Tag: opinion (Page 3 of 6)

Protecting the Stakes

About the reaction Thor has to everything in Ragnarok, no matter how dramatic.

Stakes are important to storytelling. They tie the emotional throughline together with the plot. The stakes, generally, are what the protagonist wants and the plot is the journey they take to getting whatever that is. Sometimes the stakes are as simple as a character that wants to find their bicycle, other times the stakes are as grand as wanting to save the world from destruction by a giant sky beam. In short, stakes often generate the conflict of the story, which in turn equates to dramatic heft.

It’s easy to undercut the stakes of a story with ill-advised decisions, or poorly timed humor. Let’s explore a couple of ways in which movies have undercut their own dramatic heft, intentionally or not.

Humor Undercuts Drama

Once again, I’m going to say something controversial, yet brave: THOR: RAGNAROK could have been better.

It wouldn’t have even been hard! THOR: RAGNAROK suffers from a common issue in a lot of stories, but especially Marvel movies. Whenever something dramatic happens, like when the entirety of Asgard is wiped out, the dramatic tension and sense of stakes are run over by jokes.

By the end of the movie, Thor has lost his three closest friends (the Warriors Three), his father, learned of a long-lost sister that he must find a way to kill, been imprisoned as a gladiator, and decided to destroy his home planet in order to save his people. And yet, the movie never stops cracking jokes to allow us to feel any of this drama. In this Screen Rant article written last year on this very topic, Odin’s death was even reshot so as not to make the audience feel too badly.

It’s one thing to want to have fun at the movies–that’s important–but storytelling is inherently an emotional connection between creator and audience, or story and audience. If you don’t allow the audience to feel what the characters feel, even if that’s sadness or anger, then you’re not allowing them to fully connect and empathize with the story. Aside from that, for me, it takes me out of the story. If the characters don’t care enough to feel upset at what’s happening, then why should I?

Lack of Consequences

In order for an audience to fully connect with a story, the consequences of the stakes must be clear and, this is the important part, followed through on. If the stakes are that a character might die, and then the character dies, it undercuts the stakes for them to later return. Looking at you every Marvel movie ever.

This can go for lower stakes, too. RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK undermines its stakes when the Nazis open the Ark of the Covenant only for it to kill all of them. What was the point of the journey that Indiana Jones and Marion went on to stop them? They ended up being completely inconsequential to the climax.

If a story sets up the consequences for a particular set of stakes, it needs to follow through on them unless there is a twist that leads to a new understanding of the stakes, or introduces even higher stakes. FRINGE does this well in its second season when you finally come to learn the consequences of Walter’s actions around Peter and the alternate universe. We think the stakes are that if Walter doesn’t open the door to the other universe then Peter will die. In reality, opening that door actually leads to much bigger stakes when he essentially kidnaps Peter and then the universes start to collide.

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Stakes are the spokes around which stories are propelled. Without them, stories can ground to a halt, losing the audience. Maintain their inherent drama and follow-through on their promise, otherwise risk alienating your audience and breaking their trust.

Pet Peeves: Memory Loss

Love the jacket. Didn’t love the plot.

So I hear you’re in a bit of a bind with your story. You need a character to do something they know they shouldn’t, but aren’t sure how to get them to do it. Well, I’ve got the perfect solution for you, no matter the situation:

Temporary memory loss.

Yes, it means that the audience will have to relearn already established information with the character in question. Yes, the audience will have to watch certain plot threads and character arcs be re-litigated. Yes, it will make the stakes feel lower. But does it matter? You’ll have a blank slate to work with!

Clearly, I have issues with temporary memory loss for the reasons described above. To me, it feels like a cop-out; a way to dance around the plot for a while, buy some time, while the characters spin their wheels. It frustrates me because I want to see the characters grow and the plot progress.

Kingsman: The Golden Circle is a recent example of this. Galahad, one of the main characters in the first Kingsmen, is killed with a bullet to the head in the first movie. It serves as a large part of the conflict in the third act and motivation for the main character, Eggsy, to save the day. So when he’s brought back to life via a deus ex machina in the sequel it retroactively dilutes those stakes. Now when anyone takes a headshot you know they can just be brought back for story convenience. Not only that, but because he no longer has his memory we have to watch him re-establish his relationship with Eggsy. A large part of the movie is also spent just trying to get him to remember who he is, why he’s important, and what his skills are. Totally robs the story of forward momentum, in my opinion.

