In(ter)dependent Coincidences: Ordering the World Through Paul Thomas Anderson’s Screenplays

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University of Amsterdam

In(ter)dependent Coincidences

Ordering the World Through Paul Thomas Anderson’s Screenplays

By

Robin Jerrel Zwaan

MA. THESIS

10272178 25 June 2017

Film Studies

Graduate School of Humanities Supervisor: Dhr. Dr. F.A.M. Laeven

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Abstract

This thesis explores the possibility for contingency within the causative structure of the narrative constructed for film. This inquiry will be conducted on the basis of the screenplays of the first three feature films of Paul Thomas Anderson; respectively Hard

Eight (1996), Boogie Nights (1997) and Magnolia (1999). The theory that will be applied

to this corpus will consist, for one thing, of the dominant discourse, guided by Aristotle and David Bordwell, concerning the fundaments of the narrative constructed for film. In contrast to their elaborations on the linear narrative, the notion of contingency will be considered in relation to the narrative in pursuance of exposing possible deviations from this causative structure. From this conceptual framework evolving around the notion of contingency, the screenplays will be analyzed especially in regard to their depiction of space and time. Conclusively, the conviction will appear that contingency is possible on a limited level, but, ultimately, the narrative is inevitably subject to a form of structuring according to cause and effect on a meta-level, this all for the sake of generating a narrative that is, in the end, comprehensible.

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Taking this idea from essayist, poet and play writer Thomas Stearns Eliot, one can extract the suggestion that order is an essential element of art. As Eliot states, art is supposed to present a feeling of order regarding our lives. But art, at the same time, also forces a specific order upon the same life. Since Eliot articulates this idea for all art, it should also apply to works of art created for and through the medium film. At first sight, this seems to be a clear case. After all, film – or at least the drama in film – makes life comprehensible, it helps the audience understand life by presenting it in an intelligible and manageable order (Mamet 11). One of the elements of film where order, in one way or another, happens to be most essential, is, undeniably, the screenplay (Stapele 132). That is to say, the screenplay has to present the narrative constructed for film according to the everyday rules of clear, linear causality.

Normally the screenplay, or screenwriting is understood as the practice of writing a manuscript concerning a narrative destined for film ‘understood through notions such as story, spine, turning points, character arc and three-act structure’ (Maras 1). In other words, a screenplay is a drama-text written for the creation of film. However important this blueprint for the production of a film seems to be, the screenplay has for a large part been neglected throughout the study of film in an academic context (Nelmes 107). The rejection of the study of the script is, among other things, triggered by the common understanding of the screenplay as part of ‘an industrial process and thus viewed as a craft rather than a creative act’ (Nelmes 108). In extension, the screenplay has an ‘intermediate’ essence; its ‘fate’ is to eventually dissolve into film. Concerning this understanding, the screenplay functions merely as a means, instead of an end in itself; its part ‘in the process is by definition transitional and transformational’ (Maras 6). Despite these ontological and methodological issues raised by the ‘intermediate’ character of the screenplay, I still consider the screenplay to be a fruitful field to employ academic research. For one thing, due to the fact that this manuscript plays such a significant role both in the production and the essential structuring of the film’s narrative. But, furthermore, also because academic studies are eminently suited for, and specialized in, textual analysis – and seem, therefore, an

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appropriate practice for the analysis of the textual script. For this reason, it seems plausible that the academic field of media studies – besides their varied contributions on the audiovisual level –will, by the study of screenplays, also be able to offer substantial insights concerning the scholarly and practical dimensions of screenwriting. In the conclusion I will return to the question whether or not this assumption turned out to be well-founded on the basis of the results attained in this research.

In the last couple of years, a discipline called screenplay studies has originated from the international conference ‘re-thinking the screenplay’ first held in 2008 (Veld 1). Within this discipline, two major positions can be distinguished. First, there is an understanding that scripts should be studied as independent texts; free of their potential production as a film. Moreover, scholars employing this position suggest that the study of scriptwriting ‘is better situated within the domain of creative writing than that of film studies or screen production’ (Baker 7). According to the scholars engaging in this position, the research focused on the script can only contribute to a more creative and critical understanding of the screenplay by dealing with them as independent texts and, therefore, products of creative writing. Second, there is an idea that screenplays, above all, should be understood as texts written for the production of film (Batty 68). The latter is the position I will occupy during this research, with, thereby, the endeavor to find new understandings in regard to the screenplay as a practice, and, moreover, conceivably discover new techniques and mechanisms that can help the practice-oriented field of the writing and evaluating of screenplays (Koivumäki 142). Besides the scholarly research regarding the screenplay, a large theoretical foundation on the nature of the screenplay has been laid in several popular screenplay manuals. Despite the fact that both the academic study of screenplays and screenplay manuals deal with the same object, they have succeeded to neglect each other in the past decades. This development has led to the case that both film professionals and film academics ‘have missed opportunities to learn from each other’ (Cattrysse 84). In order to make this connection, I will implement the ideas of a selection of popular screenplay manuals in this investigation.

This research will approach the screenplay from a narratological perspective since the narrative is the element where structure is particularly important. In extension, I will employ this approach in regard to the screenplay considering that this

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manuscripts is essentially the carrier of the narrative. As a starting point, the ideas of Aristotle will be appealed, and, furthermore, the deliberations of his heirs within contemporary film studies. At the hand of this variety of authors, guided by David Bordwell, I will distill the dominant discourse concerning the fundaments of the narrative constructed for film. The common belief moves, for one thing, around the idea that screenplays should be built around ‘strong central characters who struggle to achieve well-defined goals’ (Stapele 103). And, more significant for this inquiry, that the events within the narrative should occur in a causative distribution (Chatman 46). Since the vast majority of the narratives considered in relation to the academic study of film are all based on causative structures, I am eminently interested in the possibility for deviating from this causative structure. Deviating from the strict causative order seems to be a challenge with greater reason concerning the screenplay because this carries of the narrative emerges from the practice of writing. And writing, moreover, is a particularly regulative system; i.e. writing is ‘a way of imposing order on the unstructured and undifferentiated, of producing sense from non-sense’ (Bruckner 280). It is, therefore, rather questionable whether it is, for the screenwriter, possible to implement an intentional form of non-causality in the screenplay. In this case, the screenwriter should be able to make events within the screenplay appear as coincidental or ‘contingent’, while at the same time the construction of these events has to be, at least on a meta-level, highly causal and determinate.

