3 Tips to Avoid a Second-Act Slump in Your Screenplay

3 Tips to Avoid a Second-Act Slump in Your Screenplay

Nothing kills a script for a reader than a… dragging… second… act.

Your Act II is long and messy and feels like a slog even though the story shows a lot of promise. 

Think of Act I as setup and Act III as payoff. These might be tidy (particularly so if Act I is solid), but Act II naturally acts as a bridge. That bridge can easily sag under its own weight–that is, this is the place where all the silly, indulgent shit creeps in. This is where you have to root out those darlings and terminate. With extreme prejudice. 

Yeah, you’ve heard the spiel about raising the stakes, keeping tension high, not boring the audience. But when you can barely see the forest for the trees, how would you even know? Act II could be up to 60 pages–that’s 60 pages that needs to carry an emotional arc and thematic resonance as well as escalation. Any attempt to keep all those balls in the air will almost certainly fail–at least in a first draft.

So let’s talk about writing a second act that doesn’t slump or stall out. One that keeps the reader engaged even miles from the finish. With these three tips, you’ll be able to diagnose and fix (or avoid!) the fabled second-act slump.

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Tip 1: Revisit the Promise of the Premise (Early Act II)

When in doubt, go back to the logline.

Blake Snyder describes the first half of the second act (roughly pp. 30–55) as the Fun and Games, where you show the “promise of the premise.” (Twee though they may be, Snyder had a way of coming up with memorable names for the sections.) 

That is, someone who was hooked by the idea had better see the idea play out at this point. This is where you deliver on the premise. The movie does the things the audience expected the movie to do.

Case Study: The Apartment (1960) Act IIa

Take The Apartment (1960): “A meek office worker advances his career by letting his superiors use his apartment as a love nest.” This is the hook. The superiors had better be using the apartment in this way at this point. 

At this point in the script, Baxter juggles the schedules of his philandering bosses. He struggles to have his home even to sleep. He has to deal with nosy neighbors who think he’s a playboy. It’s very funny, but there also exists a substantial amount of tension: we see the upsides (career advancement) and the downsides (Baxter getting sick because he has to sleep on a park bench) and the stuff in the middle (Baxter is conflicted about the morality of the circumstance, as he ought to be). 

This section works because Wilder and Diamond use each beat to explore some facet of the premise—loneliness even among a crowd, moral compromise, ambition at personal cost. The film keeps using the hook–the apartment, naturally–as a playground for both theme and character.

Now It’s Your Turn

Look at the first half of your second act. Do the scenes answer any questions that the setup raises? Do they pay off the premise? Are the scenes the sort of stuff you’d expect simply by reading the logline? Strip away filler. Sharpen the hook. Ask yourself:

• Is this situation or scene unique to my premise?
  
• Does each scene explore a new variation or complication drawn out of the premise?
  
• Could this moment appear in another movie?

If you answer yes to that last question, you’re drifting. You may have a second-act slump, my friend.

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Tip 2: Hint at the Midpoint Reversal—But Don’t Tip Your Hand

Unless a film has a ludicrously abstract structure, something big is going to go down at the midpoint. That doesn’t matter whether we’re talking three acts, five acts, Hero’s Journey, Story Circle, or what have you. 

The midpoint marks a reversal. A hinge for the narrative. It is often a major complication that changes the terms of the story.

If entering Act II means the protagonist can’t turn back, the Midpoint is when Shit Gets Real.

The difficult part, however, is to build toward the midpoint without spoilers.

It’s very common for second acts to sag because they 1) telegraph the twist; if it feels inevitable, it will be flat; or 2) do not build at all, slapping you in the face with an unexpected, unearned midpoint.

Case Study: The Apartment (midpoint)

In Act IIa, we establish that Sheldrake, the head of the company, begins to use Baxter’s apartment for his affair. This makes Baxter nervous, but he is rewarded with swift advancement through the ranks. 

The thing that we do not know at this point is that the person Sheldrake is (ahem) entertaining in Baxter’s apartment is Fran, who happens to be Baxter’s own love interest. 

The reveal of this–the broken compact mirror scene–is the core of the midpoint reversal. AT this point, everything changes. Baxter knows, and it is emotionally devastating. This reconfigures his stakes entirely. 

Wilder layers the suspense. The audience understands that something is building. The pressure will have to be released somehow. Unease builds. We understand the situation is immoral, and side with Baxter because he is an underdog, not because he’s behaving well. This is unsustainable. We just don’t know how the bottom will fall out.

