Rick Castle - Trickster or Shapeshifter?

February 23rd, 2010

When we encounter a comedic character in stories, we often quickly categorize them as belonging to the Trickster archetype.  After all, most sidekicks are Tricksters, providing the comic relief, often serving to deflate the ego of the main character (think Star Trek and Dr. McCoy: “I’m a doctor, Jim, not an engineer!” or “… a bricklayer!”).  The clash between the Trickster and the main character frequently provides the comedy we see in stories.

When we look at the character Rick Castle, of ABC’s series Castle, are we looking at a Trickster character?  His sense of humor does work a bit in needling Detective Kate Beckett.  But I don’t think that is what is happening in the series.  Especially when Beckett needles and punctures Castle in return.

So, if Castle isn’t a Trickster, what is he?  I contend that he is a Shapeshifter.  We don’t see this archetype quite as often in stories, especially as an on-going character.  Let’s review some of the characteristics of the Shapeshifter.  The most important aspect is that the Shapeshifter is a keeper of special information.  The “trick” is to get the information out of the Shapeshifter, because the Shapeshifter often doesn’t want to reveal all that special knowledge.  The options for the character seeking the information are to either hold onto the Shifter as he or she goes through changes to hide the information, or to keep pace, changing with the Shifter.

Castle puts on many different shapes in the series.  And he’s not pretending in any of the shapes — he really does become them.

Most obvious to start with is Castle’s shape as a best-selling author.  He’s not pretending in this shape: he works for it and has a string of titles that justify the attention he gets in this shape.  He uses it frequently to evade intrusion into his personal life (including warning his daughter against visiting the “fan websites”).  This shape gives him entre to many special areas of life.

One of those “special areas” is that of “High Society.”  In that arena, Castle turns into the “wealthy, elegible bachelor” who mixes with the upper crust of New York social life.  Again, his presence there is not a pretense.  He knows the functions (such as the quarterly fund-raising benefits for a city dance company) and is considered a legitimate member of those circles.  In this shape, Castle can give Beckett access to information she might not get in her own guise of “detective.”  And note: she has to change shape with him to access that knowledge.

He does, of course, put on some guises for the mere fun of it.  But the fun and playfulness are actually necessary features for a well-balanced psyche.  He dresses up for Halloween, he plays fencing games with his daughter, he makes silly bets with the detectives.  Is he hiding a truth in this guise?  Perhaps.  Not one for himself, but rather one that Beckett needs.  She needs the playfulness he brings to counter the real emotional weight of the work she does investigating murders.

One of the realities of life that Castle deals with in the series is the fact that he is the single parent of a teen-aged girl.  He makes comedy out of it by putting on the exaggerated aspect of the “Prom Dad” (where the father of the girl frightens the date into behaving himself).  But even though Rick exaggerates it, it is also the reality.  He is not a neglectful parent.

Indeed, his shape as “Parent” is one of Castle’s truest forms, revealing the truth about his personality underneath all his playfulness, evasions and flippancy.  He is genuinely concerned about how Alexis proceeds in life.  And likewise, he does not conceal much from her — except perhaps the depth of his feelings for Beckett.  She, however, is a wise child, practiced in learning the secrets of a Shapeshifter and she already has an awareness of the connection between the adults.

But along with being a father, one of Castle’s most essential shapes is that of a researcher.  He has been shown doing careful research for his books.  He knows how to ask telling questions and he knows where to find sources.  When Beckett’s cases take them into strange territories, Castle’s research abilities (either past or present) give the pair special knowledge they need to solve the current mystery.

Castle and Beckett work as a team, and that, as much as the multiple guises Castle has, is another thing that shows Castle is a Shapeshifter and not a Trickster.  Remember, a Trickster’s job is to deflate the over-blown aspects of other characters.  But Castle never does that to Beckett.  He supports her in her pursuits.  He might be slightly more accommodating to her than Shapeshifters usually are — and yet, he does not (or at least has not yet) reveal to her all his hidden truth.  And that’s part of the fun of the series.

So … my call on Rick Castle is that he is not Trickster, he’s a Shapeshifter.  Hold on tightly and you will learn the truth.

Please feel free to comment or ask questions here or on my MESSAGE BOARD.

All pictures are copyright ABC Studios.

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Beyond the Avatar

February 1st, 2010

Although there are many things I could critique about James Cameron’s blockbuster film Avatar, I’ll limit myself to a discussion of his principal character, Jake Sully.

