Beginning, Middle, End of an Era: Has Technology Trumped Aristotle?

It's a familiar scenario: the class finishes reading aloud the short screenplay that was due today. The students are giddy—the script evoked lots of laughs, and in the ensuing discussion, the writer receives enthusiastic praise for capturing so many "realistic" moments. That she "nailed" life in the twenty-first century is the general consensus. The professor, having remained silent throughout the postmortem, leans back in his chair and shakes his head ever-so-slightly, the wisdom of his years evident in his voice as he quietly asks, "What was the story about? Who was the protagonist? What are his goals? What is the central conflict? Where is the climax?"

The stupefied students respond with blank stares. They cannot adequately answer these questions because, alas, this short screenplay does not tell a story, at least not in the traditional sense. Yes, it depicts multidimensional, idiosyncratic characters; its settings are creative and evocative; its dialogue is fresh, contemporary, and clever. But where are the plot points? There is not even an inciting incident. And yes, the screenplay starts and finishes, but structurally, it is all middle: the action seems to commence at some random moment in time, and then disconnected events occur until the action just stops—there is no conclusive, climactically decisive end. But that is what the professor is here for—to instruct the talented but unskilled and unschooled novices in the ways of appropriate narrative development, for as professors, we are intimately acquainted with time-tested strategies for infusing plot with structure, for developing a line of action that moves from possible to probable to necessary, in a manner that holds the audience's attention until the resolution, which is at once satisfying, surprising, logical, and impactful.

Indeed, my own philosophy when teaching screenwriting (which I have done nearly every semester for the past nineteen years) has been that every well-told story can be reduced to the following: Somebody we call the "protagonist" wants something, and someone or something we call an "antagonist" is trying to stop the protagonist from getting it. When the protagonist finally gets that something—or does not—the story is over. And I believe that for centuries, even millennia, this has been true. But as we acclimate to life in the twenty-first century, I am beginning to sense that the principles of dramatic structure we have held so dear for so long may be due for a performance review. Does Aristotle's model still apply? Must a good story incorporate the same elements of dramatic structure that have been handed down religiously from Aristotle to Freytag to Field? One might contend that principles that have lasted for over two thousand years are naturally timeless. And yet in considering how our world has changed in the last quarter of a century, and the radical differences in how, where, and when we seek and view dramatic entertainment, I have come to believe it possible that a paradigm shift is finally occurring and that, although Aristotelian principles are still quite valid, there may be new standards by which we can also judge the quality and coherence of dramatic action.

In assessing the universality of the accepted formulas for dramatic structure (i.e., "beginning, middle, end" and the related prescriptive theories), one must first examine the context in which these rubrics were originally developed. With Aristotle's Poetics, which was likely written between 360 and 355 BCE (9), being the first recognized—and certainly most enduring— analysis of narrative structure, it is important to consider the nature of Aristotle's own theatergoing experience because to be sure, the environment in which one experiences an event has a powerful influence on one's expectations and aspirations for the event. And the environment in which Aristotle and his peers experienced theatrical productions was daunting, especially considering that in ancient Greece, it was rare for an individual play to be enacted as a singular event. Instead, most were performed as components of festivals, with a series of plays presented one after another in expansive, outdoor arenas that seated fourteen to...