You could call it love first sight, a surprising consequence given that I am a happily married gay man. But after just one evening with The Good Wife (TGF), albeit several years into its 7-season run, I was a goner. And as I speed thorough the seasons now, racing to complete the journey – no spoilers please – I find myself repeatedly returning to the opening sequence, marveling at how it so concisely captured the essential story question, and so compellingly bound the audience to its central character. Finally, after years of advice on the importance of an essential hook in the first five pages, or first seventeen lines, (or whatever narrowing margin is now demanded), I have found an example to which I relate, drawn from the vein of human drama I too wish to draw mine.
My interest is piqued by a pressing dilemma. You see, my current work in progress has three major characters, each offering a potential entry into the story. And so I’ve been on a quest, sampling not only books but also movies and television, exploring how the best manage to grab their audience viscerally while also cutting to the quick of the underlying emotional journey. In gathering evidence, here are a few lessons drawn from my new flame, Alicia Florrick (and the team of writers who created her), regarding key elements of a successful opening:
A Moment of Intrigue. The Good Wife opens with a blur of images. A well-dressed couple strides purposely over plush floral carpet in an elegant hall, gliding past paneled walls and fine furnishings. Hands clasped, they quicken their pace. Before them a doorman springs to action, ushering their passage into a packed and blindingly lit ballroom. Voices rise and cameras flash as they cross the threshold to an awaiting podium.
– Less than a page in, without a word of dialogue, and questions are percolating. What’s the hurry? Are they late to a reception? Who warrants such over-the-top attention?
The Wreckage You Can’t Ignore. The man begins to speak. But although his delivery is commanding, the scripted remarks come across choppy and forced. The scene crystalizes. Another politician is resigning, hand caught in the cookie jar, spewing vague platitudes about wife and children, sidestepping his own repugnant acts. He mentions charges and a coming legal battle, but offers no details. They are superfluous anyhow because in that instant one realizes this isn’t his story at all. The camera pans beyond him, narrowing to the woman at his side. We’re entering her world now, melding with her ordeal.
Alicia, her name glimmered from her husband’s statement, appears frail and numb. The opening mirage is shattered. Her mussed hair is tamed only by an expensive clip; hasty make-up can’t hide her sullen eyes. Neck muscles tighten as her husband continues. Her gaze evades the wall of cameras, though she flinches at the mention of “sexual favors.” Snippets of a tawdry video flicker, no doubt looping in her brain since the story broke. If at that moment she could sink through the floor, you know she would.
– And you would follow. Because you’ve always wondered, on some level, what it would be like to be in those shoes, forced to play accomplice at your own public debasement. How could a woman simply stand there? Why would she submit to this? Why would anyone?
Hints of Character and Relationships. The monster, for that’s who he’s become in under a minute, pleads for privacy (too late for that, jerk). For her part, Alicia observes his sweaty brow, and a grip that threatens to snap the podium lip. Apparently the monster’s world is crumbling too. A piece of lint hangs on his sleeve. Unconsciously she reaches toward it, her wedding ring catching the light. “So that’s it,” you think. She cares for him and instinctively grooms his image, probably has for years. You feel empathy, with a heaping side of pity.
And then the ground shifts again. Before she can complete her next selfless act, the man concludes his remarks and snatches her outstretched hand. Deafening questions about prostitutes and illicit payments chase the couple and their entourage from the room, not to the gilded hall but to a gritty service area instead. Somewhere a back entrance, and an idling car, awaits.
The man drops her hand as the door closes, accelerating as he barks orders to his team. His team, not hers. Alicia falls behind and then slows to a halt, frozen in place.
– So much delivered from so little, and questions accumulate. What drives this relationship? Who is this bastard? And what has he done to Alicia? Where do they … no, where does she go from here?
A Parting Twist. After an eternity of a few seconds, the man notices her absence. He returns, offering their first direct exchange. “Hey,” he breathes, leaning in. “You all right?” His tone is ambiguous, while her response is anything but.
Alicia’s slap, solid as a knock-out punch, leaves an instant mark. Though still dazed, steely resolve enters her teary eyes. She tugs her tweed top and lurches forward, only to find her escape thwarted. For there, beyond the double doors the aids have just exited, flashes erupt again, pelting the frosted glass. The scene closes with Alicia again reduced to paralysis, trapped between public pitchforks and the private hell of a shattered personal life.
