Focus on What’s Different: How to Break the Rules as a Screenwriter
Stop Worshiping Structure
Screenwriting is more than just fucking templates.
Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet, John Yorke’s Five-Act Structure, Aristotle’s Poetics all give us models for how a story should unfold. And of course these models can be somewhat useful. If you’re lost and need a way to scaffold a story that otherwise refuses to be tamed, they’re great.
But… if you’re obsessed with demonstrating how perfectly your script fits the model, you’re almost certain to miss what actually makes your story special: how your story could break the rules and get away with it.
(Credit to Angus Fletcher for making a point of a technique like this–I’ve been using it intuitively for decades, but it took a man like Fletcher to codify it.) – please assume all links are affiliate
Obviously most scripts have the Inciting Incident, Break into Two, and Midpoint reversal, for example. However, when you think about the films that really stick in your mind, you’ll realize that this is often NOT because this film ticked every box. This is, quite possibly, because the film knew how to break the rules.
Rather, it’s because the film had a chip in its armor. It had something odd, but compelling: a weird structural choice, a protagonist flipped at the midpoint, an archetype inversion, or a fundamentally subversive message (I’m looking at you, Billy Wilder).
Rather than obsessing over whether your film aligns perfectly with Save the Cat or Into the Woods, ask instead:
Where does my film deliberately break the mold?
Let’s look at a few examples:
Example 1: Beetlejuice (1988)
Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice is a glorious mess. While it does line up with a basic 8-point beat sheet, you’ll quickly run aground if you try to use normal character archetypes with this film.
Consider the main characters, Adam and Barbara Maitland: the dead couple stuck haunting their house. They’re boring. They’re passive. They’re bland. They aren’t what makes the film work.
In fact, the film doesn’t really come alive until the Deetzes arrive, particularly Lydia, the goth teen to end all goth teens. This character is why I still have a crush on Winona Ryder even after the dogshit Beetlejuice sequel.
Lydia sees the Maitlands’ ghosts and connects with them. She is the story’s moral anchor.
As for Betelgeuse* himself, he is definitely not the protagonist. He might want to be the mentor, but that role is actually taken by Lydia (and to some extent, Juno). In fact, Betelgeuse works primarily as a chaos agent: fairly harmless to begin with, but when push comes to shove, he is the villain who needs to be corralled at the climax.
The archetype inversion is clear:
- The child plays the mentor figure.
- The mentor figure is the villain.
- The protagonists are, structurally speaking, almost supporting characters.
It’s hard to imagine any screenwriting book that would actively recommend this. However, Beetlejuice remains a cult classic–quite possibly because of this eccentricity.
*Yes, this is how the demon spells his name. Do your research.
Example 2: Psycho (1960)
Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho switches its protagonist at this midpoint.
I mean it sort of has to, because Marion Crane was the protagonist, but she’s been stabbed in the fucking shower.
Remember the first part of the film? It’s all Marion: she steals the money, flees, checks into the Bates Motel (you’d think with a name like that she’d know better…). Then, well, lots of stabbies–EECH! EECH! EECH!–and a whole bottle of chocolate syrup down the drain.
After this point, the story shifts…
Yeah, some of it involves Marion’s sister Lila and Marion’s boyfriend working together to try and figure out why Marion disappeared.
The sick thing is that we really only care about Norman Bates at this point.
Norman is sort of obviously the villain here, given the stabbing and such. But now he’s also the gravitational center of the film. He’s far more interesting and watchable than any of the ostensible heroes.
This is Hitch’s major play: by the end of the film, we care one hell of a lot more about Norman than we do about Lila or the boyfriend (whatever his name was).
If you think this is a mild eccentricity, think again: the simple act of shifting protagonist and aligning the audience’s sympathy with the villain was radical as in 1960. In fact, it’s still pretty badass. And that’s why people still watch Psycho.
Example 3: Twelve Monkeys (1995)
Terry Gilliam’s Twelve Monkeys is another structural oddball. Sure, it’s a time-travel thriller. We get that part: James Cole, a convict from the future, is sent back to gather information to prevent humanity’s extinction.
The second half of the film is where expectations go funny: Dr. Kathryn Railly, Cole’s psychiatrist, is skeptical of her patient’s wild claims. There’s a lot of tension before. We wonder about Stockholm Syndrome. But that would be too easy…
As evidence of Cole’s sincerity builds, Railly is, well, radicalized. At a crucial moment, Railly totally believes Cole but he is brought back to the future. Railly, alone in the 1990s, must drive the story alone while Cole is out of action.
