cleon.’
A sentence or phrase may form a unity in two ways- either as signifying one thing, or
as consisting of several parts linked together. Thus the Iliad is one by the linking
together of parts, the definition of man by the unity of the thing signified.
                                                                                                    

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 103


Part 21: Words
Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those composed of
nonsignificant elements, such as ge, ‘earth.’ By double or compound, those composed
either of a significant and nonsignificant element (though within the whole word no
element is significant), or of elements that are both significant. A word may likewise
be triple, quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian expressions, e.g.,
‘Hermo-caico-xanthus [who prayed to Father Zeus].’

Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or ornamental, or newly-


coined, or lengthened, or contracted, or altered. By a current or proper word I mean
one which is in general use among a people; by a strange word, one which is in use
in another country. Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and
current, but not in relation to the same people. The word sigynon, ‘lance,’ is to the
Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one.

Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either from genus to


species, or from species to genus, or from species to species, or by analogy, that is,
proportion. Thus from genus to species, as: ‘There lies my ship’; for lying at anchor is a
species of lying. From species to genus, as: ‘Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath
Odysseus wrought’; for ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here used for
a large number generally. From species to species, as: ‘With blade of bronze drew
away the life,’ and ‘Cleft the water with the vessel of unyielding bronze.’ Here arusai,
‘to draw away’ is used for tamein, ‘to cleave,’ and tamein, again for arusai – each
being a species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is to
the first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for the second, or the
second for the fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to
which the proper word is relative. Thus the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares.
The cup may, therefore, be called ‘the shield of Dionysus,’ and the shield ‘the cup of
Ares.’ Or, again, as old age is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may therefore be
called, ‘the old age of the day,’ and old age, ‘the evening of life,’ or, in the phrase of
Empedocles, ‘life’s setting sun.’ For some of the terms of the proportion there is at times
no word in existence; still the metaphor may be used.

For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but the action of the sun in scattering his
rays is nameless. Still this process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the
seed. Hence the expression of the poet ‘sowing the god-created light.’ There is
another way in which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply an
alien term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes; as if we were to call
the shield, not ‘the cup of Ares,’ but ‘the wineless cup’.

A newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use, but is adopted
by the poet himself. Some such words there appear to be: as ernyges, ‘sprouters,’ for
kerata, ‘horns’; and areter, ‘supplicator’, for hiereus, ‘priest.’

A word is lengthened when its own vowel is exchanged for a longer one, or when a
syllable is inserted. A word is contracted when some part of it is removed. Instances of

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 104


lengthening are: poleos for poleos, Peleiadeo for Peleidou; of contraction: kri, do, and
ops, as in mia ginetai amphoteron ops, ‘the appearance of both is one.’

An altered word is one in which part of the ordinary form is left unchanged, and part
is recast: as in dexiteron kata mazon, ‘on the right breast,’ dexiteron is for dexion.

Nouns in themselves are either masculine, feminine, or neuter. Masculine are such as
end in N, R, S, or in some letter compounded with S – these being two, PS and X.
Feminine, such as end in vowels that are always long, namely E and O, and – of
vowels that admit of lengthening – those in A. Thus the number of letters in which
nouns masculine and feminine end is the same; for PS and X are equivalent to endings
in S. No noun ends in a mute or a vowel short by nature. Three only end in I- meli,
‘honey’; kommi, ‘gum’; peperi, ‘pepper’; five end in U. Neuter nouns end in these
two latter vowels; also in N and S.

                                                                                                    

I don’t have much to say here other than this: As writers, we are wordsmiths.

Words are our tools and as such, we must care about language. Deeply.

Aristotle’s in-depth analysis here reminds us of this fact.

As to his dissection of metaphor, I got lost in it twice. However the journey was worth it just
to read this:

For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but the action of the sun in scattering
his rays is nameless. Still this process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to
the seed. Hence the expression of the poet ‘sowing the god-created light.’

Just stumbling across the idea of a poet ‘sowing god-created light’ makes me smile. Having
become a fan of poetry late in my life, I get this observation, I feel it. A wonderful expression
of the power of inspiration words can bring us. Beautiful!

This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. To check out the blog
comments, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 105


Part 22: Word Choice
The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The clearest style is that
which uses only current or proper words; at the same time it is mean – witness the
poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus. That diction, on the other hand, is lofty and
raised above the commonplace which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean
strange (or rare) words, metaphorical, lengthened- anything, in short, that differs from
the normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is either a riddle or a
jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors; a jargon, if it consists of strange (or rare)
words. For the essence of a riddle is to express true facts under impossible
combinations.
Now this cannot be done by any arrangement of ordinary words, but by the use of
metaphor it can. Such is the riddle: ‘A man I saw who on another man had glued the
bronze by aid of fire,’ and others of the same kind. A diction that is made up of strange
(or rare) terms is a jargon. A certain infusion, therefore, of these elements is necessary
to style; for the strange (or rare) word, the metaphorical, the ornamental, and the
other kinds above mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace and mean, while
the use of proper words will make it perspicuous. But nothing contributes more to
produce a cleanness of diction that is remote from commonness than the lengthening,
contraction, and alteration of words. For by deviating in exceptional cases from the
normal idiom, the language will gain distinction; while, at the same time, the partial
conformity with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore, are in error who
censure these licenses of speech, and hold the author up to ridicule. Thus Eucleides,
the elder, declared that it would be an easy matter to be a poet if you might lengthen
syllables at will. He caricatured the practice in the very form of his diction, as in the
verse:
“Epicharen eidon Marathonade badizonta”,
“I saw Epichares walking to Marathon“,
or,
“ouk an g’eramenos ton ekeinou elleboron”.
“Not if you desire his hellebore“.