In order to investigate this, I will conclude the theoretical considerations regarding the structure of the narrative by taking a look at the notion of contingency – an idea which occupies the conceptual space of causality’s counterpart – and see if there is also a possibility for the non-causality within the assumed causal structure of the screenplay. The aim, moreover, is to explore the fundamentals of structure and causality in regard to the narrative by introducing the notion of contingency; i.e. a relation which is not determined with causative certainty. Since the non-causal-relation has for a large part been neglected in the studies on the narrative, I hope, with this examination of the idea of contingency, to make a modest but significant contribution to the theoretical body in question within the field of film studies. That is to say, among other things, my aim is to open up a discussion concerning the possibilities to deviate from the strict

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causal structure of the narrative in regard to films intended for a relatively large audience.

The corpus that will be consulted during this research consists of the screenplays developed for the first three feature films of Paul Thomas Anderson; respectively Hard

Eight (1996), Boogie Nights (1997) and Magnolia (1999). The choice for specifically

Anderson’s screenplays is, for one thing, constituted by the understanding that these narratives epitomize the notion of contingency in a positively distinct and bright manner (Rodrigues 8). In that regard, there seems to be a contradiction within the idea of the articulation of the contingent (the non-causal) in this highly, by causative relations, determined structure of the script. And since Anderson’s narratives embrace contingency as a central motive, I believe that his screenplays will be a fruitful study object in order to investigate this fascinating point of friction which I consider the idea of structured contingency to be. Moreover, the contradiction in question rises all the more in regard to Anderson as a screenwriter, because he particularly aligns his screenplays in a precise manner. Especially in regard to the script of Magnolia the shots and camera movements are described into a rather unique level of detail. In extension, the reason for studying his screenplays instead of his films, is, as stated, due to the screenplay’s essentially structural nature. On top of that, Anderson’s films, occurring out of his screenplays, reach a considerably large audience and are, therefore, at least to some extent, exemplary for the narratives that are popular in contemporary film landscape; i.e. films intended for a relatively large audience (Caterall et all. n.p.).

Ultimately, my goal is to open up questions about the norms and foundations concerning the structure of the narrative designed for film. Furthermore, I want to make an attempt to create a bridge between scholarly work on film on the one hand, and the ‘practitioner-oriented discussions of craft and industry issues’ on the other (Maras 1). In extension, I want to explore the possibility of a intended form of contingency in the causative narrative carried by the screenplay. In line with T. S. Eliot’s idea of the inseparable connection between art and the practice of ordering, I want, in other words, to investigate the possibility for escaping the strict (causative) orders of drama. I will do this by answering the question under what condition there is a place for contingency within the causative structure of the screenplay, and, furthermore, what approaches concerning the implementation of coincidence in the screenplay could be distilled from

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the analysis of the three scripts of Paul Thomas Anderson? In the end, this inquiry is not an attack on the more causative idea of screenwriting, it is, on the other hand, an attempt to connect ‘mainstream scriptwriting to a broader field of possibilities’ (Maras 3). My claim, conclusively, is that contingency is possible on a limited level, but, ultimately, the narrative is inevitably subject to a form of structuring according to cause and effect on a meta-level, this all in the contemplation of transforming the narrative into a meaningful whole.

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Chapter 1

:

Aristotelean Dramaturgy

The Screenplay as Blueprint

The script, in most cases, ‘dictates what is meant to happen on the set and the screen’ (Maras 42). In this way, the script serves as a tool for concrete navigations in regard to the to be taken actions and, moreover, as a filmic guidebook for the director, actors and other people on set. But in a previous stage, the script, or a provisional form of the script, also provides a manageable draft of the planned film to pass on to production companies and potential financiers in order to give an impression of the film. On the base of that (provisional) draft the decision may be taken whether or not the script will be further developed, and finally, be made into a film. But even before that stage, the screenplay is also the place where the film’s story is developed. Where the film’s first idea crystallizes into a concrete narrative. And where, furthermore, the narrative is developed and structured into a dramatically interesting story. And it is exactly this aspect of the script, the screenplay is carrier of the narrative, that I will try to probe during this research.

The understanding of the script as a stage for the realization of the eventual film is commonly known as the screenplay as blueprint, i.e. the blueprint of a potential film (Maras 117). Just like an architect draws a blueprint for a building in order to determine its structure, a screenwriter writes a blueprint for a film in the pursuance of a well-structured film. For one thing, the value of this understanding lays in the fact that it does not interprets the script as an autonomous work, it indicates the screenplay as a means to create a film. Moreover, the script, according to this understanding, is not a picture; it is still ‘an incomplete entity’, but, in most cases, an essential entity for a film to emerge. A second possible benefit that this understanding goes in particular ‘against the visual bias of film theory’ (Maras 121). This means that, when the script is understood as a blueprint, the focal point is to a greater extent on the structural, compositional and textual dimension of the material. This is, as stated, an important reason for my choice to study the screenplays of Paul Thomas Anderson, and not his films. For one thing, my goal is to understand the workings of narratives in the screenplays in question on a structural level, and, in extension, focus on the implementation of contingency in the causal structure of the narrative. A second objective is to present, on the basis of the

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analysis, my finding regarding the natural human urge to bring structure to the world by allocating ‘causes’ to divergent events.

Aristotelean Dramatic Structure

In order to understand how causality works within the narrative of a screenplay, it is necessary to look into the most basic structures of the narrative. An obvious first step is to breakdown the ideas on the dramatic plot in Aristotle’s Poetics. For one thing, because Aristotle’s work served as a powerful source in regard to drama and the structure of the plot for millenniums. And, on the other hand, because a lot of screenwriting manuals, and thereby a considerable amount of general knowledge regarding the construction of screenplays, are built upon the fundament of Aristotle’s

Poetics (Brenes 56-58).

According to Aristotle, the dramatic arts are built upon the inclination of the human species towards representation (mimesis in Greek); i.e. a natural urge or attractive force towards the representation of things in the world (11). This urge is inseparable from the basic drive to learn things about the world; the human being simply requires, from childhood on, representations of the world in order to learn about the things that happen in the world. The representation of things, or sets of events, is, as it were, a method for the growing an understanding on things. By looking at a representation of something, one learns about it. Moreover, man takes pleasure in those representations because it is pleasant to learn things; it is enjoyable to make the world comprehensible to oneself. In a way, the dramatic arts, for one thing, help making the world understandable, but they are, at the same time, also built upon the natural urge to make the world comprehensible. This two-fold relation with making the world intelligible is, according to Aristotle, one of the most important reasons why the dramatic arts attract people. Since the screenplay is, for a large part, based upon the same dramatic principles, the screenplay should also be related to making the world, in one way or another, comprehensible.

