The Departed

The Departed is very instructive in showing us how to write a crime thriller, and how not to. It starts with a terrific premise: cops and criminals have a mole in the each other's organization. But this is also a premise that is loaded with pitfalls. In the Great Screenwriting Class, I talk extensively about how you develop your premise, to learn not only the potential strengths of your idea but also the hidden structural weaknesses.

In The Departed, the writers must immediately confront the difficulty of two main characters (see my breakdown of The Prestige for more on this problem). Again, the need to cross-cut between two leads first takes a toll on the definition of the characters. The writers are so interested in getting the plot going they fail to give Billy (played by Leonardo DiCaprio) a motive for going undercover. As the story progresses, it becomes clear that no one in this movie has a motive for what they do.

Lack of character motive (which is connected to the first major structure step, the Need) is always a big weakness. But in a story already dominated by plot, this is a disaster. The characters are nuts and bolts being moved by plot mechanics.

The premise does highlight the strength of The Departed, which is the plot. But it also shows us how even the best plot can spiral out of control.

Plot in crime stories is all about opposition under the surface, and The Departed is worth studying to see how to create that, not only in a crime story but in any work of fiction. But when you are creating your plot, you have to be aware of the fundamental trade-off between plot and believability. The more you try to hide the opposition under the surface - thus giving you more plot - the more you push the believability of your characters to the extreme. You become so conscious of creating surprise that you force the characters to take actions that they, and indeed no human being, would logically do.

This believability problem surfaces right away when Billy, who has been to the police academy, becomes the mole in the Costello crime family. It would be so obvious that this guy is the snitch that I was immediately reminded of Clark Kent and Superman. Somehow when Superman puts on a suit and a pair of nerdy glasses no one can see that he is Superman. In a fantasy superhero story, the audience accepts that convention and lets it pass. Not so in a realistic crime story.

The writers keep the believability problems at bay for most of the story. But any story that emphasizes plot always pushes the reveals to the end, where whatever believability problems it has will be magnified as the reveals come fast and furious. Sure enough, The Departed rapidly disintegrates into farce and stupidity. The final sequence is filled with reveals and assassinations, but they are based on actions so mindlessly dumb that the audience is left muttering, "No! No! No!"

Even worse, this sort of false plot, sprung at the end, kills the audience's sense of investment in the film itself. If it's so easy to assassinate these characters, why didn't they just shoot Costello in the first place and save me 2 1/2 hours of my time.

Gangs of New York

Gangs of New York may be the most ambitious film of the last few years. Its production design and cinematography are among the best I have ever seen. Unfortunately its story structure cannot support the film's ambition.

The main structural element that sets this movie apart from others is context. Most Hollywood fare shows nothing of the world of the hero. It wants to get to the goal as quickly as possible so the audience can start on its wild ride.

As a result, the average Hollywood movie has speed, but no subtlety or complexity. There is no sense of how the world drives the hero or how others manifest the hero's central problem in different forms in the world.

Gangs of New York, on the other hand, has a massive amount of context. Indeed, it depicts and compresses all of American history of the 19th century in one film. And it does so by setting up a number of powerful dramatic oppositions: nativists vs. immigrants, the powerful vs. the weak, rich vs. poor, Catholic vs. Protestant, tribes and sectionalism vs. government and the rule of law.

But there is one big problem with showing so much context. You have to have a great desire line. Context is world; it goes sideways in a story. Desire is linear; it is the forward line on which everything hangs. The more you put on the line, the stronger the line has to be.

And what is the desire line these writers use to hang all of 19th century American history? A young man wants to take revenge on the man who killed his father in a street brawl when he was eight.

An eight-year-old seeing his father killed in a street brawl is not the stuff of Hamlet. This is no prince whose throne has been usurped by a murdering uncle who has also married the murdered king's wife. Which is why this boy¹s burning desire to take revenge rings so hollow. And why the forward movement of the story collapses almost immediately.

A weak desire line in a film with so much context is already big trouble. Add to that an almost complete lack of plot and we have narrative suicide.

The interesting thing is why there is so little plot. I found myself wondering about that while I was watching the film (also a very bad sign). It didn't make sense. Here was a fascinating period of American history, with developments coming fast and furious, and yet nothing seems to be happening in this film.

And then it hit me. Gangs of New York has almost no reveals. Plot doesn't come from a lot of things happening. Plot comes from hidden information about the opponents. When this information is revealed to the hero and the audience, the story turns. The audience is surprised and engaged.

So why does Gangs of New York have almost no reveals? It all goes back to the choice of a desire line. By giving the hero all the knowledge with his revenge desire line, it is the opponent, Butcher Bill, who must discover hidden information about the hero. The opponent has the reveal, and it is information the audience already knows. This is a fatal mistake.

The choice of a desire line also causes a break in the movie's spine. The first movie ends after Bill learns the hero's true identity and plot to kill him. In the annual tribute to the hero¹s slain father, Bill brands the hero in front of the entire community and sends him into exile, which is just down the street.

Besides being unbelievable - Bill the Butcher isn't a man who shies away from killing his enemies - this action ends the first story and forces the movie to have to restart. In a movie this long, that's a real audience killer.

The second movie represents a considerable drop off from the first, which already suffered from a weak desire line. Incredibly, for a movie this long, this second film felt both rushed and boring, as the branded outcast quickly rises to lead all Irish in New York. I guess there's nothing star power can't do.

Not surprisingly, the writers have trouble coming up with an organic ending. They have already given us a final battle when Bill exposes the hero and brands him in the tribute. Now they have to come up with another battle, this time in the midst of the terrible race riots of 1863.

But, curiously, the writers purposely undercut the showdown between hero and opponent by having the federal guns blow up the opposing gangs before they can fight.

Thematically, this is quite interesting; we are shifting from one social stage to another, from the era of New York ruled by gangs to an era of New York ruled by a nation of laws.

But the cost of this thematic choice is severe. It further de-dramatizes a final confrontation that is too-long in coming and is a pale repetition of the previous story beat.

There is much about Gangs of New York that is worthwhile, even awe-inspiring. But the movie is also proof, once again, that great filmmaking comes from a great script. And the best visuals in the world won't save you if your script isn't there.