To employ such license at all obtrusively is, no doubt, grotesque; but in any mode of
poetic diction there must be moderation. Even metaphors, strange (or rare) words, or
any similar forms of speech, would produce the like effect if used without propriety
and with the express purpose of being ludicrous. How great a difference is made by
the appropriate use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by the insertion of
ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a strange (or rare) word, a
metaphor, or any similar mode of expression, and replace it by the current or proper
term, the truth of our observation will be manifest. For example, Aeschylus and
Euripides each composed the same iambic line. But the alteration of a single word by
Euripides, who employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse
appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes says:
“phagedaina d’he mou sarkas esthiei podos.
“The tumor which is eating the flesh of my foot.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 106


Euripides substitutes thoinatai, ‘feasts on,’ for esthiei, ‘feeds on.’ Again, in the line,

“nun de m’eon oligos te kai outidanos kai aeikes,


“Yet a small man, worthless and unseemly,”
the difference will be felt if we substitute the common words,
“nun de m’eon mikros te kai asthenikos kai aeides.
“Yet a little fellow, weak and ugly.”
Or, if for the line,
“diphron aeikelion katatheis oligen te trapezan,
“Setting an unseemly couch and a meager table, “
we read,
“diphron mochtheron katatheis mikran te trapezan.
“Setting a wretched couch and a puny table. “
Or, for eiones booosin, ‘the sea shores roar,’ eiones krazousin, ‘the sea shores
screech.’
Again, Ariphrades ridiculed the tragedians for using phrases which no one would
employ in ordinary speech: for example, domaton apo, ‘from the house away,’ instead
of apo domaton, ‘away from the house;’ sethen, ego de nin, ‘to thee, and I to him;’
Achilleos peri, ‘Achilles about,’ instead of peri Achilleos, ‘about Achilles;’ and the like.
It is precisely because such phrases are not part of the current idiom that they give
distinction to the style. This, however, he failed to see.
It is a great matter to observe propriety in these several modes of expression, as also in
compound words, strange (or rare) words, and so forth. But the greatest thing by far is
to have a command of metaphor. This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the
mark of genius, for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances.
Of the various kinds of words, the compound are best adapted to dithyrambs, rare
words to heroic poetry, metaphors to iambic. In heroic poetry, indeed, all these
varieties are serviceable. But in iambic verse, which reproduces, as far as may be,
familiar speech, the most appropriate words are those which are found even in prose.
These are the current or proper, the metaphorical, the ornamental.
Concerning Tragedy and imitation by means of action this may suffice.

                                                                                                    

This is a remarkable amount of verbiage about some seemingly mundane concepts.


I won’t even pretend to go into the weeds with this chapter, but I will extrapolate one thing
that is relevant to screenwriting, indeed, all forms of writing: Word choice.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 107


Consider this:

“But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who employed the rarer term
instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse appear beautiful and the other trivial”
(emphasis added).

Over the years, I’ve come to think of screenwriting as much more like poetry than prose. If
the average scene is about one-and-a-half pages long, we by default have to embrace a less is
more attitude. As a result, every word we choose is critical, especially with regard to scene
description. The more we use strong verbs and vivid descriptors, the more we engender
visuals to emerge in the mind of the reader, just like in poems.

So in the edit phase, we labor over every word, making sure collectively they pack a punch.
Just like one of my writing mantras: Minimum words, maximum impact.

I am reminded of an anecdote I heard years ago in reference to Hollywood’s first great


movie producer Irving Thalberg. He had a kind of love-hate relationship with writers,
working with them intensively over each script, but also never quite grasping the vagaries of
a writer’s creative process.

As the anecdote goes, Thalberg was meeting with some writers under contract at MGM,
expressing his frustration about some scripted project. At some point, he proclaimed:
“This writing business you do shouldn’t be that hard. After all, it’s just words.”
To which one of the writers replied, “Yes, Irving, but which words?”

That in a nutshell describes a writer’s task: To discover which words work to tell a story
best. And as Aristotle notes, a single word has the power to alter something from beautiful
to trivial or hopefully… from trivial to beautiful.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story.
The conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts .
To catch up on the comments, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 108