When the reveal comes–notably, it is visual (the mirror), not spoken–it hits with colossal force. 

Now It’s Your Turn

Think of your second act as two halves (IIa and IIb). The midpoint acts as fulcrum between these halves. 

• IIa: escalate the status quo, deliver the “promise of the premise.”
  
• Midpoint: something central reverses emotionally, practically, or thematically (often all three).
  
• IIb: a scramble to deal with the fallout from the midpoint.
  

If you want a strong midpoint, do these things:

• Foreshadow. Plant seeds that can pay off in surprising ways. DO NOT SPOIL.
  
• Layer tension. Something brews, but don’t make its exact nature obvious.
  
• Misdirect. Lead the audience toward one thought, then yank the wheel the opposite direction.

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Tip 3: Revel in the Fallout (Late Act II)

After the midpoint, everything changes. The problem is you don’t want to rush to get to the climax. Don’t be a two-pump chump like Chad. 

Slow down. Get off on the misery.

Act IIb, or in Snyderian terminology, the “Bad Guys Close In” is where the bill comes due for the fun in the first half of the film. This is where the wheels come off. This is where the character is forced to go it alone.

Case Study: The Apartment

The tidy little world Baxter had created for himself collapses once he realizes that Fran has literally (not figuratively) been using his bed without him being invited. The shitshow hasn’t quite had its way with Baxter, however. Here’s a quick recap:

• Baxter gets drunk.
  
• Baxter picks up a trashy stranger and takes her home.
  
• Baxter finds Fran unconscious, OD’d on sleeping pills. He gives the other woman the bum’s rush.
  
• Baxter selflessly nurses Fran back to health.
  
• For all his effort, Baxter gets punched by Fran’s brother-in-law.
  

This section of the film is basically a different movie for the tonal change. It is a genius-level jerk of the wheel, and an earned one at that. 

We buy it: the characters suffer the consequences of their decisions. The emotions ring true. But note: the story trends into deeper and deeper crisis (except that Fran doesn’t succeed at the suicide attempt).  

Now It’s Your Turn

Act IIb gives us the descent, the consequence, the reckoning.

So…

• What emotional or practical fallout comes from the midpoint?
  
• How long can I delay the catharsis? (Longer than you think. Milk it.)
  
• How does this section transform the protagonist? What changes is s/he bringing to Act III?
  

A second-act slump in Act IIb is almost always from resolving the situation too quickly and rushing to the climax. Don’t be Chad. 

Let things get messy. 

Enjoy the hurt. This is drama.

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Ruthlessly Clear Out Dead Weight

The major failing leading to any of the above issues is clarity.

Second Act drift or slump almost always means that certain scenes don’t have clear function. It’s time to kill your darlings, separating the merely fun from the meaningful development.

In other words, you have because scenes don’t serve a clear function. You need to strain the curds if you’re going to make cheese. 

Test yourself: go scene by scene through Act II. Ask whether each scene shows one of the following:

1. Escalation toward midpoint
   
2. Delivering the actual midpoint
   
3. Exploring the fallout of the midpoint

If the scene doesn’t clearly fall into one of these buckets, cut or revise. If it doesn’t move the story–practically or emotionally–it doesn’t belong.

The Clean Second Act

When you take this approach, your second act becomes a lean, focused engine:

• Act IIa: Setup, fun and games, premise demonstrated
  
• Midpoint: Twist, reversal, redefinition of stakes
  
• Act IIb: Descent, fallout, low point
  

In short, the Second Act is never meant to slump Rather, it rises and falls like a wave. It carries the audience along and sets them up cleanly for the climax.

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Shape of the Middle

The Second Act has its own internal architecture. 

The best second acts feel like mini-movies in themselves: they are often the parts of films that you remember–Vincent and Mia’s conversation and dance (which is technically the second act of that story in Pulp Fiction), the boys working with the women’s band in Some Like It Hot, the sizzling repartée between Bogart and Bacall in The Big Sleep–but remember: in most cases, they take a sharp turn into darkness (just like mistakenly racking a colossal line of heroin) and end in despair (Lance refusing Vincent’s help, forcing Vincent to ram into Lance’s house) before a push toward resolution.

Act II will never be just a road between beginning and end. It is where characters must be tested, broken, and rebuilt–your very own Robocop.

The key, however, is to keep second act honest. Emotional truth, narrative focus, and clear stakes will always beat spectacle. Keep your eye on the story’s core. Build to a meaningful midpoint. Explore the emotional consequences.

Don’t slump.