– I doubt a single viewer changed channels after the opening. In book form, an idle browser would be similarly compelled. How could one not want to know what happens next? Whatever is to become of Alicia?
And that, my friends, is exactly the point. Because while the flow and intensity may vary, a powerful opening is a journey unto itself, offering glimpses of theme and character. Most importantly, it brings focus to the key emotional underpinnings that will carry the remainder of the tale. In the three minutes of screen time recounted here, akin to a novel’s first five pages, the protagonist hasn’t uttered a word. Yet the audience knows her or, rather, knows enough to join her cause. And that’s a sound basis for turning a fleeting infatuation into a lasting relationship.
Those were my takeaways, even as I continue to ponder which character is my story lead. And now I turn to you – What do you see as the essential elements of an opening scene, or chapter? Do you feel the demands vary based on genre? Does the opening of your current WIP captivate or intrigue? Does it hint at key underlying tensions? Does it offer sufficient insight to the nature of your protagonist, and his or her core relationships? If not, what might you do to elevate the moment? Or is another moment needed, a more effective entry not yet crafted? Please share. I look forward to hearing your thoughts and experiences.
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About John J Kelley
John J Kelley crafts tales of individuals at a crossroads, exploring themes of growth, reconciliation and community. His debut novel, The Fallen Snow, about a young soldier’s homecoming at the close of WWI, received a Publishers Weekly starred review and earned an Honorable Mention nod at the 2012 Foreword Reviews Book-of-the-Year Awards. Born and raised in the Florida panhandle, John graduated from Virginia Tech and for a time served as a military officer. Today he lives with his partner in Washington, DC.
John-
Such a fine breakdown of the opening scene of The Good Wife. The details of Alicia’s humiliation are abundant. She is a woman betrayed.
I note that her humiliation is heightened. It’s public. She is trapped by her role. Any human would want to react but she cannot. There’s strong interior tension which, finally, lets loose in the slap.
There is great inner conflict. This is the man she loves. Whom in this moment she hates. The rapacious press is loathsome as well, yet press freedom is a principle and must be honored. Conflict all over the place.
On screen, the actors, direction and editing convey all that. There is high visual interest. On the page, though, the same conflicts have a high chance of falling flat and losing our interest.
Why? Because we are already ahead of the author. We feel the obvious feelings more quickly than the author can type out the words.
On the page, this same situation will have tension only if Alicia’s exposition surprises us with something beyond feelings of humiliation and repressed rage. As an opening, for fiction writers this is a trap. The danger is in writing what is obvious.
Screen and page are not the same.
From John’s description of the opening scene, I bumped up The Good Wife on my queue of shows to catch up on. But after your thought provoking questions at UnCon, I’m also intrigued by how to incorporate the unexpected into our writing.
I like the idea of Alicia’s exposition on the page including something else beyond the expected (relief maybe, that she doesn’t have to continue hiding what she unconsciously had been suspecting for months).
I’m curious though, about getting the balance right between those emotional states. Wouldn’t you also want to touch on her humiliation and repressed rage to some degree? Just because it would seem unbelievable for it not to be there at all…
I like your idea of introducing an element of relief, Christine. For one, it introduces something I’ve always wondered when seeing this type of scene play out in real life, the curiosity of whether “the good wife” knew all along, either subconsciously or with intent (an “arrangement” gone astray perhaps).
I tend to find a subtle touch on what might be melodramatic can help, or focusing on one small, less obvious detail. In this scene, I was particularly drawn to her attempt to “groom his image” (literally), an act unnoticed by anyone in the crowded room yet important to Alicia, and to the viewer.
Thank you, Don. I’ve been thinking a lot about that, not only for this scene but others I’ve observed, that disparity between screen and page. I have found that dramatic on screen often seems melodramatic in print. Yet I still find the exercises informative, observing how quickly the stage is set, and the compelling pieces of the stage itself, the clues for the reader in interactions between characters or in subtle actions of a newly introduced protagonist.
I think those are what made this particular scene stand out for me.
I loved The Good Wife until the penultimate episode of season six when I stopped watching. I have no interest in knowing how the show ended.
There’s a pervasive trend among writers to look to film and television to create tension in their writing. But novels are not cameras. Screenplays have significantly fewer words. The camera is the true author. Words can never successfully replicate the felt-sense of a memorable camera shot. Nor should they be forced to.