The situations described in a screenplay are, to a certain extent, representations of situations in the world. Although the situations may not be plucked from life in a straightforward manner (one-to-one representation), they are undeniably constructed

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out of different elements – different representational parts – of life. However, it is not these individual parts of representation that constitutes the enlightening experience in regard to the audience. It is, in fact, the order in which these elements are presented as a whole which makes sure that the audience can, for one thing, understand, but, moreover, also assign deeper value to the narrative. Hence, according to Aristotle, it is the plot that brings the coherence to the individual representations, and, thereby, gives the audience the possibility to learn something meaningful about the world. By plot, Aristotle, simply understands the ‘arrangement of incidents’ in a particular narrative (17). In regard to the arrangement of these incidents Aristotle takes a normative stand; he argues that the whole, perhaps obviously, needs a beginning, a middle and an end. Moreover, the beginning must essentially not follow out of something, and has, furthermore, to be followed by an event in an inevitable manner. The middle follows something and is followed by something. And lastly, the end must by nature follow out of something in an inevitable or general way, and must, thereby, not be followed by anything else (Aristotle 20). In other words, the events in this sequence of begin, middle and end must have a logical place within an overall cause-effect relation. This principle, together with the notion that the length must be conform with the scope of the memory, works in a cogent fashion if the sequence of events, thus, happens ‘in accordance with necessity or with probability’ (Aristotle 21). This necessity or causality is in particular important to highlight, it is namely this area where the storyteller must get his inspiration, he does not have to write conform actual events, but, instead, in accordance wat may happen in consonance with logics and everyday natural laws – in line with expectation and probability.

Moreover, Aristotle divides the plot in two classes; in ‘simple’ and ‘complex’ plots. By simple plot he means a plot which ‘undergoes the transitions without a ‘reversal of fortune’ or a ‘discovery’, by complex plot he means a plot ‘in which the transition coincides with a ‘discovery’ or with a ‘reversal of fortune’ or with both’ (Aristotle 25). The simple plot, in other words, presents the events in a simple arrangement of the incidents; a ‘continuous action organized and unified into a beginning (initiation of the action), middle (involving a complication of the action), and end (marked by the resolution of the complication of the action)’ (Buckland 2). Such a plot is, for the audience, easy to comprehend. On the other hand, in regard to the

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complex plot, Aristotle argues, that the transitions – i.e. reversal and discovery – should emerge from the structure of the plot, in pursuance of the fact that these elements arise either out of ‘necessity or in accordance with probability from what has already occurred’ (25). These elements of the complex plot are described by Aristotle as follows; the reversal is the change of the particular situation in the complete opposite, and the discovery is a straightforward change from ignorance to knowledge (26). The reversal, thus, ‘is an action or event that runs counter to a character’s (usually the hero’s) situation and the spectator’s expectations’, recognition, moreover, ‘names the moment when the hero discovers that he or she is subjected to a reversal’ (Buckland 2). Since Aristotle takes a normative stance, he also states that the plot works best if the reversal and the recognition coincide (26).

The additions of the reversal and recognition deliver a new dimension to the plot; ‘in addition to the actions and events motivated and caused by characters, there’s the plot’s additional line of causality that exists over and above the characters’ (Buckland 2). This means that the plotline of reversal and recognition are not executed by the characters, this line is, in a way, imposed on them by a transcendent causality. This second line is what, in Aristotle’s work on the dramatic art, distinguishes a complex plot from a simple plot. But, as Buckland points out, the complex plot can still be seen as a classical and unified plot ‘because reversal and recognition are eventually made to appear probable and necessary’ – these additions are still based on a linear cause and effect relation (2). The two lines – the line of the character’s actions and the line where reversal and recognition appear – are, in the end, interwoven and both based on the same structure of causality. This means that, ‘while the second plot initially disrupts the first by radically altering the hero’s destiny, the second plot is eventually integrated into the first, resulting in a unified, classical plot once more, in which reversal and recognition appear to be probable and even necessary actions’ (Buckland 3).

Aristotle’s ideas on plots are similar to the way classical Hollywood tells its stories. David Bordwell defines this as a story of a psychologically purposeful character who struggles ‘to solve a clear-cut problem or attain specific goals’, the film ends ‘with a decisive victory or defeat, a resolution of the problem and a clear achievement or nonachievement of the goals’ (The Classical Hollywood Cinema 157). John Yorke, in his book on the basic principles of (cinematic) storytelling, as well claims that the essential

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fundament of all narratives is profoundly simple and states, moreover, in a rather dramatic way that ‘all tales, then, are at some level a journey into the woods to find the missing part of us, to retrieve it and make ourselves whole’ (72). Moreover, the ‘depiction of the spatial and temporal parameters of the story is always subordinate to the cause-and-effect logic of the events’ (Thanouli 6). I will come to the subject of causality later, but for now it is important to state that the relationship between cause and effect is, no matter what, always happening within a framework of space and time. And this framework, in relation to the narrative designed for film, has to be arranged in the interest of the simple causal relations. This means, in other words, that space should be depicted as the simplest window to the world on the base of nature’s causality, and time should be linear as well on the base of the simple depiction of straightforward causality. This all, in order to transmit information to the audience as simple as possible. The above, falls under the heading of something that is usually understood as the linear narrative, a design of narratives with a logic and causal narrative progression. Linear narratives settle themselves within strict story forms, based on the genres where the narratives situate themselves. This means that the common genres have a specific dramatic arc to which the audience can prepare itself. The audience, by choosing for a specific genre, knows, in advance, what kind of experience it will undergo. The enjoyment, obtained from a linear film, depends, for a large part, on the possibility to grasp the progression of the plot. This will, for one thing, build upon the goal – the plot and the protagonist’s goal are synchronized to each other in most cases – of the protagonist, which he or she will go after with great devotion. The important part is that the figuring out of the plot will take the audience through the dramatic arc in anticipation of the resolution of the story. This means that the audience’s experience of a linear narrative will, in the end, be a complete and prearranged experience (Dancyger 156).

