A stereotype can be useful for about ten seconds. Here are the ones I see over and over again at Raindance. And none are the principles professionals use:
- The ruthless producer.
- The shy teenager.
- The detective who drinks too much.
Each gives an audience an immediate idea of who has entered the story.
Yet then the challenge to the writer is: how to make that person worth watching. And more importantly, remember them after the closing credits.
Professional writers build their characters through desire, behaviour, contradiction, and choice.
Here are seven principles that can turn a stereotypical character into someone an actor can play and an audience can remember.
1. Give Them Something Specific to Want
“The ambitious actress” is a type.
But “The actress who needs a paying role before Friday or she loses her flat” is a character with a story.
A clear want gives the character a reason to enter scenes, make requests, and take risks. It also gives other characters something to resist. The more specific the want, the easier it is to write action instead of explanation.
I have screamed and shouted for decades at Raindance screenwriting courses: Be specific about the want.
Imagine the stereotypical wealthy businessman.
Does he want another million?
That tells us little.
Does he need his estranged daughter to come to dinner before she moves abroad?
Now his money may be useless to him.
This is a great learning about the principles professionals use all the time.
We can begin to see a person with their wants and needs.
I will bet a dollar that yoy would remember this character, no matter how much you dislike them.
2. Give Them a Reason They Cannot Simply Ask
Characters become interesting when what they want and what they can admit are different.
Take the “tough single mother.” She wants her adult son to visit. But she has spent twenty years insisting she needs nobody, so she calls to complain about a leaking tap. The tap may be real. It is also the only invitation she knows how to make to her son.
This principle creates dialogue with a life beneath it.
People rarely announce their deepest need at the start of a scene.
They ask for a lift, pick a fight, or offer someone a cup of tea.
What they do can reveal more than what they say.
3. Build a Contradiction
Contradiction is a brilliant tool to use. It’s almost a guarantee to make your characters memorable. Peter Sellers in Pink Panther springs to mind.
Why not do a brain dump and list your main characters? Beside each name write what they think they are and then a contradiction. This is in part an idea generation exercise too.
Here are some examples (which you can borrow from me):
- A feared gangster grows orchids and cannot bear to cut them.
- A cheerful wedding planner dreads her own wedding.
- The literature professor who urges students to be brave has never shown anyone her screenplay.
A contradiction needs to affect the story. If your gangster risks missing a hit to save his greenhouse, his orchids tell us something about his priorities. If they are mentioned once and forgotten, they are decoration.
Ask yourself: what belief does this character hold that their behaviour keeps challenging?
4. Know What They Fear Losing
Here is the difference between fear and desire. A character’s desire pulls them forward. Fear makes them hesitate, conceal things, or make a disastrous decision. Could this be something you discover in your own life as you delve into your writing?
It’s what I really love about creative writing. Sometimes you can discover what is inside you holding you back. Put it on the screen, and others will identify and learn too.
It’s part of what I teach in the Screenwriter’s Foundation Certificate.
Here are a couple of examples I’ve just made up:
Consider the “arrogant surgeon.” Perhaps she fears a patient dying. More revealingly, perhaps she fears her colleagues discovering that her hands sometimes tremble. She may refuse help precisely when she needs it. Her flaw now has a consequence, and her competence becomes part of the tension.
The loss need not be a life or a career. A lonely neighbour might fear losing the one person who knocks on his door. That fear could make him lie, interfere, or finally tell the truth.
Its scale matters less than its power over him.
5. Let Them Behave Differently With Different People
Real people are inconsistent because relationships change what feels safe to them.
The “school bully” intimidates classmates, but becomes quiet around his older brother and is patient with his little sister. None of those behaviours excuses the bullying. Together, they give the actor more to play and the writer more to explore.
Here is a good trick:
Try placing your character with a superior, a friend, a stranger, and someone who depends on them. Watch what changes. Do they interrupt one person and listen closely to another? Do they tell jokes at work but struggle to speak at home?
Each relationship can reveal a different way they protect themselves from truth or consequence.