Although there is an archetype known as the Wounded Healer, I think it would be a mistake to assign this title to Jake.  As we will see, “healing” is not what Jake brings to the situation.  But he is wounded, and this is something that needs changing, which indicates that Jake is archetypically a Transformer.  I have said that all doctor stories are likely to be about Transformers, but not all stories with a Transformer figure are doctor (or healing) stories.

Jake enters the story as a replacement.  His scientist twin brother has died, and rather than waste the large amount of funds used to create the Pandoran avatar, the runners of the program have decided to plug in the genetically compatible Jake.  The fact that Jake is bound to a wheelchair doesn’t matter to them, because the Riders lie in a unit while linked to their avatar.

But everyone (except the malicious Colonel) overlooks the fact that what Jake wants more than anything is to walk again.  The moment he wakes in the Na’vi avataar form, he is fascinated by the transformation, expressed in wiggling his new toes.

But Jake is a Transformer and things change because he is present.  He pays no attention to the warnings to go slow.  Instead he gets to his feet, excited to be able to move freely again, discounting the problems that go with being a ten-foot tall, tailed biped.

The balance in the Avatar program gets changed by the fact that Jake is a trained soldier.  Whereas before all the Avatar Riders were scientists, Jake’s position as a soldier gives him a different point of view and a different way of reacting to the experience.  He changes the course of events simply by being that person.  Because he is chased by animals and separated from the rest of the team, everyone expects Jake to die in the Pandoran wilderness.  Instead, his soldier’s survival training kicks in and he manages to fend fairly well for himself.

It is because he can fend for himself (in spite of not understanding the impact of death in the Pandoran biosphere) that Neytiri’s opinion of him is transformed.  She knows he is an outworlder (his Na’vi body has five fingers per hand as hers does not), and as such she was ready to kill him herself or leave him to die.  But his determination not to go down catches her attention.

Neytiri’s attitude is transformed even further when the flowers of the Spirit Tree settle on Jake in large numbers.  He goes quickly from swatting them away as a nuisance to being the one they are drawn to and accepting them.

Jake transforms his own mindset as he learns more about the ways of the Na’vi.  When daring is needed to inspire the Na’vi after Hometree is destroyed, Jake takes it upon himself to bond with a Toruk, the largest Pandoran flying beast.

His arrival before the refugees turns their hatred of his betrayal (he had told the Colonel about Hometree) into awe and a willingness to follow him.

And that is his final transformation in the story, from the human grunt soldier to the Na’vi warleader.

Jake transforms the situation, to be sure, leading the Na’vi in an assault that defeats the human mechanical forces.  But again, the transformations he brings are not those of healing, rather of combat and conflict.  He brings destruction down on the Na’vi, and then, changing his allegience, he brings destruction and banishment down on the humans.

He does change things by being present — which is the definition of the Transformer archetype.

Feel free to talk about this here or on my MESSAGE BOARD.

All pictures property of Twentieth Century-Fox.

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The Hero Quest and Society

January 4th, 2010

I’m going to add a new feature category to this blog, called “Musings” (to join “Mythic Motifs at Work” and “Writing Tips”).  These will be more general considerations, rather than specific analyses or writing advice.  It is inspired by the search strings that get used to bring people to my website (that is, both this blog and my main website — www.scribblerworks.us).  The search strings often have interesting twists tot hem.

The one I’m musing on today was “how the Hero Quest affects society.”

“Interesting,” I thought.

Okay.  So, first off, which “society” are we talking about here?  The society inside the story, or the society of the audience?  There wasn’t really a way of determining that from the search string, of course.  So why not look at both?

So, let’s start with “inside the story”.

Inside the story, how does the Hero Quest affect society?

Let’s say that the “society” involved is, in terms of the Hero’s Journey, the Hero’s home or starting community.  The one where his interests are engaged.  Either he starts out as a misfit and has to go on his adventure in order to fit, or something is missing in the society and he has to go find it to repair the lack in the society.

The first possibility means that the Hero’s Quest takes someone who doesn’t fit in the community and changes that character to one who will be a benefit to the community.  A ne’er-do-well who becomes a strong leader (Han Solo in Star Wars).  The over-looked pigherder who becomes a king (Taran in Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain).  A rogue computer programmer who frees others from machine mind-control (Neo in The Matrix).  So the end of the Hero Quest in that case certainly has a positive effect on the society of the story.