In line with this, Bordwell states that the narratological techniques, used in contemporary films, are ‘astonishingly robust’, he argues, moreover, that they form the ‘lingua franca for worldwide filmmaking’ (The Way Hollywood Tells It 1). Within these narratological structures there is some room for artistic change or idiosyncrasy, but at the same time also a rather tough continuity is the case; i.e. a stringently framework for the structural composition of narratives. Bordwell raises the idea that the post-classical

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narrative – which have been described and examined by authors such as Elsaesser, Buckland and Thanouli – also display traditional (causal) patterns of narratives, but add ‘a playful knowingness’ to these patterns; the narrative asks the audience ‘to appreciate its masterful use of traditional codes’ (The Way Hollywood Tells It 7). In the end, we understand stories – just like Aristotle’s findings state – because they draw on skills we need on an everyday basis to play a meaningful and understanding role in (social) life; i.e. ‘connecting means to ends, ascribing intentions and emotions to others, seeing the present as stemming from the past’ (Bordwell, The Way Hollywood Tells It 15). To understand how these stories work, we need to examine how the screenplay is constructed in order to make it understandable to the audience. Or, in other words, to examine how the audience transforms the individual parts of the story into a comprehensible whole. In order to do this, I will take a look at a selection of popular screenplay manuals. In the last few decades ‘dozens of screenplay manuals pouring from the presses have demanded tight plot construction and a careful coordination of emotional appeals’, and this led, naturally, to a certain continuity in screenwriting rules (The Way Hollywood Tells It 27). Let us, therefore, first try to get an overview of the statements around which the commonly used how-to books move around.

Nearly all the manuals –which are, without exception, normative and gather their normative stand points in non-academic ways – agree about the idea that a protagonist ‘should pursue important goals and face forbidding obstacles’, and that, furthermore, throughout the narrative, in every scene, there should be constant conflict. As well as the idea that ‘actions should be bound into a tight chain of cause and effect’. Moreover, ‘major events should be foreshadowed (“planted”), but not so obviously that the viewer can predict them’. And, lastly, the ‘tension should rise in the course of the film until a climax resolves all the issues’ (Bordwell, The Way Hollywood Tells It 28). These principles for the screenplay have been formulated, in many different ways, in various published manuals.

Like stated in the introduction, all art forms emerge in conformance to certain structures and rules. A specifically strict formula – present in almost every how-to book on the screenplay – is the three-act structure. The rigid division in parts is derived from Aristotle, who stated that, as already described above, a story is divided into a beginning, a middle and an end. With Aristotle’s ideas in mind, Syd Field, among others,

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proposed the three-act structure. Summarizing, the three-act structure functions fairly simple; in the first act the hero’s major conflict is introduced, and ends with a crisis. The second act consists of the hero’s ongoing confrontations with obstacles that keep him from achieving his or her dramatic need. The third act shows the hero resolving his conflicts, and offers resolution to the posed dramatic questions (Field 21-27). Starting from a two-hour film and the idea that one script page is equal to one minute in a film, the manuals state that the first act should exist out of thirty pages, the second act out of sixty pages, and the third act out of thirty pages again. This template results in the ratio of 1:2:1 for the three acts (Bordwell, The Way Hollywood Tells It 28).

Another well-known script guru, Robert McKee, made the idea popular that within this three-act structure there should be an inciting incident in the first act, which radically disorders the harmony of the protagonist’s life (189). Moreover, after the second act, which is constructed as a chain of difficulties and complications, the protagonist should end up in a deliberately static moment of choice where he or she finds the means to defeat the antagonist (McKee 307-309). Overall, the three-act structure is considered to be the ideal, or optimal, structure for a large audience intended film (Bordwell, The Way Hollywood Tells It 29). Through the implementation of the same structure in various screenplay manuals this particular structural architecture became the ruling structure in contemporary films. The ubiquity of this structure made both the writing of screenplays and the consuming of films a standardized routine.

Bordwell states that the ‘screenplay manuals’ reliance on act structure, page counts, character arcs, and the mythic journal did not overturn classical Hollywood dramaturgy’, on the contrary, the methods and principles advocated for in the manuals filled them in, fine-tuned them and ‘left less to trial and error’ (The Way Hollywood Tells

It 34). Within the templates advocated for in the screenplay manuals, writers and

filmmakers can ask themselves questions how they could make their characters more compelling, plots more unforeseen and causal relations more apt? In other words, how can we distinguish ourselves from the existing grid? How can someone excel in structuring a screenplay in accordance with the conventions of the contemporary film?

There are enumerable examples of this distinguishing from the existing grid through the construction of the narrative; for example (post)modern narratives known

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by several denominators such as the forking-path plot, puzzle films, modular narratives or ensemble films. In the discussion of the forking-path plot David Bordwell, at first sight, thinks to have found a form that deviated from the linear Aristotelian structure. Simply put, the forking-path plot covers the idea of a fixed point in the narrative, from which ‘mutually exclusive lines of action’ arise, which lead to different futures (Bordwell, Film Futures 89). He refers, by this description, to films such as Run Lola Run (Twyker, 1998) where the plot shows different outcomes, paths or futures to a specific situation. But in contrast with his first guess, Bordwell comes to the conclusion that these forking-path films ‘have stretched and enriched some narrative norms’, but have not introduced a new sort of complex plot, or, if you will, subverting or demolishing old forms of narrative (Film Futures 91). He states that, again, all narratives are built upon folk psychology. They are, in other words, assembled out of ordinary knowledge about the everyday world. In following a narrative, the audience uses ordinary forms of reasoning – among which premature conclusions and stereotypes – and it makes inferences on the basis of first impressions. Hence, even complex plots like forking-path plots have ‘certain fundamental properties that are quite familiar to us from classical narratives’, they are, for example, ‘well-marked, linear, developed, cohesive, unified with one another, ordered sequentially to make the final path a climax, and designed to pinpoint clear, contrasting parallels’ (Branigan 105). Just as in real life, narratives present us hypothetical situations with associated hypothetical outcomes. It is up to the audience to organize the effects of these hypothetical situations into a comprehensible story; i.e. a story which satisfies the audience’s conception of physical and social probability. Screenwriters have to use the psychology and knowledge of everyday life in order to make a plot comprehensible. In the end, Bordwell states:

we shouldn’t underestimate the extent to which stretching traditional narrative requires care. Narratives are designed by human minds for human minds. Stories bear the traces of not only local and historical conventions of sense-making, but also of the constraints and biases of human perception and cognition. A film, while moving inexorably forward (we can’t stop and go back), must manage several channels of information (image, speech, noise, music). It must therefore work particularly hard to shape the spectator’s attention, memory, and inference- making at each instant. No wonder that filmmakers balance potentially confusing innovations like the multiple-draft structure with heightened appeal to those forms and formulas that viewers know well. Artists should test the limits of story comprehension, but those very limits, and the predictable patterns they yield, remain essential to our dynamic experience of narrative. (Film Futures 103).