Part 23: Unity of Action
As to that poetic imitation which is narrative in form and employs a single meter, the
plot manifestly ought, as in a tragedy, to be constructed on dramatic principles. It
should have for its subject a single action, whole and complete, with a beginning, a
middle, and an end. It will thus resemble a living organism in all its unity, and
produce the pleasure proper to it. It will differ in structure from historical
compositions, which of necessity present not a single action, but a single period, and
all that happened within that period to one person or to many, little connected
together as the events may be. For as the sea-fight at Salamis and the battle with the
Carthaginians in Sicily took place at the same time, but did not tend to any one result,
so in the sequence of events, one thing sometimes follows another, and yet no single
result is thereby produced. Such is the practice, we may say, of most poets.
Here again, then, as has been already observed, the transcendent excellence of
Homer is manifest. He never attempts to make the whole war of Troy the subject of
his poem, though that war had a beginning and an end. It would have been too vast a
theme, and not easily embraced in a single view. If, again, he had kept it within
moderate limits, it must have been over-complicated by the variety of the incidents.
As it is, he detaches a single portion, and admits as episodes many events from the
general story of the war – such as the Catalogue of the ships and others – thus
diversifying the poem. All other poets take a single hero, a single period, or an action
single indeed, but with a multiplicity of parts. Thus did the author of the Cypria and of
the Little Iliad. For this reason the Iliad and the Odyssey each furnish the subject of
one tragedy, or, at most, of two; while the Cypria supplies materials for many, and the
Little Iliad for eight- the Award of the Arms, the Philoctetes, the Neoptolemus, the
Eurypylus, the Mendicant Odysseus, the Laconian Women, the Fall of Ilium, the
Departure of the Fleet.

                                                                                                    

This chapter is worth the price of admission… which is why I emphasized the critical text. I
suppose if there is only one thing you’ve ever heard associated with Poetics, it would be this
idea: Unity of Action. Some observations:

• It seems like Aristotle perceives that a “poetic imitation which is narrative in


form” (i.e., epic poem) and a “tragedy” pretty much share the same “dramatic
principles” with regard to plot.

• The idea of a plot being “whole and complete” infers that it has “a beginning, a
middle, and an end.” Aristotle has previously dealt with this subject here: Part 7:
Beginning, Middle, End. This makes total sense with any traditional form of
narrative, even if the plot is inverted, told in a nonlinear fashion, or jumbled up: As
long as there are scenes which constitute a Beginning, a Middle and an End, the plot
will have the necessary elements to be whole and complete.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 109


• By focusing the story on a “single action,” the writer puts him/herself on the path to
create a narrative that has a sense of “unity”. Again this makes complete sense
because that single action becomes a touchstone for all aspects of the narrative — 
plot, characters, themes, dialogue, scenes, transition. Hence the power of unity of
action.

• This idea of how it “will thus resemble a living organism” really appeals to me. I tell
my students all the time — and hammer this on the blog as well — a story is an
organic entity. Due to the very presence of characters, who live and breathe within
the context of their own story universe, there is an innate dynamism to the narrative
elements that emerge. Indeed, this lies at the heart of what I teach about Character
Based Screenwriting, that by tapping into who a story’s characters are — their Core
Essence, respective narrative functions as represented by the five primary character
archetypes (Protagonist, Nemesis, Attractor, Mentor, Trickster), backstory — the
plot will naturally emerge from that process. Taking this approach is the very
antithesis of using formulas and as a result formulaic writing.

• Also this concept that a well-crafted narrative which has a unity of action appeals to
me. For it is a pleasurable experience to type THE END, then read a story we have
written and see the unity of action at work throughout, each scene flowing
organically into each other.

Finally the distinction Aristotle draws between an epic poem or tragedy and an “historical
composition” is reflected in some screenwriters and their approach to what are typically
known as “biopics”, movies that tell the story of a specific real-life individual from the past.

Whereas we used to have these enormous sweeping sagas such as Lawrence of Arabia or
Gandhi,

nowadays there is something known as a Snapshot Bio. The idea is to take a specific event or
period of time in an individual’s life and use that not only to construct a contained story, but
also use that narrative as a lens through which to interpret and assess the character’s life.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 110


We saw this in the movie Lincoln which focused on the President’s attempt to get the 13th
Constitutional amendment ratified, abolishing slavery.

We will see another example when the movie Grace of Monaco comes out as it uses a
compressed period of time around a single event to tell the story of Princess Grace and
former actress Grace Kelly.

There is a saying in Hollywood: “Never let the facts get in the way of the story.” In a way
what Aristotle is saying here supports that approach, although I doubt he would have felt
entirely at ease with the sentiment of this statement.

But the reality is in adapting a real life event or set of events into a story that can work as a
movie, the writer must be willing to find the emotional truth and adhere to that over the
literal historical truth as represented by a litany of one occurrence after another.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To catch
up on the conversation, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 111


Part 24: Tragedy and Epic Poem
Again, Epic poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be simple, or
complex, or ‘ethical,’or ‘pathetic.’ The parts also, with the exception of song and
spectacle, are the same; for it requires Reversals of the Situation, Recognitions, and
Scenes of Suffering.
Moreover, the thoughts and the diction must be artistic. In all these respects Homer is
our earliest and sufficient model. Indeed each of his poems has a twofold character.
The Iliad is at once simple and ‘pathetic,’ and the Odyssey complex (for Recognition
scenes run through it), and at the same time ‘ethical.’ Moreover, in diction and
thought they are supreme.
Epic poetry differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is constructed, and in its
meter. As regards scale or length, we have already laid down an adequate limit: the
beginning and the end must be capable of being brought within a single view. This
condition will be satisfied by poems on a smaller scale than the old epics, and
answering in length to the group of tragedies presented at a single sitting.

