How do you fall in love?

The New York Times recently published an article that went wild on social media. Entitled, “To fall in love with anyone, do this” it referenced a study by the psychologist Arthur Aron (and others) that listed 36 questions that, if you sat down with someone and asked of each other – and then went and stared at each other without talking for 4 minutes – would produce heart-thumping, spine-tingling love. The questions scale up from the timid to the intense – the first is “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”, the 14th, “Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”, up to the 28th, “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.”. The final one is “Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen.” Then you go and stare at each other. So this is not for the faint hearted, nor for the emotionally evasive.

In film, you fall in love with a character by seeing the disparity between their external appearance and their internal emotional state. By engaging with their utmost desire that might be secret to other people. Secrets are fun and engaging. Restrained desire and unexpressed feelings of all kinds are particularly compelling – cue Jane Austen.

Really, character-based storytelling is all about understanding and shining a light on vulnerability. As a filmmaker you do that by spending time with people and either just bleeding them dry of all their greatest fears, or by getting to know them very well and somehow conjuring up a relationship in which vulnerability is allowed to be beautiful. And for your subject – in the best-case scenario – shining a light on that vulnerability is emancipatory. This doesn’t always happen, but it can. Some of the best filmmakers have that ability - to be with people at their vulnerable moment and help it transform into an emancipatory moment... like Kim Longinotto. 

So, what are the flaws of great main characters in Disney films? Simba doesn’t want to be king – what a layabout! - he doesn’t want to take on the responsibilities he was born with. But really, the reason he doesn’t want to be king is because his father is DEAD and he thinks he killed him  - so facing up to his responsibility would involve admitting to that (of course, we as the audience know this is a false assumption - so there is exciting dramatic irony in our relationship with him). Buzz Lightyear doesn’t know he’s a toy! And he’s full of himself. Woodie is lovely... but he's jealous, needy and an over-committer… he has a role in the pecking order of toys, and he doesn’t want to lose it. Poor Woodie, we all sympathise with this feeling of jealousy when a new cat on the block starts sniffing around. Aladdin is stuck in gap year mentality; similar as Simba.

Characters with internal flaws are inherently attractive and human. We all have flaws - so being flawless is inhuman, and characters written in this way are boring. If our flaws are at odds with what we want, then we are in an exciting and dynamic situation. For example - if a character is desperate for a connection with his estranged son, but he is too proud to reach out to him - we can see that it is really himself he has to overcome, rather than an external (and therefore less interesting) obstacle. In documentary, you want a character who is full of internal conflict – and who is willing to go on a journey to explore and ultimately resolve that internal conflict. That’s what makes a satisfying, emotionally complex story.

How do we build a light touch version of that – a structure that allows for identification… for falling in love with your character. For identifying with their weaknesses, their flaws, their secret desires and their needs. How much of those internal dynamics are implied, written or created in the mind of the child participant? And the structure has to be something you would return to, a lot. Herein lies the tension between narrative and endless play. 

If the monkey meets the skull, what happens? And - crucially - why does that matter?