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Chapter 2: Deviations from the Aristotelean Structure

The Non-Linear Dramatic Structure

An example of a possible distinction from the common Aristotelian linear narrative is something that is commonly understood under the heading of the non-linear narrative; a design of stories with a ‘lack’ of narrative progression. These stories should undermine causality, and give the impression of a more realistic representation of reality because it shows the world in a more accidental way. In this non-linear form, there is no single main character who leads the narrative. Instead, there are multiple protagonists which, in most cases, do not have, or are not driven by, a distinct goal. The lack of a character goal as instigator, could indicate that regarding the non-linear narrative there is no distinct dramatic arc that determines the narrative (Dancyger and Rush 156). Concerning non-linear narratives, there are multiple characters, and the target for the audience, moreover, is not to identify with them, but to observe them instead. Furthermore, within a non-linear narrative there is no dominant role for the plot due to the presence of multiple protagonist. The absence of a clear plot ensures the disappearance of a dramatic arc as well; instead of a beginning and an end, a non-linear narrative presents a series of situations not directly related to a goal or a plot. Moreover, in a non-linear narrative, chronological time is no longer necessary, as well as the omnipresence of causality. Instead of a dramatic development and a character arc, a series of events is presented to the audience which can, in effect, be explored and observed. The organization of the presented events is not continuous, it has an accidental temper not affected by cause and effect. Moreover, the involvement of the audience is created by the strength of the situations (the scenes) rather than by the plot. In the end, ‘this puts much more emphasis on exploration than on exposition, on feeling and mood rather than on external events’ (Dancyger and Rush 157). According to Dancyger and Rush, the organizing principle in the non-linear narrative is a shaping device; i.e. an elusive structure which hold the narrative together (158). The particular form of this shaping device differs from one story to another. It can, for example, be something like place, time, condition, characters, theme, object or even an idea. In almost every case, the non-linear film does not have a classic three-act structure. Instead, it has two acts, or no act breaks at all, this differs from one story to another. Overall, a non-linear narrative requires more participation from the audience, and the

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voice of the writer is particularly present. This description of the non-linear narrative, for one thing, seems to offer possibilities to escape the strict causal tendency which underlined the previous considerations regarding the fundaments of the narrative. But, this description does not fully answer my demand for a fundamentally deviant form of the discussed linear causality, because it does not present a fundamental alternative to the causal relation. The idea of the non-linear narrative gives, therefore, a helpful push in the right direction. But, in the end, it does not provide a substantially satisfying theoretical fundament to build my analysis upon.

By the same token, a lot more has been written about the experimenting with narratological principles; about the play with time, space, character’s goals, causal relations and so forth. The experiments have been ascribed different names like the puzzle-film, complex narratives, non-linear narratives, post-classical narratives etc. The points made in regard to these deviant narrative forms are rather divergent and somniferous, and it is, with the length of this thesis in mind, not possible to elaborate on all of them here. Instead, I will highlight certain narratives where the notion of contingency plays a significant role because this angle will be of great importance during my analysis of Paul Thomas Anderson’s screenplays.

Contingency Within the Causal Structure of the Narrative

As seen, causal relations, and their place within the dimensions of space and time, play a not to be underestimated role in the narrative. There are even claims that since Aristotle’s Poetics ‘events in narratives are radically correlative, enchaining, entailing’ and that their sequence, moreover, ‘is not simply linear but causative’ (Chatman, Story

and Discourse 45). This causation can either be explicit or implicit, but there should,

according to Aristotle and his countless heirs, always be a root cause which ultimately determines the events. But, when reading the screenplays of Paul Thomas Anderson, it is exactly a certain sense of randomness, a touch of the accidental and coincidental which is prominent in regard to the events described in the plot. Or, as Matthew Rodrigues states it in Anything Goes: The Erratic Cinema of Paul Thomas Anderson, there is something peculiar in Anderson’s stories which enhances ‘an abundance of strangeness and uncertainty’, and there is, moreover, a tendency to highlight the

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accidental, the unforeseen and the unruly (3-12). Now, this flirting with the unforeseen appears to contradict the previous demonstrated findings on the functioning of the narrative – to contradict the entailed causative nature of the relation between events within the narrative constructed for film. There seems to be a point of friction when the relation between events in a film’s narrative are guided by coincidence; when contingency becomes a substantive driver of the narrative. The point of friction rises with greater reason when contingency is implemented in the screenplay. That is to say, writing for film in particular has a compositional dimension; it transforms the sequence of different events into a meaningful whole, and, moreover, explains these events in relation to the beginning and the ending. The writing of a screenplay should therefore essentially be a matter of predetermined structure and clear (causal) relations. Hence, especially in regard to the screenplay appears the contradiction – the structural implementation of contingency – where this investigation is focused on; the premeditation of something coincidental or contingent. Is it this possible to overcome this contradiction and create situation as such?

Before going on, it is necessary to give a general outline of what is precisely understood as contingent, or contingency, in this particular research. The Oxford English dictionary defines contingency as ‘a future event or circumstance which is possible but cannot be predicted with certainty’ (n.p.). Since events or circumstances necessarily happen – especially in the film’s narrative – in the realm of space and time, contingency encompasses, for this reason, the idea that things happen on the same place during the same time while this does not necessarily have to be the case. This particular definition is rather similar to the notion of coincidence, which is described as ‘a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection’, or as ‘the fact of corresponding in nature or in time of occurrence’ (Oxford English Dictionary n.p.). In literary studies, coincidence has been defined as ‘a constellation of two or more apparently random events in space and time with an uncanny or striking connection’ (Dannenberg 93). What is important in regard to the understanding of contingency – and what is missing in regard to the concept of coincidence – is the relation between predictability (or unpredictability) and contingency. The notion of contingency includes the happening of an event at a certain place during a certain time which could not be predicted on the basis of causality. A

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contingent event is thus ‘depending for its existence, occurrence, character, etc. on something not yet certain’ (Chatman 47). Since it is an eminently broad concept, it is important to highlight that the understanding of contingency used in this investigation is closely related to both the idea of predictability and probability. It is possibly enlightening, concerning the understanding of contingency, to speak of a dichotomy between causality and contingency (within this dialectic division both concepts represent the relation between events); when one examines this dichotomy, he sees that contingency can be considered as the opposite of causality, and that the same is true the other way around. Although they are opposites of each other, they are clearly interrelated. As a matter of fact, the idea of contingency could not exist without the existence of causality, and vice versa. For the purposes of this investigation, ‘contingency’ is, therefore, defined as: a concept that serves the purpose of defining that, in one way or another, the relation between two events appears not to be causal. This means that, in the end, the notion of contingency is negatively determined.

