We saw Coyote vs. Acme last week, and my brain has been overworking itself untangling one of its plot snags. During that expenditure of brain cycles, I realized I didn’t know an official term for what I think of as “plot snags”. I considered asking ChatGPT, but I figured it would hallucinate a Kubrick interview from 1984 or something, so instead I’m here yapping at you about it.
Here’s a scene you’ve witnessed a million times:
We’re approaching the end of the second act, and we need some character drama. We need an uncomplicated fallout between Bob and Martha that is all Bob’s fault. The two scenes we really want are an explosive fallout where Martha tears up and slinks away, and a cathartic reconciliation where Bob knows he was wrong and apologizes. Then we can move on to act three.
If something about that moment ever bugged you, and you found your brain rolling back to it while you were supposed to be paying attention to the exciting climax, congratulations. You got snagged.
It’s not a plot hole, exactly.
A plot hole is somewhere the narrative contradicts itself, explicitly or implicitly. You are told X, and then you are told not-X, and the writer just leaves you hanging. Biff Tannen goes back in time to give a sports almanac to his younger self in 1955, then returns to an unchanged future. Our heroes then use the same time machine, only to find 1985 busted ass-sideways. The timeline is simultaneously changed and unchanged. Now what?
Well, now you either step over the plot hole and enjoy the rest of the film, or you step into it, twist your ankle, and never get over it. I mean, what are we to believe, that this is some sort of… *snert* magic xylophone, or something?
A plot hole is a place where the narrative does not make logical sense, and cannot be made to. What I’m calling a plot snag is a place where the narrative makes sense, but only by switching something around when you weren’t looking. A plot hole is a missing floorboard; a plot snag is a crooked board that juts up and catches your toe. The answer to both is to step over them and keep going. It’s only when they’re too big that you can’t help but trip on them.
Some folks trip more often than others, and some folks seem to get more enjoyment from tripping than they do enjoying stories. I’d go so far as to say the frequency of your tripping says something about your relationship to fiction. Obviously you trip the exact right amount. Folks who never trip are uncritical smooth-brains happy to gobble down any old tripe. Folks who constantly trip are miserable pedants, allergic to happiness.
The very fact that I’m writing a blog post about it should tell you where I’m at.
Here’s one that snagged me when I was ten.
Aladdin goes into the Cave of Wonders and befriends the Genie. As the new master of the lamp, Aladdin is entitled to three wishes. Genie sings a big, boisterous song about this and demonstrates firsthand what he will later call “phenomenal cosmic power”. The Genie is real. His magic is real. The wishes are real. Aladdin has a big decision ahead of him.
But Aladdin is a 1992 animated film, which means it is mandated from on high to impart important life lessons to young viewers. This time the dart landed on: don’t pretend to be something you’re not. That’s the big moral lesson Al needs to learn before the film is over.
The two scenes are in place: we need Al to make a wish, and later we need him to apologize for pretending. He asks Genie to make him a prince. Then, after the climactic final battle, he apologizes to everyone for pretending to be a prince. And because it’s a cartoon, things all still work out for him. Happy ending.
But wait.
Al didn’t wish to be a pretend prince. He wished to be a prince. A real wish, made of a real Genie with real “phenomenal cosmic power.” Unless this Genie is a real huckster—which we know he’s not—the magic didn’t just put Al in fancy clothes. The same wish that transformed Al into a prince also transformed his monkey friend into an elephant. Are we to believe Abu is some sort of… *snert* pretend elephant?
No, the movie made Al a prince, then quietly became a story about a kid pretending to be something he’s not, and it hoped you wouldn’t notice.
Classic plot snag.
Say, wasn’t this post about a coyote?
Listen, if you’re the kind of person who is bothered by spoilers, then you’ve already twisted your ankle in some other kind of hole. I can’t help you, except to point out:
The rest of the post has spoilers for Coyote vs. Acme.
The premise is simple: Wile E. Coyote wants to sue Acme for their products causing him repeated and grievous bodily harm. Coyote’s lawyer winds up spearheading a massive media circus, standing up for the little guy in the face of powerful corporate exploitation. He then discovers blueprints which reveal Coyote isn’t in this to fight the good fight; it’s all an elaborate scheme to get the Road Runner subpoenaed so he would have to stand still long enough for Coyote to catch and eat him.
And so, as we’re coming up on the end of the second act, we need some character drama. An uncomplicated fallout between Lawyer and Coyote that is all Lawyer’s fault. Lawyer confronts Coyote about misrepresenting his intentions, and Coyote tears up and slinks away.
A few minutes later, Lawyer discovers the corner of the blueprint he didn’t read. Step 4: catch Road Runner. Step 5: share Road Runner stew with my bestie lawyer friend. See, Coyote’s intentions were noble all along, and he’s a really good friend to boot! Lawyer therefore knows he’s wrong and apologizes. Cathartic reconciliation. And now we’re on to the climactic final act.
But wait.
Did you get snagged where I did? Did you notice what the story switched around while you weren’t looking?
Lawyer wasn’t upset at Coyote because Coyote betrayed their friendship. He was upset because Coyote was planning to turn his landmark case into a cartoon spectacle. Coyote still intends to catch and eat the Road Runner. He actually-and-for-real did the thing Lawyer accused him of. It’s only later that the story suggests the conflict was about something else.
That’s what I remained snagged on even after the film moved on to a refrigerator careening down the highway on rocket skis.
Don’t worry, the Road Runner is fine.
And the movie is extra funny. You should see it, if you haven’t. And if you do get snagged, you won’t stay snagged for long. It’s not the kind of movie that puts anything into your brain that wasn’t there before. It certainly didn’t help me to suddenly know how to properly end blog posts.