For years, A Bug's Life has been in our lives. We saw it in the theaters in 1998 when it was released. I didn't want to go, I probably wanted to see a chick flick rather than a kid's movie. I remember the shot of the camera flying over the grass, like we were on a miniature helicopter over the little Hawaii they called Bug Island. It worked like a balm on my frazzled nerves of that time. So later, with our first kid, it was one of the first movies we played for him on video. He was probably 18 months. After reading about Blue's Clues on Malcolm Gladwell's book the Tipping Point, I figured some well designed shows couldn't do too much damage, especially in a small apartment with a fold-out bed. He seemed engaged, not just transfixed, and a little of both is just fine. Then I saw A Bug's Life in the library and figured why not.
Immediately on watching I realized why my efforts at writing a novel were failing. My novel was failing for every reason why A Bug's Life was succeeding. So I watched and watched, alongside my son, analyzing and gleaning. It got to be I joked about hosting events for other parents who have done the same. The event would take place anywhere there is a stage, and some improvised props. A school would do. The kids would sit in the audience while the parents re-enacted the entire movie, line for line. One parent would be flick, another would be princess Atta. I wanted to be Heimlich: Someday I will be a beautiful butterfly, and everything will be all better. (Takes another bite). A set of material becomes part of what we know as "The Classics" - you know, Moby Dick, Casablanca - not necessarily to bless it for educational purposes to ram down sleepy high schooler's throats, but rather for the unexpected benefit of providing material for future authors to model their own work. Knowing one of the classics extremely intimately - as in, you know the lines down to the verb tenses and inflections - helps solidify what to shoot for in your own work. Yet, while being optimistic that this is the case, should I ever attempt my novel again, the real take-home for me is a set of guesses on what will generate quality work.
Long since returned to the library, our babysitter recently bought the movie at a garage sale for us. We play it and for me it's like playing an old album, knowing all the words, and all the familiar things to look for in a work that complex. I realize years have gone by, and I have not created this quality work that occurred to me to create in 2001, 2002. I never picked up the pen again. So I sit down in the kitchen while it is playing in the next room and say:
"I don't know how to create quality work."
What I mean is, I don't know why I haven't done it yet.
Here are the set of guesses I have on what it would take to create something of similar quality to A Bug's Life, perhaps in the same or another similar medium.
1) Lots of people, lots of hats.
The nearest I can figure is quality work needs 12 people. Four people for parallel storylines. Four more for the major scenes that are pivotal to the story. Four to assign to the major characters, so you can get their backstory and everything they do and say makes sense. And four for the different levels of observation an audience might have: sidewalk view, street level view, city view, and nation view. This can be broken up differently. For a project like A Bug's Life, you would have one person on visual jokes exclusively. This would be the sidewalk view. Exclusive concentration on something like visual jokes allow for precious moments like Heimlich not being able to squeeze into the dust-crack, or the street mime in the big city. Remember the can of "low-fat lard?" This comes from someone where this can was their whole job for a while. Another person would be out in the world, farming for one-liners. This is the street view. This would allow for things like when PT yells "You're a walking stick! It's funny!" Or, "I can't help it, it's so beautiful." (The trailer comes back in Monster's Inc. as a placeholder scene going to the final version).
One thing that happens when you do all the work yourself is you're typing along, and then the inner critic starts. No, not that inner critic. This is the inner critic that actually has some credibility, which is even more upsetting when it starts up. "Wow, so everyone's on a road trip, but nobody says anything funny. That never happens." You rack your brain, but nothing funny comes up. That's because you've been working on a storyline, or a scene, and the one-liner guy is out for coffee. It's not your fault. It's not even your job. The one-liner guy will show up in a little while, and - this is important - if he sits in the same chair as the storyline guy, the storyline guy has to take a break. Otherwise things get a little amorous and nothing gets done. Tee hee. You know what I'm working up to: I conjecture that one author can be all these 12 people, which is convenient for us working sans budget, the one caveat being not to pull this one person = 12 people simultaneously.
2) Lots of story arcs of different sizes.
The 12 people will help you add a certain level of complexity to your work that falls under the category of "fancy aesthetic tricks." A simple event over a complex backdrop suddenly doesn't seem simple at all. This treatment works in all mediums, and relies on the viewer catching subtleties they didn't know they caught in the first place. Once there was a codec from Sony that relied on this quality of human perception. The codec actually calculated which sound events would be effectively indistinguishable from the same track playing minus that event, and they would remove that event digitally. A horn sound will obscure an electric piano, for example. I'm not sure exactly how it worked. But if it did work on the minutia level of bits, it certainly wouldn't work on a broader level. Complexity saves our skin many times, and this is where story arcs come into play.
You can look at A Bug's Life as many different arcs. The big one is similar to the Revolutionary War of 1776 etc, where the colonies overthrow the oppressive taxation rulers, complete with madcap gadget inventors. (And, if you listen to the soundtrack, this explains a lot, and you will see I'm not just making this 1776 thing up. Definite yankee doodle thing happening). In addition to this overriding plot there's also the coming of age story, not just for flick, but for atta, and dot, and even the queen goes through the menopausal hormone swing at the end "hubba hubba."
3) Feature driven release.
I don't have the reference, but I heard when producing Toy Story, that Pixar threw out the script and started again, because it didn't hold up to their standard. Schedule went out the window too. Don't set a date and meet it: this is irresponsible to your story. Once exception can be made for adaptations of existing works, where the parameters are better contained.
4) Characters reinforcing each other
The best way to increase a character's value is to have another character play off of the first. P.T. starts out as a visual gag, when he gets burned up in the opening performance of flaming death. But he gets much richer when he gets kidnapped by his performers. He sings on top of the wagon as they go back to the show "The streets will be paved with gold(en retrievers)... I'm the richest man in town" (PT is a flea, so hence the dog one-liner). Then the stick points and yells "Money!" Which PT believes. And over goes the sack. Did he think that money was just lying around? Which speaks to the extent of PT's fantasy life with the stuff. And now he is someone we all know. Stellar work.
5) Only showing a little of the depth that you have actually thought through
Lots of talk in the writing world goes into backstory. You have to have a backstory, they all say, condescendingly, as if that hasn't occurred to us. Most of us don't put work into backstory not because we're lazy, but because the work we have is not generative and we're lucky to get what we have so far. Generative work is like matches and propane, it's material that is so combustible that it creates its own backstory. The premise of X-files. The old show Moonlighting. The Taming of the Shrew. David Foster Wallace's excellent Infinite Jest. A generative premise - and I'm optimistic enough to believe I will meet one at the right point with pen in hand - will solve the backstory problem immediately. Then it will be painful to keep 80% of the material off the screen.
Here is a recent article on Pixar's commitment to quality.
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And another sidebar on Brad Bird talking about his work with Pixar.
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In the Brad Bird article, I'd like to turn your attention to one quote. Under "Despair Remover" he says "When I see a really bad and cynically made film, I come out if it despairing for the medium." Because this is the quote that my dh brought up when I said that I didn't know how to create quality work. The point is that quality work requires optimism, and generosity. It requires being hosted almost, having a concierge-like environment where your glass is refilled for you, and it would be a big surprise if you were not able to succeed past your expectations, and have fun at the same time.