An important addition to this conceptual consideration is the difference between cause and reason. These notions are often used interchangeably but there is, in fact, a significant difference. Cause is the description of an entity that produces, for instance, a new course of events; ‘a person or thing that gives rise to action, phenomenon, or condition’ (Oxford English Dictionary n.p.). Reason on the other hand comprises the thought process of ascribing an explanation – or cause – behind again, for example, a course of events ; ‘a cause, explanation, or justification for an action or event’ (Oxford English Dictionary n.p.). The most important difference between these concepts is that in the case of reason an active human process seems to be the basis of this explanation, whereas in relation to the notion of cause this is, to much lesser extent, the case. That is to say, the concept of cause has, more or less, an objective connotation, while reason has a relatively subjective undertone. During my analysis I will predominantly use the term cause to describe an explanation regarding a certain course of events due to the fact that this inquiry is primarily aimed at the unconditional relation between events; i.e. independent of active thought processes of any human being whatsoever.

Now that an outline of the notion of the contingent and adherents is given, the next step is to take a look at the role of contingency within cinema. The question is, if there is also a place for something like coincidence or contingency within the structure

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of the film’s narrative? A positive answer appears to be obvious since there is also a place for contingency in the real world. But, as a matter of fact, a relatively small amount of film scholars have investigated cinema’s relation with contingency. Besides the discussions of respected film theorists Siegfried Kracauer, Kristin Thompson and Mary Ann Doane on the relation between something that could be described as contingency and cinema, this field has for a large part been neglected in film theory (Teinemaa 6). Doane, in her book The Emergence of Cinematic Time, for example states that cinema since the very beginning has had a deep-seated relation with contingency (22). She argues that cinema in particular is a medium which is able to represent the contingent. For example, the idea that cinema ‘with its vigilant mechanical eye… tends to register unintended, unconscious, and otherwise invisible excesses’, in line with this one can say that ‘the film camera records and interprets not only what the operator wishes it to record, but also but also “a riot of details”, those profilmic events that “just happen”’ (Bruckner 279-281). Previously, academics like Walter Benjamin and Dziga Vertov have already written on this specific quality of cinema. André Bazin, for instance, claims that the film camera is able to catch the ‘ambiguity inherent in reality’ in a long take (8). And states thereby, in line with Benjamin and Vertov, that the camera has a distinct relation to reality. A relation which makes the medium cinema eminently suitable medium for the catching of things like the accidental character of the world; i.e. that cinema is able to grasp the contingent.

But, this debate is predominantly aimed at the technical elements of cinema which are in general immanent in the medium and, therefore, not staged, scripted or constructed. The contingent aspects of cinema, which Kracauer, Thompson (she describes it as cinematic excess) and Doane discuss, are all elements of the medium cinema that appear by accident, without the intention of the filmmaker, in the actual film (Teinemaa 7-8). This is, for one thing, not the dimension of cinema where I will be concentrating on. Instead, this inquiry focuses on the screenplay and, therefore, not on the end product; the actual film. The understanding of contingency practiced in this investigation has nothing to do with the possibility for a bird to fly in front of the camera by accident. Instead, in this inquiry the notion of contingency will be applied to the relation between events within the space and time of the narrative. When taken into account that the narrative for film is always constructed by means of a careful and

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detailed procedure, an interesting contradiction appears. Film is eminently developed out of ‘conscious choices that need planning and mostly bring contingency to a bare minimum’, cinema, in any form whatsoever, is, to a certain extent, ‘always based on reason’ (Teinemaa 29). For this reason, it is safe to state that the contingent relation between events does not appear by accident within the narrative of a screenplay. Therefore, when a film tends to catch the coincidental, or the contingent, a paradox-like situation appears. That is to say, the encounter between film and contingency is counterintuitive, simply because of the reason that ‘almost every film has been structured, more or less carefully, by a filmmaker’s intent on providing the spectator with a prearranged experience in which each occurrence necessarily follows from another’ (McGowan 404). This last idea, that each event should follow from necessity out of the other is omnipresent within the theory concerning the film’s narrative. As described, ‘classical narrative films are largely structured with a particular end goal in mind and avoid contingency as a likely deviation in that process’ (Teinamaa 31).

The question that rises from this contradiction is if it is possible for the filmmaker to have the intention to implement some forms of contingency into the content of the narrative; i.e. implement an assembled form of contingency in the narrative. Doane came across a form of intentional contingency in the early films of George Méliès. In his films, she sees that ‘time is above all extraordinary, elastic, producing, unpredictable effects, insisting upon the uncanny instantaneity of appearance, disappearance, and transformation’ (136). This is interesting because she places the idea of contingency in relation with the depiction of time, and the latter is a concept that is, as described, closely related to the narrative. Furthermore, Doane argues, that Méliès’ relation to contingency expresses itself in the tendency that ‘in spite of the extensive control and mastery exhibited in Méliès’ films, they dramatize – often quite explicitly – the effect of loss and control’, in his films, he pays an ‘homage to contingency despite the fact that they are carefully orchestrated’ (137). This carefully coordinated and arranged ‘homage to contingency’ seems to present a similar glimpse of intentional contingency as I am looking for.

The point that I will make during the analysis is that Anderson’s screenplays both structure the coincidental, and strengthen the idea of contingency through the story content. Furthermore, the double relation of both causality and contingency

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within a narrative, convincingly articulated by Allan Cameron as the idea that ‘all narratives involve the accommodation of both contingency and its opposite, necessity’, appears to serve as the thematic driver of the narratives in Anderson’s screenplays (66). This strange relation between the unpredictable contingency and the causal determinism works as a motif within the scripts in question; ‘contingency functions as a narrative engine’ (Cameron 66). The friction appears when it is the writer’s objective to structure the coincidental. To give the impression that within the narrative two different events appear at the same time in the same place independent of any form of causal connection whatsoever. This, however, does not mean that the narrative has domesticated the coincidental. Instead, as Cameron states, the ‘narrative itself is not simply the triumph of order over contingency’, it consists, ‘of a negotiation between the contingent and the predetermined’ (69). My claim is that this mediation between the causal and the contingent is the case in Anderson’s screenplays.

