by John M. Floyd

One thing I like about watching movies and reading books and stories — beyond the entertainment they provide — is that I occasionally see something that teaches me how to write better. If you’re an author, it’s fine to try certain techniques in the hope that they’ll help your story; but what’s really fine is to see a technique with your own eyes, and realize that it does in fact make the story better. And if it worked for that writer or director, maybe it’d work for you as well.

One example is something I noticed while rewatching an old movie called Double Indemnity a few weeks ago. In my opinion DI is one of the best of the noir films, with both a great storyline and a great cast, and full of suspense. Sure, it’s a little corny in places (after all, this was 1944) but it’s still top-notch crime fiction. Watch it and you’ll see what I mean.

Murphy’s Law

What stands out in my memory is one particular scene, right in the middle of the story. Here’s the deal. Fred MacMurray has convinced Barbara Stanwyck (or was it the other way around?) that they should kill her husband and claim the life insurance. After they murder him, Stanwyck delivers the body — via her car — to a spot where MacMurray, disguised as the husband, has just “accidentally fallen” off the back of a train. As the train recedes into the night, MacMurray dusts himself off and he and Stanwyck haul her husband’s body out of the car’s trunk, position it beside the railroad tracks, and then jump back into the car to make their getaway. So far so good.

But the car won’t start. Again and again they try to crank it; no way, Jorge. Neither of them say a word during the entire scene, but you as a viewer can see the looks on their faces, and sense what they must be thinking: Here we are in the middle of nowhere, twenty feet from a dead body, in the victim’s wife’s car, desperate to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible . . . and Sweet Jumpin’ Jezebel the engine won’t start.

The real beauty of that scene, however, is that in the novel (if I remember correctly) the car had no ignition problems. The murderers hopped in and roared away to safety with nary a hitch. It was only in the film version that they ran into this little snag, and it was a brilliant touch. It added yet another level of tension and conflict to an already outstanding plot.

Job-related stress

The lesson here is that something like this almost always helps a story. No matter how complicated the plotline, no matter how deep and murky the mire into which you have flung your main character(s), you as a crime/suspense writer or screenwriter should look for ways to make things even worse — if only for a short while — before letting them get better again. Pessimism can be a good thing, for a writer. Whatever extra pressure you heap onto on your character is transferred directly to the reader/viewer.

Another interesting point: This kind of technique (tightening yet another thumbscrew on an already tortured protagonist) doesn’t have to be there in a first draft, or even a second. This is the type of scene that can be plugged in later, during editing. I try to go through rewrites with that very thing in mind, looking for ways to add situations that stretch the tension even further. What could be worse than having your heroine’s SUV break down on the wrong side of town? Well, it could be three in the morning, that’s what. And she might see a street gang sauntering toward her on the sidewalk. And she might have her sleeping two-year-old with her in the car. And the battery might be dead in her cell phone.

In case you’re wondering about the scene in the movie version of Double Indemnity, our two conspirators’ car does finally start, after about thirty seconds of exasperation and perspiration, and they get the hell out of Dodge. All is well again in their world — at least for now — but you know, as they drive away, that their blood pressure has spiked high enough to frizz their hair, and the viewer’s probably has also. A strong story has become even stronger as a result.