Demystifying the “two-hander” approach: why it’s important to know in writing your story.

“Writing is thinking. To write well is to think clearly. That’s why it’s so hard.”                                                                                                                          -David McCullough.

Don’t Worry, a Two-Hander Doesn’t Involve Arm Wrestling

In a recent Scripnotes podcast, Making Things Better By Making Things Worse, John August and Craig Mazin voiced disdain for textbook theories, and much of it rightly so, while discussing the vague topic of a “two-hander” that ultimately seemed no better or worse than those patterns concepts found in the same books they criticize. As John describes: 

“A two-hander is a story with two important characters, where basically both characters are roughly equally important in the progress of the story. So, romantic comedies are generally two-handers, but really it applies to a lot of other kinds of movies, too. Lethal Weapon is a two-hander. The Sixth Sense is a two-hander. Identity Thief is a two-hander…generally each of the characters have something that he or she wants. And sometimes they have a shared goal, but they each have their own individual goals.”

As John states here, the concept seems easy to grasp, but his explanation seems to muddy some waters on closer scrutiny. First, his statement appears to have several qualifiers and exceptions that lack clarity, leaving us with two truths: it’s not bound by genre and involves two essential characters.

Secondly, could this be an illustration of the pot calling the kettle black?  Both John and Craig have a history of criticizing text-book how-to’s, gurus, and story analysts alike for seeing patterns and selling formulas, something Craig himself stated further into the article:

“Things that happened, the whats and the whens, are connected to the why, I think. Everything is a choice. Yes, you can certainly see the patterns. Pulling patterns out of movies and saying, ‘Well, it does seem like typically the hero experiences a low point at the end of whatever we think of as Act 2.’ Absolutely. Well noticed.

Here’s another observation: it does certainly appear that as we progress into the summer months that the day grows younger. Neither of those statements, the first statement about screenplays won’t help you write a screenplay. The second statement about the lengthening of days will not help you create a universe.”

The problem here – and plenty of irony to be found, too – is there’s typically more clarity from those often criticized.  Granted, there are some merits in John and Craig’s argument if not wholehearted agreement with their overall sentiment—it’s just John readily admits later that Craig’s “really been a huge disservice to screenwriters everywhere because this is a thing that should be straightforward and you made it completely un-straightforward.”

Perhaps a contributing factor to the problem is that too much time was devoted to form – the “what” it is—rather than the function – the “why” it is. We’re told (sort of) what a two-hander is, but never really in a way that we understand its function or purpose in a story.

So why do some stories have this “two-hander” approach and others don’t?  What is its function in a story?  Why do some genres have them versus others?  Does this mean there are two main characters?  Why do they sometimes have the same goals, and why do they have separate goals at other times? Where do we find some clarity in all of this?

Simply put, “two-hander” is about perspective. If we take a step back and look at the big picture using The Shawshank Redemption as an example, we see two characters, Andy & Red, whose roles are often confused. Taking a previous article discussing this into consideration, we note the story’s theme as an outcome from the climax (hope is a good thing) and the choice the main character has to make: get busy living or get busy dying.  That choice is the culmination of two perspectives, Andy’s vs. Red’s, as dramatized throughout the story.

In this sense, the story’s theme – what the author has to say about the value of hope (and not just “hope” itself) – is explored utilizing an argument.  In other words, a story is a form of persuasion, and the best means of being persuasive is to examine multiple sides of the debate.   Having two characters with their own perspectives is part of how the theme and argument are explored; one character ultimately forces the other to see their differing point of view and either remain steadfast in their approach or change.

Whichever the case may be, the outcome is what the author wishes the audience to walk away in terms of their feeling about the main character and the story itself.  This is why it’s essential to have something to say, to have your stories “be about something,” because theme, context, subtext, plot, conflict, everything factors into it (which Craig alluded to when saying “the plot is the character, is the theme, is the dialogue, is the narrative, is the choices.”)

In addition, as John states, the characters can often want the same thing. Still, conflict—and a different level of conflict than that found between protagonist vs. antagonist—can arise simply between their perspectives of how to go about achieving the shared goal.  This, in turn, makes a story richer, deeper, and more complex because, often, it’s where the heart and soul (read: emotions) genuinely reside.

In The Shawshank Redemption, the plot, the setting, the dialogue, almost everything tips toward Red so that we feel and acknowledge his perspective as the main character – and that’s why the ending works as well as it does.  We’re also privy to Andy’s perspective: from suds on the roof to the opera playing over the prison’s loudspeakers, we have those moments of light shining amongst the darkness—but it’s not overwhelmingly so. Otherwise, the ending wouldn’t have worked.  

There had to be a sense of doubt, which is why we’re placed squarely in Red’s shoes, his voiceover after being released from prison showing him at his lowest point (likewise, we read into Andy’s emotions, mainly through Red, with regards to his “shitty pipe-dreams,” leading us to believe he’s on the verge of suicide.)

In The Sixth Sense, the “two-hander” is between Malcolm and Cole. As the main character, Malcolm tries to resolve the story’s central problem of “what’s wrong with Cole.” However, his perspective is based on his background, which dictates that there must be some psychological explanation. Cole, however, has an entirely different perspective: he’s haunted and sees dead people.

These two perspectives clash and form the basis of Malcolm and Cole’s relationship, a dramatic tug-of-war, if you will, where, at some point, one eventually finds truth in the other’s point of view.  In this particular case, Malcolm has a perception problem, but it’s only through his interactions—his relationship—with Cole, that he can finally see the truth for what it really is: he’s a ghost himself.

