The Invisible Lead: Why Some Screenplays Save the True Hero for Last

In most screenwriting workshops, the early lessons are clear and unambiguous: identify your protagonist, define their want, throw obstacles in their way, and chart their arc. These basics are foundational to understanding dramatic structure. But what happens when a film doesn’t follow those rules? What happens when the story lures the audience in with one point-of-view, only to shift the emotional center elsewhere? What if the real protagonist doesn’t emerge until midway through the film—or even later?

These narrative pivots are not mere tricks. When handled with care, they can deepen the complexity of your characters and reframe the viewer’s emotional journey with them. But for screenwriters, this kind of structural risk can feel like walking a tightrope without a net. Misplaced focus, unclear stakes, or confusion about whose story is being told can quickly lose a reader’s trust. This is precisely where the guidance of a screenwriting coach—especially one who provides rigorous screenplay notes—becomes invaluable.

Consider Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, perhaps the most famous example of this sleight of hand. For the first forty minutes, we are following Marion Crane. Her decisions, her anxieties, her theft—these drive the story forward. We believe we’re watching a classic noir thriller about guilt and flight. And then she is murdered. Just like that, our narrative anchor is gone. The film unmoors us, leaving us scrambling for someone to hold onto. Eventually, our attention shifts to Norman Bates. But Hitchcock doesn’t immediately grant him the status of protagonist. Instead, he allows tension and uncertainty to simmer until we finally settle into a new narrative framework.

In the hands of a less disciplined storyteller, this could have unraveled the entire film. But Psycho’s structure works because the shift is carefully calibrated. The screenplay doesn’t just substitute one character for another; it transfers the thematic and emotional weight in a deliberate way. Writing a script that executes this kind of transformation requires precision. It requires control of tone, pacing, and perspective. And most of all, it requires feedback that sees beyond the mechanics of plot.

A screenwriting coach—particularly one who specializes in giving substantive screenplay notes—can help a writer see what their script is actually doing, not just what they think it’s doing. Many emerging writers get attached to the first thirty pages, especially if they’re following a traditional character arc. But in a screenplay where the true protagonist only emerges later, it’s critical to understand how those first scenes function in retrospect. Are they sowing the right emotional seeds? Is the audience being prepared—consciously or not—for the shift to come? Or does the change feel jarring, arbitrary, or structurally confused?

One of the best examples of this technique in modern screenwriting is Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite. For much of the film, it appears to be Ki-woo’s story. We follow him as he enters the wealthy Park household, fakes credentials, and engineers jobs for the rest of his family. He’s our entry point. He drives the initial action. But as the film progresses, emotional authority gradually shifts to his father, Ki-taek. By the end, it is Ki-taek’s choices that carry the film’s moral weight. We realize, in hindsight, that this was his story all along.

But if you were reading the screenplay cold, without knowing the director’s intention or the eventual visual treatment, would you catch that? Would you feel it on the page? This is where a coach can offer essential insight. With a trained eye, they might note that while Ki-woo gets the early scenes, it is Ki-taek whose emotional journey is seeded most deeply. They might point out that the script could do more to make that emotional pivot clearer—not with exposition, but through rhythm, imagery, and subtext. They might encourage the writer to emphasize mirroring between the characters or to trim scenes that are inadvertently keeping us tethered to the wrong point of view.

These kinds of nuanced notes are rarely available in casual peer feedback or in surface-level coverage. A coach understands not just how to spot problems, but how to guide the writer toward solutions that serve their story rather than pushing it into a generic mold. They may help identify that what a writer believes is a story about one character’s rise is actually a story about another’s disillusionment. They may help clarify who carries the theme of the piece, and how that emotional center of gravity can be better supported through structural refinement.

Another case worth examining is Jordan Peele’s Get Out. While Chris is clearly the protagonist, the film’s horror elements repeatedly shift our sympathies and narrative focus—especially when it comes to the character of Rose. For much of the movie, she appears to be his ally. Then, in a chilling moment, the screenplay forces us to reevaluate everything we’ve seen. The audience’s shift in perception is abrupt but earned. Peele’s script sets it up with clues both visual and tonal. A less confident writer might have undercut that moment by making Rose either too opaque or too obviously sinister. In this case, a coach might offer feedback about calibrating character ambiguity—ensuring the reader isn’t tipped off too early, but also isn’t left adrift when the reveal comes.

Writing a script that pivots in this way is an act of trust: you’re asking the audience to commit to one story, then follow you down a darker or more complex path. But the first reader—the one who decides whether your screenplay will be passed along, optioned, or considered for production—has no obligation to wait for that payoff. That’s why screenplay notes from a coach are so important. They can help you identify where the early part of the script might feel like a different story entirely, or where the true protagonist’s arc is too underdeveloped to resonate. They can help you finesse transitions, re-balance screen time, or reframe scenes so that the emotional handoff feels natural. A screenwriting coach doesn’t just point out flaws; they help you see potential. And in a landscape increasingly full of formulaic scripts, that kind of structural boldness—executed with precision and care—can be what makes your screenplay unforgettable.