The closing door theory

The technique of suspense keeps the viewer on the edge of their seat by creating an information gap between them and the characters in the film. But it’s far from the only effective narrative technique. Here’s another one, which I’ve named the theory of the closing door.

Building an Energy Overflow in Real Life

Imagine you need or want to go somewhere, and just before you arrive, the door is slammed in your face. For example, the post office closes its doors two minutes early because the staff doesn’t want to work late. It’s unfair—you were right on time. Even if the stakes of returning to the post office the next day are low, the frustration is immense. Why? Because it’s a dynamic you were engaged in—the act of going to the post office—that was abruptly broken against your will. This creates a feeling of anger or injustice within you.

But in reality, what you’re experiencing is more primal than that. It’s simply an overflow of energy, of the momentum that was driving you toward a goal, a reserve you had built up, which is suddenly halted. This creates an overflow and an emotional and physical outburst: trembling, frustration, etc. It’s a strong physiological effect, and we can harness it in screenwriting. That is, we can make the viewer experience this energy overflow, which will feel exactly the same in an imaginary story as it does in reality. And we’ll see how to leverage it to energize the drama.

We Don’t Identify with the Characters in th Film

But to raise the viewer’s energy level to the point of overflow, it’s not enough to put a character in the same situation. Even if it’s the main character and they’re stuck in front of the post office, even if entering the post office represents a major narrative stake in the story, we, the viewers, would remain calm. We’d have the necessary distance to understand what the character is feeling and to imagine other solutions.

Why? First, we never fully identify with the characters. That’s not how the psychological processes of the viewer work—it’s much more nuanced. In fact, we’re wired to avoid negative emotions. So, a character experiencing a negative emotion is just that—a character. Psychologically, we protect ourselves from their emotions, positioning ourselves above the stakes, seeking solutions, which is actually gratifying because it makes us feel “intelligent.” The emotion we feel is more about self-validation.

Therefore, for the viewer to truly experience the emotion of the door closing—which will allow us to take their engagement with the story to the next level—they must feel the frustration themselves. We need to put them in a situation where they can’t maintain critical distance. How do we do that?

It’s about placing the viewer in a more intricate and complex relational network. I’ll use an example to illustrate the process, which I’ll then explain.

Creating an Energy Overflow for the Film Viewer

I’ll draw on a classic example developed by Alfred Hitchcock, which I’ll adapt. A character is in a room, searching for something. Meanwhile, another character is climbing the stairs leading to the floor where the room is located. In parallel editing, we see the person in the room, then the other climbing the stairs, then back to the person in the room, then the other climbing the stairs, and so on. It’s a classic suspense technique: we know more than the character who’s searching, and we’re deeply involved in their experience because they don’t even realize they’re in danger. We, however, do. We’re not feeling the same emotion as the character, and that’s how we become engaged.

The theory of the closing door comes into play here: just before the character climbing the stairs opens the door to the room, the film cuts to another scene, another situation. We were at the peak of tension, fearing the discovery, projecting our energy forward, preparing for confrontation, combat, escape, or something surprising. We were ready to experience it, we had built up a reserve of energy to face what was about to happen. And suddenly, the film slams the door shut in front of us. We’re left holding all this dynamic energy inside us, which overflows because it has no outlet.

“Electrically Charging” Narrative Elements

And the confrontation scene doesn’t even exist—we don’t even know what happened—even though we were so invested, so ready and prepared to witness it. We’re left with this enormous reserve of energy inside us, with no way to release it. And now we’re watching another scene, unrelated and devoid of dramatic tension. This energy within us alters our experience of the new scene and can be exploited by the screenwriter to highlight small, seemingly insignificant details that grow in importance due to our state of energetic overflow.

For a few minutes—in real life—or about 30 seconds in a film, our perception is completely altered. At this moment, we can take the viewer to surprising places, for example, where they’ll engage, or toward a discovery of information that will be associated with their intense emotion. They’ll remember it throughout the film, which can help us narratively. Or we can introduce a new character whose origin is tied to this powerful energy, making them stand out with an exceptional energetic quality for the rest of the film.

It’s up to us to integrate a new narrative element, one we want to be memorable and almost electrified, magnetized for the rest of the film, thanks to this surplus energy in the viewer’s psyche. Of course, later in the film, we might see the continuation of the room scene or learn what happened afterward. By then, the surplus energy will have dissipated, and we’ll be satisfied to know what occurred, but we’ll no longer be emotionally invested. Our anticipation and frustration last only a short time.

So, this technique is powerful for “charging” an element or character, making them utterly unique, brighter, and more vibrant than the others.