Epic poetry has, however, a great- a special- capacity for enlarging its dimensions,
and we can see the reason. In Tragedy we cannot imitate several lines of actions
carried on at one and the same time; we must confine ourselves to the action on the
stage and the part taken by the players. But in Epic poetry, owing to the narrative
form, many events simultaneously transacted can be presented; and these, if relevant
to the subject, add mass and dignity to the poem. The Epic has here an advantage,
and one that conduces to grandeur of effect, to diverting the mind of the hearer, and
relieving the story with varying episodes.

For sameness of incident soon produces satiety, and makes tragedies fail on the stage.
As for the meter, the heroic measure has proved its fitness by hexameter test of
experience. If a narrative poem in any other meter or in many meters were now
composed, it would be found incongruous. For of all measures the heroic is the
stateliest and the most massive; and hence it most readily admits rare words and
metaphors, which is another point in which the narrative form of imitation stands
alone. On the other hand, the iambic and the trochaic tetrameter are stirring
measures, the latter being akin to dancing, the former expressive of action.

Still more absurd would it be to mix together different meters, as was done by
Chaeremon. Hence no one has ever composed a poem on a great scale in any other
than heroic verse. Nature herself, as we have said, teaches the choice of the proper
measure. Homer, admirable in all respects, has the special merit of being the only
poet who rightly appreciates the part he should take himself.
The poet should speak as little as possible in his own person, for it is not this that makes
him an imitator. Other poets appear themselves upon the scene throughout, and
imitate but little and rarely. Homer, after a few prefatory words, at once brings in a
man, or woman, or other personage; none of them wanting in characteristic qualities,
but each with a character of his own.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 112


The element of the wonderful is required in Tragedy. The irrational, on which the
wonderful depends for its chief effects, has wider scope in Epic poetry, because there
the person acting is not seen. Thus, the pursuit of Hector would be ludicrous if placed
upon the stage – the Greeks standing still and not joining in the pursuit, and Achilles
waving them back. But in the Epic poem the absurdity passes unnoticed.
Now the wonderful is pleasing, as may be inferred from the fact that every one tells a
story with some addition of his knowing that his hearers like it. It is Homer who has
chiefly taught other poets the art of telling lies skilfully. The secret of it lies in a fallacy
For, assuming that if one thing is or becomes, a second is or becomes, men imagine
that, if the second is, the first likewise is or becomes.
But this is a false inference. Hence, where the first thing is untrue, it is quite
unnecessary, provided the second be true, to add that the first is or has become. For
the mind, knowing the second to be true, falsely infers the truth of the first. There is an
example of this in the Bath Scene of the Odyssey.
Accordingly, the poet should prefer probable impossibilities to improbable possibilities.
The tragic plot must not be composed of irrational parts. Everything irrational should,
if possible, be excluded; or, at all events, it should lie outside the action of the play
(as, in the Oedipus, the hero’s ignorance as to the manner of Laius’ death); not within
the drama – as in the Electra, the messenger’s account of the Pythian games; or, as in
the Mysians, the man who has come from Tegea to Mysia and is still speechless. The
plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should
not in the first instance be constructed. But once the irrational has been introduced
and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the absurdity. Take
even the irrational incidents in the Odyssey, where Odysseus is left upon the shore of
Ithaca. How intolerable even these might have been would be apparent if an inferior
poet were to treat the subject. As it is, the absurdity is veiled by the poetic charm with
which the poet invests it.
The diction should be elaborated in the pauses of the action, where there is no
expression of character or thought. For, conversely, character and thought are merely
obscured by a diction that is over-brilliant.

                                                                                                    

I leave it up to our roaming band of wise Aristotelians to decipher the finer points of this
lengthy chapter drawing distinctions between two, I guess you could say, narrative forms:
Tragedy and Epic Poem. As far as I can make out, Aristotle is saying the main difference is
what he calls “scale”. Tragedy is more contained in scope. An epic poem is more expansive.

There is some relevance about this point to contemporary screenwriting. Setting aside the
two specific categories — Tragedy, Epic Poem — and just focusing the idea of scale, the very
idea of your story — its central conceit — can dictate the scope of the story. If you have an
concept that involves a war between interstellar planets, then you know you are writing a
story with a huge scale. If, however, the ‘war’ you explore is between a married couple like it
was in 1979’s Kramer vs. Kramer:

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 113


That is a smaller scale. This consideration not only has aesthetic applications, but also
practical ones in terms of production which relates to budget, which in turn may require you
to put on your producer’s hat as you consider the cost effects of certain narrative choices.
Ironically, it appears that Aristotle wore his own version of a producer’s hat, noting of
Tragedy:

…we must confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by the players.

There are two other points I’d like extract from this section:
For sameness of incident soon produces satiety:

David Mamet says the number one rule of writing is “Never be boring.” That is a variation
on the theme Aristotle lays down here.
The poet should speak as little as possible in his own person,
for it is not this that makes him an imitator:
I’m tempted to say, “Tell that to Shane Black!” Or Charlie Kaufman who on occasion goes
so far as to insert himself, as the writer, into the story as he did in the movie Adaptation.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 114


When we write a selling script, our job is not only to tell a story that is well-constructed and
satisfying as a narrative whole, it is also to entertain the hell out of the reader.