6. Make Them Choose When Both Options Cost Something
Nothing in life attracts attention more than when a character has a huge question they must answer. and the wrong answer needs to bring painful consequences. No question asked means your script is going to be, quite frankly, boring.
I have read over three thousand scripts in my decades at Raindance, and a lot of so-called flat scripts could be elevated to worthy and even award-winning if the character was forced to answer a question, a question so painful that the wrong answer could ruin their life and reputation.
Picture the stereotypical “idealistic young journalist.” She obtains evidence of corruption, but publishing it would expose the source who trusted her. Protecting the source means allowing the corrupt official to remain in power. never mind the sexual frisson that might be embedded in the story. Neither choice lets her keep her image intact.
That is where character becomes visible. A difficult choice shows which principle holds when principles collide. It can also change the character.
After making the decision, what can she no longer claim to believe in herself?
7. Allow Them to Surprise Us Without Cheating
Here is another really good example of the good principles professionals use all the time.
A good character we identify and root for can make a series of seemingly crazy choices, but in the end, we realise they could see the endgame that we, the audience didn’t see.
The “cowardly accountant” returns to a burning building. Why? Earlier, we saw him avoid confrontation, but we also saw him keep a meticulous list of everyone inside, including the vulnerable one he has a crush on. His fear remains. So does his sense of responsibility. When he goes back, the act is surprising because it costs him something really big – he could lose his life. But yet, it’s believable because we understand what drives him.
You do not have to make every villain tender or every hero secretly cruel. You do need to know more about your characters than the label you first gave them. And remember, the label is best when it’s shed over the course of the story. How many times in your life have you misjudged someone and then realised you had them totally wrong?
Stereotypes are often where a draft begins. Professionals keep asking questions until the label can no longer contain the person. What do they want? What can’t they say? What do they fear? And when the crucial moment comes, what will they choose? Will they choose the ‘wrong’ answer that in the end proves to be right?
The answers give you scenes. The choices give you a character.
The Raindance ecosystem
If you want to develop your own characters with expert guidance, explore Raindance courses in screenwriting, filmmaking, and creative development. Our practical courses are designed for writers and filmmakers at every stage, helping you turn strong ideas into compelling stories and production-ready projects.
You can also experience the work of emerging and established filmmakers at the Raindance Film Festival, where bold, independent cinema takes centre stage. Discover new voices, connect with the filmmaking community, and see the kinds of distinctive characters and original stories that audiences remember.
Want to see fresh new work by independent filmmakers working without industry permission? Check out Raindance Releasing.
Wait a minute before you leave. You can join Raindance – and get all kinds of film tips, save money on our education, and meet loads of cool potential collaborators. Join the Raindance Circle.
Find out more about Raindance courses and the Raindance Film Festival at raindance.org.
Photo Credit: Bertie Watson
I founded Raindance Film Festival in 1993 because the British film industry was closed, polite, and congratulating itself while shutting new filmmakers out.
I co-founded the British Independent Film Awards in 1998 because British indie film deserved more than a shrug, a pat on the head, and a Tuesday night screening.
Raindance didn’t start as a brand. It started as a rebellion: film training without gatekeepers, a festival without permission, and a community built by filmmakers who weren’t waiting to be invited in.
Later, we took it global: Toronto, Vancouver, New York, LA, Berlin, and Brussels, because independent film doesn’t belong to one city, one class, or one accent.
I’ve produced 700+ short films and seven features, including Deadly Virtues (2014) and ALICE, which won the SXSW Grand Jury Prize (2019) not because someone “discovered” us, but because the work earned its place.
I’ve written three books used by filmmakers worldwide because too many courses taught compliance instead of survival.
In 2009, I was awarded a PhD for services to film education, ironic, given that most of my career has been about tearing down the rules that education insisted you follow.
I don’t believe in waiting for permission.I believe in making work, building systems, and forcing the industry to catch up.
Specialties: Independent Film (the real kind) · Producing · Writing · Film Education · Festivals · Breaking Broken Systems
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