What I love most about The Princess Bride

This post is the first of a trio of deep dives following on from a previous discussion of the texts that shape us. I highly recommend reading that post first, if you haven’t already done so. Also, MAJOR spoilers ahead!

Every millenial has a movie or two that basically defined their childhood; for me, that movie was The Princess Bride. It’s imprinted itself so thoroughly on my psyche that I can (and do) quote just about the whole film, and I know it beat for beat. Even as children, my brother and I would rattle off the Miracle Max scene, word-perfect between us.

What was it that arrested my attention so thoroughly? Was it the lush costumes and sets that brought the fairytale kingdoms of Florin and Guilder to life? The utter quotability of basically every line? The swords?

All of these, undoubtedly. But there are also particular elements of the story and the way it was written and performed that have made The Princess Bride such an enduring classic, and some of these elements have affected me so much that they’ve started worming their way into my own writing.

Let’s dive into a few of my favourite pilfered writing techniques, and explore how William Goldman’s script, Rob Reiner’s direction, and the actors’ performances made these techniques so effective.

The framing

I’m a big fan of metanarrative,* and The Princess Bride has a lot of fun exploring this concept through the framing device of the Grandfather telling the story to his grandson. We in the audience get to share in the experience of being read to by Peter Falk—and who doesn’t love that? It’s cosy and comforting, helping us relax into the magic of the story.

We also get some hilarious commentary throughout the film from the Grandson, who voices our own thoughts in the most little-boy manner possible: “Who gets Humperdink?” “Is this a kissing book?” “I don’t believe this.”

The framing device of the Grandfather reading to his grandson compels us to see the film from a different angle, one tinged with nostalgia for the childhood we may or may not have had. We engage with the story of Buttercup and her companions with a childlike willingness to suspend disbelief and an expectation that the rules will be followed—though we are all the more invested when they aren’t.

*If you aren’t familiar with the words metanarrative or metatextuality, they’re terms that refer to a story that is about some form of fictional text, such as movies about moviemaking (e.g. Singin’ in the Rain) or, in this case, a movie about a nonexistent book (based on the novel about the same nonexistent book).

The dialogue

The dialogue in this film is just so dang good, I don’t even know where to begin! The words stick in my head, bouncing around endlessly to never be forgotten. The script is tight and snappy, like an expertly-played ping pong game of witticisms; there are no extraneous lines cluttering the scenes, and every word—every syllable, at times—pulls its weight. Additionally, The Princess Bride is brimming with banter and humour, though some scenes definitely bump the funny-factor up to 11.

The skill of the actors absolutely enhances the script—the lines just wouldn’t be the same without Christopher Guest’s perfect deadpan, or Cary Elwes’ smug sarcasm. But equally true is that the cast gives better, more effective performances because of the high quality of the dialogue. You can’t truly excel at one without the other being at least reasonably decent.

Anyone who’s read much of my narrative writing will probably recognise some similarities in the style of dialogue I like to use: snappy and quick-witted. It’s a great style to have on hand for comedies and scripts—little wonder that those are the things I like to write best!

The tone

There’s something really special about The Princess Bride’s tone. Buried under the layers of silliness we’ve already touched on, there’s a strong, sincere heart to the film that gives it more substance than you’ll find in most pure comedies. Yes, there’s irony and a bit of cynicism, but there’s also an unshakeable confidence in the power of True Love that goes without question. This combination of ridiculousness and earnestness is something I’ve noticed in my own work, and plan to nurture. One day, perhaps, I’ll be as good at it as The Princess Bride is.

One particularly notable example of such balanced tonal contrast is in the character of Inigo. He quips and banters easily with the other characters, then turns around and hits us with his tragic backstory and heartfelt quest to avenge his father. Mandy Patinkin deserves a great deal of credit for the effectiveness of Inigo’s subplot; having recently lost his own father, he channels his own fresh grief into the role, infusing it with a raw, compelling veracity. When he finally faces down Count Rugen, the audience is fully invested in his vengeance, and when he succeeds in killing him the catharsis is palpable (I find myself tearing up a little every time I watch it).

Robin Wright’s Buttercup is also at the core of the film’s great heart, exhibiting the power of faith in one’s beloved: she lost hope of Westley’s return once, and was proved foolish for it. She does not lose hope again, and her belief is verified, even when death itself stands in their way. In amongst the absurdities and slapstick moments we all love, Buttercup stands like a lighthouse, illuminating the truths that hold the whole thing up.

The Princess Bride states on several occasions that life isn’t fair, and we know from experience that that is very true. But sometimes, if the stars align, miracles can happen and True Love wins.

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