Depending upon the genre, the story and the writer, we have the freedom to make our
Narrative Voice… our Narrative Voice. Novelists do this. Poets, too. Songwriters. Why not
screenwriters? Again, I’m talking selling script, not necessarily the same as a production
draft / shooting script.

The line of least resistance and conventional wisdom echoes what Aristotle recommends,
essentially let the story speak for itself. And that is a safe, secure touchstone for most
writers and most stories.

However in an extremely competitive environment in which our stories are judged by


readers, from people who provide coverage to heads of production, whose collective eyeballs
bleed from the number of scripts they wade through, if we can imbue a story with our own
personality, our own Narrative Voice, and do it in a slick, non-obnoxious way and distinguish
ourselves from the rest of the pack, we have that right as screenwriters.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To catch
up on the conversation, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 115


Part 25: Impossible and Improbable
With respect to critical difficulties and their solutions, the number and nature of the
sources from which they may be drawn may be thus exhibited.
The poet being an imitator, like a painter or any other artist, must of necessity imitate
one of three objects – things as they were or are, things as they are said or thought to
be, or things as they ought to be. The vehicle of expression is language – either
current terms or, it may be, rare words or metaphors. There are also many
modifications of language, which we concede to the poets. Add to this, that the
standard of correctness is not the same in poetry and politics, any more than in poetry
and any other art. Within the art of poetry itself there are two kinds of faults- those
which touch its essence, and those which are accidental. If a poet has chosen to
imitate something, [but has imitated it incorrectly] through want of capacity, the error
is inherent in the poetry. But if the failure is due to a wrong choice – if he has
represented a horse as throwing out both his off legs at once, or introduced technical
inaccuracies in medicine, for example, or in any other art- the error is not essential to
the poetry. These are the points of view from which we should consider and answer
the objections raised by the critics.
First as to matters which concern the poet’s own art. If he describes the impossible, he
is guilty of an error; but the error may be justified, if the end of the art be thereby
attained (the end being that already mentioned) – if, that is, the effect of this or any
other part of the poem is thus rendered more striking. A case in point is the pursuit of
Hector. If, however, the end might have been as well, or better, attained without
violating the special rules of the poetic art, the error is not justified: for every kind of
error should, if possible, be avoided.
Again, does the error touch the essentials of the poetic art, or some accident of it? For
example, not to know that a hind has no horns is a less serious matter than to paint it
inartistically.
Further, if it be objected that the description is not true to fact, the poet may perhaps
reply, ‘But the objects are as they ought to be’; just as Sophocles said that he drew
men as they ought to be; Euripides, as they are. In this way the objection may be met.
If, however, the representation be of neither kind, the poet may answer, ‘This is how
men say the thing is.’ applies to tales about the gods.
It may well be that these stories are not higher than fact nor yet true to fact: they are,
very possibly, what Xenophanes says of them. But anyhow, ‘this is what is said.’ Again,
a description may be no better than the fact: ‘Still, it was the fact’; as in the passage
about the arms: ‘Upright upon their butt-ends stood the spears.’ This was the custom
then, as it now is among the Illyrians.
Again, in examining whether what has been said or done by some one is poetically
right or not, we must not look merely to the particular act or saying, and ask whether
it is poetically good or bad. We must also consider by whom it is said or done, to
whom, when, by what means, or for what end; whether, for instance, it be to secure a
greater good, or avert a greater evil.
Other difficulties may be resolved by due regard to the usage of language. We may

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 116


note a rare word, as in oureas men proton, ‘the mules first [he killed],’ where the poet
perhaps employs oureas not in the sense of mules, but of sentinels. So, again, of
Dolon: ‘ill-favored indeed he was to look upon.’ It is not meant that his body was ill-
shaped but that his face was ugly; for the Cretans use the word eueides, ‘well-
flavored’ to denote a fair face. Again, zoroteron de keraie, ‘mix the drink livelier’
does not mean ‘mix it stronger’ as for hard drinkers, but ‘mix it quicker.’
Sometimes an expression is metaphorical, as ‘Now all gods and men were sleeping
through the night,’ while at the same time the poet says: ‘Often indeed as he turned
his gaze to the Trojan plain, he marveled at the sound of flutes and pipes.’ ‘All’ is here
used metaphorically for ‘many,’ all being a species of many. So in the verse, ‘alone
she hath no part… , oie, ‘alone’ is metaphorical; for the best known may be called the
only one.
Again, the solution may depend upon accent or breathing. Thus Hippias of Thasos
solved the difficulties in the lines, didomen (didomen) de hoi, and to men hou (ou)
kataputhetai ombro.
Or again, the question may be solved by punctuation, as in Empedocles: ‘Of a sudden
things became mortal that before had learnt to be immortal, and things unmixed
before mixed.’ Or again, by ambiguity of meaning, as parocheken de pleo nux, where
the word pleo is ambiguous. Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed drink is
called oinos, ‘wine’. Hence Ganymede is said ‘to pour the wine to Zeus,’ though the
gods do not drink wine. So too workers in iron are called chalkeas, or ‘workers in
bronze.’ This, however, may also be taken as a metaphor.
Again, when a word seems to involve some inconsistency of meaning, we should
consider how many senses it may bear in the particular passage. For example: ‘there
was stayed the spear of bronze’ – we should ask in how many ways we may take
‘being checked there.’ The true mode of interpretation is the precise opposite of what
Glaucon mentions.
Critics, he says, jump at certain groundless conclusions; they pass adverse judgement
and then proceed to reason on it; and, assuming that the poet has said whatever they
happen to think, find fault if a thing is inconsistent with their own fancy.
The question about Icarius has been treated in this fashion. The critics imagine he was
a Lacedaemonian. They think it strange, therefore, that Telemachus should not have
met him when he went to Lacedaemon. But the Cephallenian story may perhaps be
the true one. They allege that Odysseus took a wife from among themselves, and that
her father was Icadius, not Icarius. It is merely a mistake, then, that gives plausibility
to the objection.
In general, the impossible must be justified by reference to artistic requirements, or to
the higher reality, or to received opinion. With respect to the requirements of art, a
probable impossibility is to be preferred to a thing improbable and yet possible. Again,
it may be impossible that there should be men such as Zeuxis painted. ‘Yes,’ we say,
‘but the impossible is the higher thing; for the ideal type must surpass the realty.’ To
justify the irrational, we appeal to what is commonly said to be. In addition to which,
we urge that the irrational sometimes does not violate reason; just as ‘it is probable
that a thing may happen contrary to probability.’