Not everything has to be about speed and grabbing (the idea of grabbing anything right now should be anathema, in light of grabbing’s recent ascent to world headline news). Not every opening has to be laid out in less than a minute on the page. Read the opening of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and you’ll see that Rowling takes several pages to set up the story (14 in my copy) before Harry arrives. He’s hinted at, but in reality how much do we learn about Harry from those opening pages, and the epic tale that will unfold over seven books? Every book tells its story in its own way.
One of the great joys for a reader is the writer’s voice. That voice has its own rhythms and cadences. It’s different from the story’s voice and the characters’ voices, from settings’ and landscapes’ voices. Nonetheless, our voice is the foundation of all those other voices. When we write from our voice, our characters’ best actions and emotions naturally follow. Characters find their truth and that truth makes their first appearance and sustained presence authentic.
People may or may not like Rowling. It makes no difference. She is currently the most successful author in the world. For that reason alone she’s worth paying attention to. She wrote her books exactly how she wanted—even after public acclaim became loud and sometimes intrusive. No matter what readers wanted, she was not swayed from writing the story she had always planned. Her books reflect her moral values. She never subdued her imagination, even when what it gave her—a children’s boarding school, albeit steeped in magic—was unpopular with publishers. Her beliefs about life show up in her words and writing. I think this is worth doing in our work.
I’m glad to hear you’re writing, and wish you lots of success in completing your story. xS
Exceptional observations, Shelley. A reason for my interest in this particular topic is my affinity for slow builds and more natural pacing. My first book’s opening scene recounts the internal narrative of the protagonist as he awaits a predawn train while returning from battle. Egads … I suppose I should be relieved anyone made it past the first page ;).
Seriously, though, I agree rhythm, pacing and a writer’s innate voice should not be sacrificed. Exercises such as this one give me an opportunity to explore how even “quiet” openings can be infused with tension and compel a reader to open up to the unfolding tale.
Beyond the excellent example of Harry Potter, do you have other examples that stand out in your mind? Or inspire your own writing? If you do, would love to hear them given your thoughts on the matter.
I’m a big fan of Austen’s Emma and Pride & Prejudice, but Emma, in particular. I never used to be. I used to loathe Emma–an English teacher when I was fourteen ruined it for me. But then a boyfriend I was crazy in love with in my twenties was as wild about Emma as he was about me. Some years later I finally re-read it, still with a prejudiced eye but less so than it had been at fourteen.
A couple of years ago I felt compelled to read it again and suddenly I found myself re-reading it multiple times. I’ve now read it at least 30 times. Even after knowing the plot as well as one must after so many readings, I am struck by Austen’s irony and slyness, her ability to convey in a brief sentence what would take a less able writer reams, and they still wouldn’t arrive at the point Austen does. I see how she uses misdirection–not crudely, yet quite deliberately, once you know when it happens. The construction of Emma influenced Rowling’s use of misdirection in HP. In Emma, misdirection lies more in the ambiguity of what characters mistakenly believe another character means in conversation, rather than in actual red herrings. If you don’t know what happens next you’re misled by what the character means, until the end. But if you return a second or third time, you begin to see how Austen set out to deceive you but in a way that you don’t feel tricked. The clues were there all along, if only you’d known where and when and how to look.
Agatha Christie uses a similar technique. Except with Christie, there is always a clue not revealed, which only Poirot or Miss Marples gets to see, and that isn’t revealed until the end. But that’s because they’re detective mysteries.
Ruth Rendell’s Inspector Wexford books. I am always surprised by her endings and killers’ motives. They don’t generally explode off the page at any point yet she manages to create tension in the ordinariness of her characters.
I haven’t read Ian Rankin yet but I watched an interview on youtube once about Inspector Rebus and was struck by how Rankin saw Rebus’s mind and emotions.
I love Mark Helprin’s Winter’s Tale. Talk about a slow book and in many ways a quiet voice. The sheer beauty of his writing, the breadth and depth of his story, I dream of having time again in the future to re-read it and luxuriate in his voice.
I think Hilary Mantel is one of the greatest writers of our time. Wolf Hall’s extraordinary execution (read plot, story, pov, if you wish), language, and character has left an indelible mark on my mind. Interestingly, she comes close to what your post was about. Check out her interviews on youtube, especially one where she talks about how she came up with the opening scene and pov of the narrator, and her realization of what she was being shown in her mind’s eye. With words alone, she directs the reader’s eye to that same spot. Wolf Hall’s opening is the equivalent of everything you love about the opening of The Good Wife, only using words as camera lens. I said words are not cameras. But there’s always an exception to a rule. Hilary Mantel is one of those exceptions.