But there is more to it. Hence, it is not only through the content of the narrative that the contingency-causality dichotomy is being considered. Also through the particular construction of the screenplay the suggestion of contingency is implied; it is, to be more precise, through the particular construction of space and time that the contingency-causality dialectic is being questioned. The reason that this is done due to the particular construction of space and time is obvious, space and time are, namely, fundamental conditions for the existence of an understanding of notions such as causality, contingency and coincidence. Space and time are, to speak in the words of Immanuel Kant, categories of the human being’s understanding that constitute his perception of the world, and form, for this reason, also the means for the expression of causal relations (69). Since a contingent relation between events crystallizes in the same realm – the realm of space and time – as a causal relation, it is, in order to study the contingency-causality dichotomy, necessary to examine the use of space and time in the screenplays. My investigations in regard to the structural representation of space and time will, for a large part, be based upon the conceptual scheme of plot space and story space on the one hand, and plot time and story time on the other. The difference between plot and story mainly revolves around the idea that the story, on the one hand, ‘consists of the events of the narrative in an inferred cause-and-effect chain’, and plot, on the other, ‘consists of the actual presentation and arrangements of these events’ in the

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narrative (Thanouli 32). The first is the mental construction of the narrative that the audience makes according to the inferences, interpretations and expectations; i.e. the underlying narrative independent of the way in which it is told. The latter is the concrete presentation via the medium of the events within the story; the way in which the narrative is actually told to the audience.

Ultimately, my claim will be that the depiction of space and time within the screenplays in question epitomize a complicated and deep relation between the notions of causality, coincidence, structure and contingency. Furthermore, I will argue that this complex relation articulates a significant human tendency to transform the contingent world into a comprehensible construction. This transformation into an understandable construction, is, I want to claim, similar to the manner in which the architecture of the screenplay structures its content into a comprehensible narrative. In other words, the particular structures of the to be analyzed screenplays illustrate the human habit of making sense of the volatility in space and time by means of the allocating of meaning, reason, and perhaps even causal relations. The general idea is that the reason behind the way circumstances are as they are is in itself elusive, and, therefore, not understandable when taken on a singular level. But the human mind has a trick for this erratic set of data, it creates ‘causes’ in relation to different circumstances and, thereby, organizes them into a comprehensible whole. This means that contingency, on a daily base, is subjected to sense-making practices guided by the instrument of reason. In extension, ‘the interesting thing is that our minds inveterately seek structure, and they will provide it if necessary’ (Chatman, Story and Discourse 45). This understanding moves around the idea that the coincidental world, ‘although ostensibly a random occurrence, is so striking and special that it produces a strong desire in the human mind for an explanation, often one using the connecting patterns of causation’ (Dannenberg 92). In a way, with the ascribing of ‘causes’ to events, the human being tries to control and regulate his insecure relation with both space, time and coincidence. It is, in other words, the taking control over life by making a story of it; the conquering of the unconscionable universe. The screenplays in question explore this fascinating mechanism of ascribing meaning to the world by their particular organization of space and time. In the end, my claim is that the scripts cogently consider how the human being uses narratives to understand his relation with the world.

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Chapter 3: Hard Eight

Now that the exceptional relationship between the narrative, contingency and causality is described on a theoretical level, the next step is to apply these abstract considerations to the practice of the screenplay. The corpus used in this research – the screenplays of the first three feature films of Paul Thomas Anderson – have, as stated, a common denominator in the form of several articulations of contingency. With the manifold presence of coincidence, the narratives make, both on a literal and a thematic level, a statement about the intelligibility of the world. Yet, it is not only through the content of the narrative that the causality-contingency dialectic is being considered, this deliberation is also strengthened by means of the particular construction of the script on a scene-level.

In his study on Anderson’s films Matthew Rodrigues sees a similar tendency, he states that ‘Anderson’s films remind us that much of cinema’s fascination and ‘nature’ also lies in its anti-systematic, ambiguous and unpredictable capacities’ (4). Furthermore, he states that in Anderson’s films the coincidental as premeditated effect offers ‘aesthetic pleasures or discomforts that recall more ‘legitimate’ contingencies (a sense of surprise, bewilderment, distaste fascination, etc.)’, moreover, in the films we find ‘an orchestration of striking, unusual features that indicate his acute awareness of the utility of contingency as an aesthetic and narrative effect’ (Rodrigues 8). Rodrigues, thus, focuses on the way the medium film is able to represent notions such as contingency and excess through the channel of the audiovisual image. He states, furthermore, that ‘the unruly and ambiguous force of Anderson’s films may be accompanied by what Doane identifies as the ‘threat’ of ‘meaninglessness,’ but they may also remind us of the ‘unpredictable fertility’ of films, and how the rich texts we study can exceed paradigms, not only ushering in new forms, but new ‘habits of viewing,’ as well’ (44). Although he particularly aims his considerations towards the film as end product (and its relation with the audience), and not specifically to the structural dimensions of the narrative, it is still significant to see that he identifies an identical dance with the coincidental as I claim to do. But, in relation to my investigation, Rodrigues wants to say something about the medium film, whereas I want to make a contribution to the knowledge on the fundaments of the narrative constructed for film.

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In line with this, Teinemaa, in his elaboration on the eccentricity (a concept that Kristin Thompson uses in a manner similar to the notion of contingency) in Magnolia, states that the film is in a constant tension between excess and control (125). This is, for one thing, an identical tension as I claim to see; i.e. a tension between contingency and causality. But, just as Rodrigues, Teinemaa raises questions about the possibilities in regard to the representability of reality by means of the medium film. Again, there are some similarities, but, ultimately, Teinemaa approaches the matter from another perspective, – from the perspective of the audiovisual medium film – and, thereby, Teinemaa as well operates on another level than I am intending to engage. Both inquiries can push certain ideas in the right direction, and, furthermore, add strength to my findings, considering the fact that a comparable thematic fundament dominate their studies.

Moreover, Brian Goss examined, in his article ‘”Things Like This Just Don’t Happen”: Ideology and Paul Thomas Anderson’s Hard Eight, Boogie Nights, and

Magnolia’, the same corpus as I will do, though he, again, focuses on the films, whereas I

will focus solely on the screenplays. The title may indicate a consideration on the notion of coincidence, but this is, in fact, not the case. Instead, the article focuses on the connection between these three films and a duality of ruling discourses and ideologies concerning the (neoliberal) market and the patriarchal family. Goss’ claim, moreover, is that these three films and their apparent ‘embrace of marginalized subjectivities often endorse mainstream ideologies, particularly with respect to the patriarchal family and the market’ (172). These ideological and thematic considerations will be interesting to keep in mind, but are not going to play a central role since I am focusing on another field of discussion; i.e. the possibility for contingency in the causative narrative.