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 117


Things that sound contradictory should be examined by the same rules as in
dialectical refutation- whether the same thing is meant, in the same relation, and in
the same sense. We should therefore solve the question by reference to what the poet
says himself, or to what is tacitly assumed by a person of intelligence. The element of
the irrational, and, similarly, depravity of character, are justly censured when there is
no inner necessity for introducing them. Such is the irrational element in the
introduction of Aegeus by Euripides and the badness of Menelaus in the Orestes. Thus,
there are five sources from which critical objections are drawn.
Things are censured either as impossible, or irrational, or morally hurtful, or
contradictory, or contrary to artistic correctness. The answers should be sought under
the twelve heads above mentioned.

                                                                                                    

Well… huh. That’s a lot of words! I mean, I went to UVA and Yale, and I had to slog my way
through it. Clearly it would be a benefit to be steeped in classical Greek history and
literature, and know the language intimately in order to divine much of what’s going on here.
While I did take classical Greek and have read some of the classics, not nearly enough to
parse what’s going on in much of 25.

Which means a shout out to our loyal band of Aristotelians… Help!

In using brain cells I hadn’t awakened since graduate school, I was particularly perplexed by
this:

With respect to the requirements of art, a probable impossibility


is to be preferred to a thing improbable and yet possible.”

First of all, what the heck is a probable impossibility?


If it’s impossible, how can it be probable?

Second, why would a probable impossibility be “preferred” to an improbable possibility?


This seems completely counter to a dude who in Part 9 not only discusses probability and
possibility, but also necessity and the singular importance of unity of action.

In other words, it seems that Aristotle contradicts himself.

But then I looked at this:

“If he describes the impossible, he is guilty of an error; but


the error may be justified, if the end of the art be thereby attained”.

And I had a moment of understanding, not necessarily what Aristotle intended, but the truth
of these two assertions as they pertain to Story (in general) and Movies (in particular).

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 118


If we, as writers, describe a circumstance in a story that is impossible, we are guilty of an
error in terms of logic. But while logic has its place in our writing, readers and moviegoers
look to Stories to entertain. And that I would take to be what this means:

If the end of the art be thereby attained.

Let’s explore this idea further.


As writers, we put characters in impossible situations all the time. This is one way we make
our stories compelling, raising a fundamental question that exists throughout the narrative:
How will the Protagonist possibly prevail?

What we may call Rational Logic dictates the Heroine cannot succeed. But by the rule of
Emotional Logic as it exists in the realm of Story, it almost always means she does prevail.

Such as the impossible task of a farm boy in a single X-Wing


fighter destroying an entire Death Star: Watch the scene:

Or a lowly Hobbit succeeding in an impossible quest to destroy


the One Ring in the bowels of Mt. Doom: Watch the scene:

Or the impossible feat of a wounded and desperate Katniss


Everdeen bringing down The Hunger Games arena
with one arrow sent skyward: Watch the scene:

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 119


The longer the odds the Protagonist faces, the greater the drama. The greater the drama,
the more compelling the story. And in the end when they succeed in an impossible
circumstance, the story reader or moviegoer has a wholly satisfactory experience because
we want — in a powerful way — for them to succeed.

In the realm of stories, Emotional Logic ultimately trumps Rational Logic,


something I explored here in a lengthy post analyzing the movie Super 8.

Now in terms of academics, I could be flat wrong in my interpretation of the excerpts


quoted above from 25. However in terms of screenwriting, I believe this interpretation to be
true.
If we establish a plausible story universe…

If it achieves a sense of versimilitude with a reader…

If we create odds so long against the Protagonist, the goal would seem to be impossible…

If in their journey, the Protagonist learns Wisdom that feeds their development and
understanding…

If we lead the Protagonist to a decisive Final Struggle moment where everything is on the
line…
No matter how impossible the effort required, if the Protagonist succeeds, the reader will
buy into the result because it makes sense, both in relation to the narrative and the
emotional experience of the reader.