How common is this in storytelling? Common enough that TV Tropes has over 20 different classifications just for amnesia. I think it’s much more interesting to watch well-informed, intelligent characters use their smarts to work through problems than for the plot to be pushed forward because of convenient memory loss.

Taradiddle and Profundity

Pictured: Me, an intellectual.

My coworker taught me a word that I worry may describe my writing: Taradiddle. Taradiddle has two definitions:

  1. a small lie; fib
  2. pretentious nonsense

You can probably guess which definition my work, and maybe my whole personality, falls under. I imagine someone picking up something I’ve written and saying, to use it in a sentence, “This story is a whole lot of taradiddle. This poor author’s perspective is all catawampus, bless his heart.” (Catawampus is another word taught to me by a coworker, which is how I know to say “bless your heart” afterward.)

See, I’ve got ideas, man, and those ideas feel big. Ideas about things as abstract as the nature of time and what justice is to an uncaring, ambivalent universe. And ideas about things as concrete as (in)equality of all kinds and the role government plays in our lives. Things I’ve studied and thought about and have questions that aren’t easily answered. But as I’m writing I always wonder why the fuck anyone would care about my thoughts on these things?

I’m a straight white guy. My perspective is that of a straight white guy. Is that perspective really one the world needs more of? I’m not an expert in anything in particular (at least, not anything of interest to anyone–even me), so even with the best research I’m capable of my approach to any specific topic isn’t likely to be the most informed.

But most authors aren’t necessarily writing about topics in which they’re experts. Stephen King and Chuck Wendig weren’t infectious disease experts when they wrote The Stand and Wanderers. J.K. Rowling didn’t practice magic as a young boy–she’s only slightly magical and has never been a young boy. Still, these authors wrote affecting, profound stories around these topics.

Maybe it comes down to having the confidence in your craft and ability to communicate some sort of truth even if the facts aren’t totally on point. Profundity isn’t necessarily complexity. It as much truth to say that being heartbroken is a painful shared experience as it is to explain the mechanics of orbital gravity and how that affects the tides. What matters, then, is the emotional connection author makes with reader and how those truths are communicated in a way that is felt. Perhaps it’s as much about relating to one another through story as it is about the explanation of ideas. In that sense, our A/S/L (those over college-age might get that) or expertise doesn’t matter so much.

Despite my worry of spewing taradiddle or coming off as pseudo-intellectual (which, let’s be honest, is probably exactly what I am), the aim is for a connection and not to be seen as an authority on anything specific. In fact, I think it’s dangerous to consider anyone an authority about anything they haven’t dedicated their lives to. That’s how we get appeals to false authority and experts in one field falling prey to the Dunning-Kruger effect when discussing another, perhaps related, field. That’s how misinformation spreads.

So I’ll continue to write potential taradiddle as I explore these ideas and try to answer the questions that vex me. The hope, then, is that my taradiddle connects with people on an emotional level, if not an intellectual one.

Unconscious Details that Reveal Character

A while ago I started a rewatch of Cheers on Netflix. It’s a show I saw a lot of as a kid because my father watched it whenever it was on (including reruns), but I don’t remember a lot of specifics about it. It’s a great sitcom, masterfully written, acted, and shot. The first thing that stuck out to me is its forward momentum and how it varies its use of a single location. The entirety of the first season takes place in the bar itself, only leaving the main bar area for the pool room or (in one episode) a bathroom a few times. But it holds your interest.

I was also struck by the ability of the actors to improvise. There are some comedic greats on the show, like Rhea Perlman, Shelley Long, John Ratzenberger, and George Wendt. Wendt, in particular, brings a lot to his role as Norm. And there is a character moment he shares with Ted Danson in the season two episode “Norman’s Conquest” that I think illustrates what he added to the role.