Now, back to the contingency in Anderson’s screenplays. For one thing, an important reason for this contingent character of the Anderson’s screenplays is related to the fact that the narratives unfold through different – on the surface – unrelated situations, events and characters; the screenplays, furthermore, show a ‘high energy movement through multiple storylines’ (Goss 189). The fact that this appears to be the case in Magnolia seems needless to say, since this is an eminent example of an ensemble film. But also Boogie Nights, a narrative built upon more classic narratological principles, shows an extensive arsenal of characters and storylines that potentially

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distracts the narrative from the linear chain of cause and effect. Hard Eight is ‘compared to the multiple-character, multiple-plot, multi-layered form of the later films’ relatively straightforward, ‘it’s flattened out, in a sense’, moreover, ‘all of its characters – numbering, in this case, only four – encounter each other on the same plane’ (Bruns 207). But, at the same time, Roger Ebert wrote, in his review on the film, that the movie is not about the plot. Instead, it is ‘about these specific people in this place and time, and that's why it's so good’ (n.p.). This is, in fact, very similar to the thoughts on the non-linear narrative as described in the second chapter. Therefore, Hard Eight seems, of the three examined screenplays, due to its ‘straightforwardness’, eminently suited to reproduce a linear Aristotelean narrative, but, on the other hand, also a glimpse of a ‘non-linear’ narrative can be seen.

Hard Eight was released in 1996, and tells the story about the polite and

experienced gambler, Sydney, who meets the unfortunate and bankrupt John in front of a coffee shop. Sydney decides to help John, together they go to Reno where Sydney shows his tips and tricks in regard to the games of chance. Two years later, John and Sydney are still friends, and they earned some money with Sydney’s gambling methods. Along the way, they met a cocktail waitress Clementine, who works as a prostitute on the side, and, in addition, John became friends with a small-time crook named Jimmy. John and Clementine hook up, and end up getting married. Then, Sydney gets an alarming call from John, who says Sydney should meet him at a motel. When he arrives at the residence, he finds John, Clementine and a client of Clementine who has been held hostage by the newly married couple. He did not pay Clementine after the intercourse, and John and Clementine have beaten him up in order to receive the money. Sydney takes care of the situation, and sends John and Clementine to the Niagra Falls on a honeymoon. A few days after Sydney got rid of the evidence he’s approached by John’s friend, Jimmy. Jimmy treats to tell John that Sydney killed his father in Atlantic City a dozen of years ago if Sydney will not get him ten thousand dollars. Sydney decides to pay him some cash, but after that, sets an ambush in Jimmy’s house and kills him. When Sydney leaves Jimmy’s house he grabs a cup of coffee at the same shop as he met John. Then the man who was held hostage by John and Clementine appears in the coffee shop, he does not hesitate and kills Sydney.

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The overall relation between the events within this narrative seems to be interspersed with contingency. The overarching plot is driven by the coincidental encounter between Sydney and John at the coffee shop. Moreover, originating from this first coincidence, they become close friends, which makes the contingency of this first meeting rather impactful. Their being at the same place, at the same time, puts the story into effect (Dannenberg 93). Somewhat later, in scene 27, Sydney meets Clementine in exactly the same coffee shop. He takes care of her in an identical manner as he did with John, the similarities are clear. As icing on the cake, John and Clementine get married after this accumulation of coincidence. The relation between the events within the story of Hard Eight seem, at most, no more than extremely coincidental.

But, in effect, nothing is what it seems to be. That is to say, when the story unfolds, the audience is provided with more background information. This information reveals the fact that Sydney killed John’s father in the past. This disclosure obviously changes everything. It was not a matter of coincidence that Sydney met John. Instead, it was a highly planned, predetermined, encounter in order to cure his feeling of guilt. Due to his past actions, he wanted to make things up by means of supporting John to get his life together. Sydney’s helping hand was no act of a Good Samaritan, but was a deeply forethought construction of events to compensate his self-condemnation. The course of events is, in other words, determined by causality. Furthermore, Sydney has outlined the marriage between John and Clementine in advance as well (Goss 180). Even something as pronounced by inexplicable circumstances as love is prearranged in this particular situation. What seemed to be a story interspersed with coincidence is in fact one of the most predetermined arrangement of events possible. By this sudden shift, the coincidence has been placed in perspective. The story presented itself as an accolade to the contingent, but then showed its real colors and revealed it was all based upon cause and determinism. This is, to a large extent, a plot of revelation. In these sorts of plots, it is not necessary to answer the question of what will happen, instead, the idea is that the unreduced state of affairs is being revealed in the course of the narrative (Chatman 48). By means of this particular structure, the plot, in a way, questions the causality-contingency dialectic. At first the script appears to articulate a convincing example of the implementation of contingency in the causative structure of the narrative. But, then, this idea of contingency is overturned by the introduction of an overall cause. That is to

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say, the story, in the end, occurs to be predetermined by a cause, either by the agency of Sydney, or at the hand of the screenwriter.

Furthermore, the causality-contingency dichotomy is considered by the idea of luck, chance and certainty (contingency and predictability) in regard to gambling, – an important theme within the narrative. Sydney says that he believes that ‘if you don’t know how to count cards you should stay away from black jack’ (Anderson, Hard Eight 3). He, thus, insinuates that with this trick of counting cards he can turn a game of chance into a game of certainty; i.e. turn contingency into predictability. All of a sudden a contradiction comes to surface; a contingent matter can, namely, by definition not be predicted with certainty (Chatman 47). A game as decided by luck as gambling, is now molded into an inevitable successful outcome; an impossible example of taking the execution of fate into your own hands. This a similar contradiction as seen in the second chapter; the paradox of the intentional implementation of planned contingency in a carefully structured screenplay. With this paradox in mind the question rises if it is still a matter of luck (or fate) when one decides the outcome himself? The question is, furthermore, if this is still a matter of contingency when you can predict it with certainty? Here, again the contingency-causality dialectic appears, and is, moreover, immediately abolished. Let’s first take a look at the dialogue in scene five – which is included in the appendix – where this idea of gambling with certainty is worked out most powerful.

Scene five is drenched with the impetus of contingency through the use of dialogue. First, Sydney tells a story about his uncle who died in a rather unpredictable manner by slipping over a patch of ice, while he also survived being shot twenty-three times – this reflection on the predictability concerning possible ways to die, shows how the concept of contingency is integrated in existential ideas such as life and death. Both life and death are, from a metaphysical perspective, contingent because they can be the case, but there is – up to now – no logical, or causal explanation for either our existence or our mortality. This story on the likelihood of certain ways to die is, furthermore, followed by an explanation on the different possible outcomes when rolling two dices. Sydney tells John that there is a limited amount of possibilities, and that he, in addition, should keep this in mind while gambling. But, Sydney states, moreover, that you cannot control how they come. This seems to be a literal discussion of the concept contingency;