Even when Cole ultimately returns, their roles have flipped: Railly has taken Cole’s original ideas on board while Cole himself now wavers. The protagonist has demonstrably flipped.
Notice how at the point where Cole is recalled to the future after running into the woods at the mansion, the narrative baton is passed to Railly. The dual-protagonist arc is unstable, unsettling, and suits Gilliam’s dystopian vision perfectly.
Example 4: Kiss Me, Stupid (1964)
(About ten spoiler alerts ahead: if you haven’t seen this film, go watch it!!!!!!)
Billy Wilder’s Kiss Me, Stupid doesn’t just bend story structure—it pushes cultural norms into uncharted territory.
On paper, it looks like a farce. A struggling songwriter concocts a scheme to sell songs to a famous singer by using his own wife to seduce the singer. But when the songwriter realizes that he’s inflamed his own jealousy and suspicion, the plan spirals into an impossible tangle of adultery and mistaken identities.
Now the key point here is that Wilder has created a literally impossible tangle. To explain the ins and outs properly, you simply need to watch the film.
However, the key point for us here is this: rather than resolving the situation into some Netflix-era morality, Wilder has the cojones to double down on the mess: the husband learns a lesson about his own jealousy–by cheating on his wife; the wife addresses her lingering fixation on the singer–by fucking his brains out.
Nevertheless, the story doesn’t punish either wife or husband. In essence, they decide to keep their mouths shut and move forward together. Effectively, if tacitly, the film condones this adultery.
1964, folks. This isn’t merely eccentric, it’s radical. Not only that, it’s a fundamentally European stance on infidelity slammed into an American setting by a couple of Europeans who were laughing their asses off the whole time.
A lot of critics were too butthurt by the film’s attack on cultural morality (by which I mean hypocrisy) to be able to understand its punt. Wilder knew precisely what he was doing.
It lingers because it was different.
Why Eccentricity Matters
What do these four films have in common? They’re all remembered, quoted, studied, and rewatched. Still, none of them would pass a “perfect structure” test.
This is the paradox of screenwriting: the models are useful, but the masterpieces often deviate from them.
That’s not to say you should ignore structure. Screenplay templates are a diagnostic tool, not a Procrustean bed. Look to Snyder or Yorke when your film feels limp. Inject some tension.
However, if your film feels alive–your characters feel compelling, the world feels uniques, and the audience cares, then it would be criminal to hack apart your original idea simply to match a template.
Great films endure for many reasons–but quite possibly it is because they dared to focus on the different.
Practicing Eccentricity
Exercise 1: Flip the Mentor
Take a story idea you’re working on. Identify the mentor figure—the wise aunt, the old desert rat Jedi, the wizard who actually knows what the ring is all about. Now, flip this on its head:
- What if the mentor were actually the villain?
- What if the mentor were a child, or a fool, or a con artist?
Write a 2–3 page scene where your protagonist discovers that the “helper” isn’t what they seem.
Exercise 2: Switch Protagonists
Choose a film you love. Now, imagine killing off the protagonist halfway through. Who picks up the story?
- Write a one-page outline of how the story would continue with the new protagonist.
- Bonus: try writing a scene from the perspective of a secondary character suddenly thrust into the lead role.
Exercise 3: Break the Moral Compass
Think about your current script. Where does it land morally? Does it reassure the audience with a clear right/wrong binary? Now it’s time to make the water muddier.
- Write a scene where your protagonist makes a choice that is ethically dubious but narratively compelling.
- Ask yourself: would this choice alienate audiences, or make them lean in closer?
Embrace the Weird
If you’re panicking that your screenplay doesn’t align perfectly with the BS2 beat sheet or the five-act paradigm, take a breath. That’s probably a good sign.
The point of models is not conformity but clarity. Use models to see where something is sagging—but don’t amputate the strange, delightful, or challenging parts of your script just to “play by the rules.”
Break the rules.
The films we remember—Beetlejuice, Psycho, Twelve Monkeys, Kiss Me, Stupid—all have at least one structural eccentricity that makes them stand out.
So the next time you’re stuck in rewrite hell, don’t ask whether your film fits the model–instead, ask what makes my film different?