Throughout the series Norm is constantly joking about how terrible his marriage is to anyone that will listen. For a long period of time, he and his wife, Vera, are even separated. So when Norm, who is an accountant, brings an attractive client to the bar and she shows an interest in him, nearly everyone in the bar pushes him to cheat on his wife. Of course, hijinks ensue.

But the character moment that most stood out to me, while a direct result of that conflict, doesn’t hinge on it. At the climax of the episode, Norm and the bar’s owner, Sam, a former pitcher for the Boston Red Sox, are discussing Norm’s feelings for his wife in the pool room. Norm is leaning on the pool table, holding a pool ball, while Sam paces around the room. In the middle of their discussion, without changing topics or acknowledging what he’s doing, Norm turns his wrist like he’s pitching a baseball. Sam stops, adjusts his fingers, and then mimes the correct way to add english to the ball, all without missing a beat of their conversation.

This speaks volumes about the characters and their relationship, despite the action not relating to the substance of the conversation. Norm looks up to Sam, wants to be like him in a lot of ways (including being a womanizer until Norm admits that he loves his wife), and unconsciously treating a pool ball as a baseball in a moment of distress illustrates this desire. Sam taking a moment to correct Norm’s form plays into this. The way the action plays out is a minor thing without bearing on the situation at hand, but is so perfectly in character for both of them. My hunch is that this was totally improvised by George Wendt and Ted Danson.

For me, the lesson is that there are conscious and unconscious ways to communicate character and relationship to an audience. Conscious ways are big, broad actions and conversations. Whether or not a character saves a kitten stuck in a tree. An argument with a loved one about one being emotionally distant. These are big moments that illustrate, broadly, who someone is.

The small moments might be the way a character leaves a dirty glass in the sink as opposed to the dishwasher or just washing it immediately. Whether or not they make their bed in the morning. If they smile at a child while waiting in line at the grocery store while having a conversation with the clerk. Little things that we all do unconsciously everyday that illustrate the types of people we are.

If done right, these tiny actions might better communicate a character than any broad, dramatic argument.

Prestige Dramas and Tone

Despite the shit I’m about to talk, these are all great shows.

Prestige dramas have been around for a while now (I think most critics consider its birth around the time of The Sopranos and Oz on HBO, although one could argue that they’ve been around longer), which means there are certain expectations for them. This Vulture article and its follow-up do an excellent job of summing up the established tropes of prestige television. And both touch on what I see as the distinguishing factor between the best prestige dramas and the lesser ones: Tone.

As the follow-up article linked to above mentions, prestige dramas tend to lean toward seriousness, straddling the line (or sometimes leaping over it) of melodrama. Humor can be difficult to find and is often reserved for supporting characters that don’t play huge roles in the show. My argument, then, is that the upper-tier of prestige dramas like Breaking Bad and The Wire actively lean into humor. Yes, there are the supporting comic relief characters (Skinny Pete and Badger; Bubbles), but the main characters are often funny themselves, even if it’s unintentionally. Many of the situations Walter White finds himself in are humorous, especially early in the series. Jesse Pinkman is a legitimately funny person. Bunk and McNulty have a relationship that uses humor to feel more organic.

I think this is where a lot of prestige dramas lose the thread. In trying to be taken seriously and seem deep, they forget that humor is what connects us to one another. His Dark Materials has been a tough watch for me because it’s so devoid of humor. Westworld, too. I enjoyed The Outsider, but my favorite episode was the one where the characters spent the entire hour driving someplace and getting to know one another because it allowed us to see them with their hair down a bit. The rest could be difficult to sit through as dour characters talked dourly about dour subjects.

Shows like Justified or Stranger Things, while ultimately serious prestige television, have humor at their hearts and are that much better for it. When a show takes itself seriously, but the characters are allowed to have fun, it feels more like real life. And that, ultimately, is what a lot of prestige dramas are trying to reflect.

The lesson here is that humor and lightheartedness doesn’t undercut drama (unless done poorly, which is another topic entirely), but adds to it. Humor connects us to characters, gives us reason to like them, so that when the story does get capital-S “Serious” the gut punches land that much more effectively.

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