Thanks, Shelley. Good examples all, Emma in particular struck a chord with me. Embarrassingly I’ve never read Hilary Mantel. But as her name has come up at least a half dozen times with friends in recent months, I’m going to correct that oversight and look for her interviews as well.
Murder on the Orient Express is worth watching or reading. It’s a complex plot with complex characters.
What can be on the page as well as on the screen is the thing I harp about at FtQ–something is happening in the scene. No musing. No scenery. Something has gone wrong in the lives we see, and story questions are raised by what the characters are doing in a living, active scene. But I have to agree with Don–there has to be more than the obvious on a page, something deeper.
I agree, Ray, though my take on musing is different, perhaps simply a matter of definition. I enjoy insights into the character’s internal struggles as events unfold. Too much is, well, too much. But if handled well the insight intrigues me, and can raise a host of story questions in my mind.
Alicia is revealed without a word in this scene, but the emotional subtleties are etched on her face. A visual, granted, but I believe the effect can be translated into a deftly crafted scene.
A good example of a great opening. I can see this translated to the page. I’m thinking it all depends on POV as well. Inner monologue could help, showing the disparity between what she’s saying, not saying, and the turmoil in her mind.
But what struck me most about your post, John, was how beautifully you write. I have to put Fallen Snow on my reading list.
Thank you, Diana. I’m flattered. From a look at your (excellent) author page, seems we are both drawn to the internal journey of characters. Btw, living in British Columbia a few years helped awaken the long-dormant writer within me and as such holds a special place in my heart.
And thank you for your comments on my author page.
Yes, beautiful British Columbia does inspire. I am blessed. From our home on Vancouver Island, I have a lovely view of Discovery Passage. I see cruise ships go by, the odd pod of whales (have to get the binoculars out) and an eagle who nests in a neighbouring tree.
Come back and visit. :)
I will. From the sea coast to the mountains to the interior wine country, I fell in love. Super Natural BC indeed.
As a Netflix and Hulu browser, I understand the importance of those opening minutes. I have a hundred shows to choose from and a few hours per week to watch TV. You’ve got two minutes, pal. If it doesn’t grab, I’m moving on. I hear it’s even tougher with novels.
Genre and understanding your reader is a must. Suspense readers want an explosion. Mystery readers want a body. Romance readers want that initial brush and spark (and, apparently, immediate dislike of their future spouse).
For my middle grade readers, I know they want to be transported to a different place and time. Even a different world. They’ve probably never gone far beyond the city limits of wherever they live. So I start with an interesting location. For my first, it was on a beach in Norfolk in January, my protag hunting shells and spotting Navy ships out on the sea. For the second book in that series, my protag is in Hawaii. Already interesting, but she’s in a 7th grade classroom in Hawaii. Most kids would find it interesting that, even in paradise, one must attend social studies class.
Since my stories are of a contemporary nature, I have to find the interesting in my character’s otherwise normal world. And I usually find that in setting.
Thanks for the post. And damn you for finding another Hulu show I’ll probably end up binging. Lost an entire summer to Breaking Bad last year.
Yes, the staging / setting can be key. And I am always impresssed when an author draws out some intriguing aspect, or offers a unique take, on what at first glance seems an ordinary situation. That is how life feels when your world is turned upside down, and so should it be for characters in similar moments.
Good observations on expectations of genre as well, Ronald. Part of my current dilemma is determining the appropriate appeal to consider for two different genres, wanting to set the right expectation in addition to fostering intrigue on its own.
Can I say you are in for a great ride? Watch out for season 5. Wow.
I’ve made progress since drafting this. The episode of the firm breakup, can’t recall the name, is one of the tensest I’ve seen on any show. Yet even it still manages to have a human scale, with poignant and funny moments amidst the “explosions.”
I’ve seen that opening and thought it was fantastic. I just started watching Westworld on HBO. I’ve been fascinated by the discussion of backstory, the hosts narrative and its importance, humanity and consciousness and the ability (or not) of non-humans to have dreams, feel love. UnCon has me seeing so many mores clues and foreshadowing and asking mucho Maas questions.
I am mesmerized by the essential questions of Westworld and may in fact order HBO GO just so I can watch it.
Lots of lessons to be learned from story, regardless of form. Though, as Donald pointed out, important to recognize the differences and how the audience may respond to them.