And that is where “the end of the art” is “thereby attained”, and the “error” of the
“impossible” is “justified”.

I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, - its relevance to the screenwriting craft in
contemporary times. This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story. The
conversation got quite lively with the enormously valuable contributions of Aristotle experts . To catch
up on the conversation, or give us your take on this part of Poetics - use these links below.
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 120


Part 26: Tragedy vs. Epic Poems
The question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of imitation is the
higher. If the more refined art is the higher, and the more refined in every case is that
which appeals to the better sort of audience, the art which imitates anything and
everything is manifestly most unrefined. The audience is supposed to be too dull to
comprehend unless something of their own is thrown by the performers, who therefore
indulge in restless movements. Bad flute-players twist and twirl, if they have to
represent ‘the quoit-throw,’ or hustle the coryphaeus when they perform the Scylla.
Tragedy, it is said, has this same defect.
We may compare the opinion that the older actors entertained of their successors.
Mynniscus used to call Callippides ‘ape’ on account of the extravagance of his action,
and the same view was held of Pindarus.
Tragic art, then, as a whole, stands to Epic in the same relation as the younger to the
elder actors. So we are told that Epic poetry is addressed to a cultivated audience,
who do not need gesture; Tragedy, to an inferior public. Being then unrefined, it is
evidently the lower of the two.
Now, in the first place, this censure attaches not to the poetic but to the histrionic art;
for gesticulation may be equally overdone in epic recitation, as by Sosistratus, or in
lyrical competition, as by Mnasitheus the Opuntian. Next, all action is not to be
condemned – any more than all dancing – but only that of bad performers. Such was
the fault found in Callippides, as also in others of our own day, who are censured for
representing degraded women. Again, Tragedy like Epic poetry produces its effect
even without action; it reveals its power by mere reading. If, then, in all other
respects it is superior, this fault, we say, is not inherent in it.
And superior it is, because it has epic elements- it may even use the epic meter- with
the music and spectacular effects as important accessories; and these produce the
most vivid of pleasures. Further, it has vividness of impression in reading as well as in
representation. Moreover, the art attains its end within narrower limits for the
concentrated effect is more pleasurable than one which is spread over a long time
and so diluted. What, for example, would be the effect of the Oedipus of Sophocles, if
it were cast into a form as long as the Iliad? Once more, the Epic imitation has less
unity; as is shown by this, that any Epic poem will furnish subjects for several
tragedies. Thus if the story adopted by the poet has a strict unity, it must either be
concisely told and appear truncated; or, if it conforms to the Epic canon of length, it
must seem weak and watery. [Such length implies some loss of unity,] if, I mean, the
poem is constructed out of several actions, like the Iliad and the Odyssey, which have
many such parts, each with a certain magnitude of its own. Yet these poems are as
perfect as possible in structure; each is, in the highest degree attainable, an imitation
of a single action.
If, then, tragedy is superior to epic poetry in all these respects, and, moreover, fulfills
its specific function better as an art – for each art ought to produce, not any chance
pleasure, but the pleasure proper to it, as already stated- it plainly follows that tragedy
is the higher art, as attaining its end more perfectly.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 121


Thus much may suffice concerning Tragic and Epic poetry in general; their several
kinds and parts, with the number of each and their differences; the causes that make a
poem good or bad; the objections of the critics and the answers to these objections….
THE END

                                                                                                    

It intrigues me that Aristotle is such an apologist for Tragedy, which if I understand it


correctly, was aimed more at the masses, its melodrama more likely to arouse pity and fear
in an audience, as opposed to Epic Poems, which due to their scope and length would have
been targeted (generally) toward a more educated, cerebral bunch.

The safer route — at least intellectually — would have been for Aristotle to take the opposite
position — advocate for Epic Poem over Tragedy.

My guess is this is an example where the principle of unity of action trumps all else.
To wit:

“Moreover, the art attains its end within narrower limits for the concentrated
effect is more pleasurable than one which is spread over a long time and so
diluted… Thus if the story adopted by the poet has a strict unity, it must either
be concisely told and appear truncated; or, if it conforms to the Epic canon of
length, it must seem weak and watery.”

A more condensed story with a focused plot is likely to be a better story.

In relation to screenwriting, this is directly applicable when we adapt a novel, particularly a


sprawling one, into a movie (not that it necessarily means the movie is by definition going to
be better than the novel). We have to zero in on what is at the core of the story and tie every
character and every scene to those central narrative elements.

Of course, this emphasis on unity of action extends to original screenplays, too, as we have
discussed previously. Notably, for example, when we identify a story’s central theme as a
thread to connect every aspect of the script we write.

Let me end with a final point that is absolutely fundamental to screenwriting. Aristotle
makes the same point twice:

“Again, Tragedy like Epic poetry produces its effect even without
action; it reveals its power by mere reading… Further, it has vividness
of impression in reading as well as in representation”
(emphasis added)

In Hollywood we would say this:


It has to be on the page.
A screenwriter can’t rely on anything else, rather we have to focus strictly on our words on

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 122


the page to reveal a story’s “power” and make a vivid “impression.”

I have heard many more than one writer say this in defense of a poorly executed script:

“Yeah, but imagine Tom Hanks or Sandra Bullock in this role. Can’t you just see it?”