In Braveheart, the relationship between William Wallace and Robert the Bruce is central to the outcome: both want the same thing but attempt to achieve it differently. Wallace has the tangibles that Robert the Bruce needs – the courage and conviction to lead – yet their relationship struggles to find a foothold amongst the incessant back-and-forth pulling of the nobles’ ideology, leading to disunity and betrayal. But it’s ultimately Wallace’s conviction – thematically symbolized by his wedding cloth, the wedding itself a symbol of unity—that influences Robert the Bruce, who, upon Wallace’s death, finds the courage to unite and lead Scotland to her freedom on the battlefield.

In Star Wars, Luke is a main character with many raw skills and a chip on his shoulder, constantly testing his abilities against others to prove himself.  As we learn through Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back, Luke is reckless and has too much of his father in him, but in Star Wars, that’ tempered by Obi-Wan’s perspective as he mentors Skywalker in the ways of the force.  It’s Ben’s influence, even after physical death, that prompts Luke to stop testing his abilities.

The result is a choice—a leap of faith—as Luke turns off his equipment and blows up the Death Star, resolving his personal flaw and solving the central plot’s problem in a scene that simultaneously connects the story’s threads.

These distinctive perspectives, or what Dramatica calls throughlines, help writers explore the nature of the argument they are making.  Three of the four throughlines have been discussed and exemplified, each offering a different perspective available to the human experience:

Main Character throughline: The “I” perspective, seen from inside the main character, represents the audience’s position in the story.

Influence Character throughline – the “You” or alternate perspective- essentially providing the second element of a “two-hander.”

Relationship Throughline – the “We” perspective, wherein the main character and the influence character hash out the passionate argument of the story, one ultimately adopting the other’s perspective. It’s those moments when Red and Andy clash over music being something that can’t be taken from you. Hope is a dangerous thing. Refurbishing an old boat is nothing more than a “shitty pipe dream.” Cole asks Malcolm, “How can you help me if you don’t believe me?” William Wallace’s impassioned speech tells Robert the Bruce that if he would only lead, he too would follow.

It should be noted that not all main characters change – William Wallace is a good example.  Instead, he holds firm to his convictions and influences others around him to change (meaning the influence character can either be the one who changes or changes the main character as a result.)

The last throughline is that of the overall story, essentially the plot about the story’s goal. It’s “What are we all doing here?” – in Star Wars, it’s a battle between the Rebellion and the Empire. In The Shawshank Redemption, everyone’s dealing with an innocent man in prison. In The Sixth Sense, everyone is affected in some way or another by Cole’s problem, therefore playing a role in the story. In Braveheart, everyone’s involved – on one side or the other – in the battle for Scotland’s freedom.

Craig’s words of wisdom later in the podcast ring true, making this particular episode all the more ironic because screenwriting doesn’t have to be messy.

“Nothing that is worth anything can be achieved through simple steps. It is the children in us that are looking for parents to give us instructions to follow. And we are all children looking for parents everywhere. In the end, however, in order to achieve anything of value you have to be your own parent and you have to be a grown up and you have to confront the messiness of it.”

Dramatica provides a context in which everything has its place, an explanation, and a definition without resorting to mysticism, generalizations, or a “paint by numbers” approach.

At the same time, it’s hard. There are no “simple steps” to follow, and it has a steep learning curve – but with practice comes understanding and with understanding knowledge.  Putting that knowledge into writing begets wisdom until, one day, everything clicks, and YOU see the story from a whole new perspective.

Perhaps more importantly, you finally see a story with much more clarity than you ever have As already noted, writing well is to think clearly.

Author’s note:

This isn’t meant to be a sales pitch; instead, it’s to let people know free resources are well worth exploring.  As someone who’s read more than his fair share of books on screenwriting, hired numerous consultants and paid thousands (and THOUSANDS) of dollars over the years in coverage/notes, I know firsthand where John and Craig are coming from with their sentiments – and rightly so – but everything one can learn from a book can’t, and shouldn’t be, so readily dismissed and I know this as well from first-hand experience.  

When I first came upon Dramatica twelve years ago, I downloaded a trial version and quickly figured – even with a degree in Psychology – this is over my head and too much to learn.  But five years ago, in my quest for knowledge, having gone through just about everything else from Lew Hunter to Syd Field to Robert McKee’s Story to John Truby to The Hero’s Journey and so on and so forth, I found myself coming back to Dramatica – my only regret was having dismissed it as quickly as I did.  

Granted, I honestly believe there are stages of learning, and perhaps I just wasn’t ready for it my first go-round at the time – and truth be told, the more I learned about other people’s perspectives on the story, the better prepared I became for Dramatica . . . and I STILL don’t consider myself an expert (though the first draft of the first script I wrote using it received some pretty high praise and some fans in the process – a testament to my belief first drafts don’t have to be crap despite what many people parrot. Plan your work and work your plan.)  

Suppose you’re interested in learning more about the theory. In that case, you can visit the Dramatica website, where there are any number of free resources, analyses, links to user communities, writer groups, etc.  You may also find any articles on Jim Hull’s excellent Narrative First blog helpful as they go into much more detail on all the various facets of Dramatica’s story theory.  Understanding just a few key concepts may be enough to shift your perspective.  

Be forewarned: it’s complicated.  It requires hard work, dedication, practice, and application.  Perhaps that’s the point Craig misses on the formula approach: sure, people want an easy solution, formula, or step approach, but you still have to be willing to do the heavy lifting. After all, nobody ever lost weight by simply reading a how-to book.