I can’t speak to The Good Wife, but Westworld is fantastic. I think it’s the new LOST we’ve been waiting for.
Let’s hope it doesn’t spin out of control, though.
Yes, we can hope ;)
I signed up for the HBO NOW’s free month so I can catch up on Game of Thrones and watch Westworld.
Have you watched the Korean remake of The Good Wife? I love seeing different cultures take on the same tv show. Korean television is much more emotively driven: some people scoff because the censorship restricts sexual content, and overt violence, but in a way it’s birthed a different kind of visual storytelling. There is a beauty to the often emotionally complex aspects of the plot that are the focal point of kdramas; I think The Good Wife is a good match because its focal point is also emotional complexities. I really like the US original, and am curious to check out the Korean version next.
That sounds intriguing, Gil, particularly given the nuances of how stories are translated. It does sound like TGW would be a good fit, given its emphasis on Alicia’s emotional journey.
Actually, if we want to talk original versions, before the US TGW (2009-2016) we had the UK version: The Politician’s Wife (1995) starring Juliet Stevenson.
The Good Wife was/is one of my all-time favorite shows. Like you, I was hooked on that opening, which worked so well because of the power of the writing, the acting, the directing, and the filming. Film and television are such collaborative endeavors and the combined strength of that collaboration is what makes some shows and films rise so far above the others.
Perhaps the relationship between writer and editor is a bit like that collaborative effort.
Since I have written a number of screenplays and studied the craft, I used a bit of the quick cut between images technique in the opening of my mystery, Open Season, introducing one of the central characters who is reeling from the death of her partner, but not wanting to show how vulnerable she really is. She replays the moments of his death in quick mental flashes, that, I hope, pulls the reader into her emotional turmoil.
Thanks for your comment, Maryann. I carry some envy regarding the collaboration possible in successful film and series production, and agree the relationship with a trusted, insightful editor is likely the nearest one can hope to achieving that relationship as a writer.
I also appreciate your insights on using quick takes to tease out details related to your mystery. I think that technique can be effective with any guarded or emotionally locked off character. Plus it rings true with my own experience and with others I’ve known who’ve experienced great pain or trauma. In life one can typically handle only so much at a time, so the “quick takes” mirror that process. Plus, as you noted, in writing it can provoke questions and add intrigue. Don’t we all lean in a bit when offered glimpses of the unknown, particularly of disturbing or unsettling events?
We do lean in when presented with the unknown, waiting for the explanation. One of the best lessons I learned about film and story was from a director in NY who made me watch “The Terminator.” I was there to work on a screenplay with him and had no interest in that film, but he sat me down in his apartment and put the video in his television. That wonderful opening that had no dialogue, no explanation, just this naked man who dropped into the middle of a busy street and started running, grabbed me. I kept calling out to Stephen, who was making marinara sauce in his kitchen, “What’s going on? Who is that guy? Where is he going?” Stephen just kept cooking and told me to “Wait.”
So I did, and eventually my questions were answered, but not until I was well and truly hooked into that story.
Making our readers ask those questions and keeping the answers on hold for a while, makes for great drama.
Yes! Love the anecdote too. Brings to mind a quote from years ago, can’t recall the source, that every good story, regardless of genre, is at its heart a mystery.
John, I want to thank you for this blog. Most all of us understand the concept of the inciting event, and yet to write that compelling beginning is so difficult. The beauty of your column was not that you told us to write the opening scene of the Good Wife, but the elements that you saw distilled to create a story with a compelling begining that grasped our attention. And so it was for me. The words of your blog brought home the concept which viewing of the scene never had. I immediately knew what to do to achieve a compelling opening scene that showed the reader what was at stake for my main character and those around her. And so, it was the power of your words not the brilliance of the scene shown on television that gave me insight. Thank you.
Thank you, LaDonna. I’m so glad my post helped. Doesn’t it feel great when it finally clicks? I had a similar epiphany with my first book. After trying to force my original opening to work for months, I finally tossed it. Setting out on a morning drive, I let the protagonist tell me what his opening should be, how to expose the reader to his internal strife in a way both tentative and earnest.
Ultimately we have to trust that voice inside. Best of luck on your journey.
An eye-opening example of how to grab your reader/viewer. It’s so useful to see it broken down like this.
Thanks, Samantha. I was in your burg for just one night recently, somewhat unexpectedly. Thought of you while my partner and I were wandering Lincoln Park and Michigan Avenue. Great city … just as impressive as I remembered it.