Wrong!

If you have to rely on the impression of an A-list actor to elevate your story to life…
then you have failed.
The vitality and vibrancy of your story must be on the page itself.
The unique combination of your words — scene description and dialogue — needs to create a
movie in the mind of the reader, a compelling and visual story that sustains their interest
from FADE IN to FADE OUT. It is a massive challenge, indeed. But there it is:

It has to be on the page.

With that, we have reached the end of this immersion into Aristotle’s Poetics.
To which I say: “Day-um! We made it!”

That’s it! Our look at Poetics through the lens of screenwriting and its relevance to the
screenwriting craft in contemporary times is complete! Well done for staying the distance!

This material was first published in 2013 on my blog Go Into The Story as a 44-week
series, and would have been a lesser experience without the insights of our stalwart and
engaging Aristotelian scholars, who livened up the conversation each week.
Now as then, I offer a sincere THANK YOU!
I have thoroughly enjoyed the peripatetic experience of walking this path with all of you.

To catch up on the conversation, or offer your take on this part of Poetics - use these links:
Read the Comment Archive here. To add your voice to the discourse on the blog, go here.

What did you learn from reading this guide to Poetics and diving into the comment archive?
Is there any aspect of Aristotle’s ideas which jumped out at you or captured your imagination?
Did something here perhaps become a mainstay of your approach to writing?

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 123


Go Into The Story And Find The Animals
This mantra is both the name of my blog, and my wish for you.
It derives from a conversation I had many years ago with my then three year-old son.
It went pretty much like this:
ME
Hey, Luke, I’m starting to write a
new script tomorrow. And it’s funny,
but no matter how many times I start
a new story, I get a bit, uh,
nervous about it. Got any, you know,
advice for your dad?
LUKE
(without hesitation)
Go into the story and find the
animals.

God as my witness, that’s what my son said.

Now who knows what Luke was really thinking at the time. Stupidly I didn’t follow
up with him, flummoxed as I was at his comment. I remember mulling it over and
thinking that the whole idea of going into a story is precisely what a writer does,
immersing themselves in a narrative universe that they create. That has always
seemed just right to me, both in its simplicity and profundity, which is frankly why I
named this blog GoIntoTheStory.

But over time, it’s the other part in which I’ve discovered more and more layers of
meaning.

Start with the verb “find.” Is there any word more appropriate to describe the
writing process? Here are some of its definitions:
to come upon by chance:
Doesn’t that sound like brainstorming?
to locate, attain, or obtain by search or effort:
Doesn’t that sound like research?
to discover or perceive after consideration:
Doesn’t that sound like what happens when we mull over our story?
to feel or perceive:
As we go into the story, we become more emotionally connected to it.
to become aware of, or discover:
The biggie, where as explorers we uncover a story’s hidden gems.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 124


Then there is “the animals”.

I’m almost sure what Luke was thinking about was how a children’s story so often is
habituated by animals. Thus in his eyes, my task was probably pretty simple:
Go find the animals. They are your characters.

But what if we think about it more symbolically?


● Animals can be both domesticated and wild. So some things we discover as
we go into the story are what we might expect (domesticated). Other times
we’re surprised, even shocked by ideas and thoughts that spring to mind
(wild).
● Animals are alive, organic, and intuitive beings. So are our story’s characters.
● Throughout human history, animals have come to mean something in
stories. A fox is sly and cunning. A crow in many cultures signifies death. An
owl is wise. Per Jung and others who study myth and psychoanalysis, animals
can serve as conduits into the mind of the dreamer.

Which reminds me of something I read about a movie director who in prepping to


make a movie gave each of the actors their own animal token as something they could
reference in interpreting their character.

I’m sure if you think about it, you could probably come up with other shades of
meaning for the mantra.

I just know that this one’s my favorite mantra of all because of its source.

There you have it: My approach to rewriting a screenplay and my wish for you.

I hope that you have resonated with at least one of them. Use them to help you focus
your thoughts and bring clarity to your writing process.

But for now and always, my wish for each of you is the same sentiment as once
uttered by a cherubic youngster with bright blue eyes and a look of deep intention in
his face:

Go into the story… and find the animals.

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 125


Resources + Links
Go Into The Story: https://gointothestory.blcklst.com/

Screenwriting Master Class: http://screenwritingmasterclass.com/

DePaul School of Cinematic Arts: http://www.cdm.depaul.edu/about/Pages/School-


of-Cinematic-Arts.aspx

Zero Draft Thirty Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/


731218807011913/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/GoIntoTheStory

Email: GITSblog@gmail.com

Special thanks to Franklin Leonard and the entire Black List team. In the 12 years of
its existence, the Black List has evolved into the single most important screenwriting
brand in Hollywood. Their commitment to shining a spotlight on the craft of
screenwriting and notable screenplays, and to create new avenues for outsiders to
break into the movie and TV business is a vision I share. I’m proud to contribute to
the Black List’s efforts through Go Into The Story and serve as a mentor at their
outstanding screenwriter labs.

For more information about the Black List: https://blcklst.com/

For previously published Free GITS ebooks - you’ll find links in the Preface of this
book, and at the link to Go Into The Story at the top of this page.

Back to Main Contents Page

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Aristotle's Poetics 126

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