The second possibility means that whether voluntarily or not, the Hero’s Quest will be a real benefit to the community of the story.  If it is involuntary, our Hero may not have sought out the quest, but he will certainly see it to the end.  Dr. Kimble (in The Fugitive), in trying to clear himself of a murder charge, discovers that a colleague has concealed the real (damaging) effects of a drug in order that he make a fortune.  Kimble’s quest saves the medical community from disaster.  In Deja Vue, an ATF investigator, thinking he will not be able to change the course of a large disaster instead focuses on trying to prevent one murder.  Yet in doing so, he ends up preventing the large disaster, a definite benefit for the society in the story.

This reveals that even though the Quest itself may focus on an individual, there is a community in the background that will be affected.  As the poet Donne put it, “No man is an island.”

So, what about the Society outside the story?

When we move to that level, it becomes a matter of why we tell stories at all.  Soemtimes it is to relate events that have happened, so we won’t forget them.  soemtimes it is to consider what we wish would happen.  Sometimes it is to try and understand why a person would behave in a certain way.  Sometimes it is to hold up a model of what we want to be like.

As a consequence, when we tell a story of a Hero’s Quest, we are, basically, trying to inspire ourselves.  We want to be a resistant to peer pressure as the Hero in The Prisoner (the original, that is).  We want to believe we can be as inspired and committed to our craft as Mozart is in Amadeus.  We want to believe that we too can be as faithful in hardship as Sam Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings.

Indeed, in The Lord of the Rings, at a dark point in the quest Sam shares with Frodo, Sam muses about the stories he had heard and that fueled his imagination — and he takes heart and determination from them.  He does not claim the high level of his “story-book” heroes, but rather that he be like them in even just a little way.  And he succeeds.

That is what society outside the story gains — inspiration, moels, the belief that we can change and improve things around us.  So… let the questing never end.

Feel free to comment here on the blog, or on my MESSAGE BOARD.

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A Functional Father Figure

December 23rd, 2009

When I was doing the research and development of The Scribbler’s Guide to the Land of Myth, one thing I discovered was that there is not much literature on parental figures.  Joseph Campbell makes glancing references to Father Figures and Mother Figures, particularly in their negative manifestations, but little else.  So I tackled the problem of developming a systematic structure for just what these figures ought to be, so that I (and of course, other storytellers) would be able to analyse the dynamics when I put one of these figures into a story.

The first thing I realized is that although mentor figures are also representatives of parental figures, they are not completely so.  Thus, while a Mentor may be a Father Figure, a Father Figure is not necessarily, or not only, a Mentor.  So what else is going on?

What it boils down to (if you want a fuller explanation, get the book!) is that a Father Figure has five functions: Protector, Mentor, Priest, Judge, Ruler.  Any particular story relationship might focus more on one function than another, but they all contribute to the over-all picture.

Which brings me to one of the best examples of a Father Figure currently running in popular culture: Leroy Jethro Gibbs on the show NCIS.

Now, because of the bantering and teasing play of Gibbs’ support team, some have called the regular characters a dysfunctional family.  This is a mistake: this group is highly functional.  The sibling-like squabbling and pranking should not be mistaken as dysfunction.  Each team member understands his or her place in the group and delivers on the responsibilities.  Trust runs strong among them and there is very little abuse of position — all signs of effective functionality.  Perhaps we are so used to seeing the failure of functionality that it has become the “standard” and true functionality seems “dysfunctional.”

In any case, the successful functionality springs from the effectiveness of Gibbs as a Father Figure.  So let’s consider it at work.

As a Mentor, Gibbs uses his “strong, silent” manners to demonstrate to Timothy McGee and Ziva David how to be an excellent investigator.  These two, for different reasons, have needed the instruction a Mentor can provide.  And they have learned successfully from Gibbs.

McGee, when sent into a women’s prison to question a possible suspect on a cold case, finds himself the on-scene investigator of a killing.  Because he has learned from Gibbs how to read the evidence and how to read people, he is able to sort it out.

For Ziva, trained in espionage and assassination, learning to investigate and interview has run counter to her impulses.  But because Gibbs by every indication shows her that he believes her capable of the new methods and expects her to act on them, she learns.

The Priestly function of a Father Figure is the aspect that acknowledges the achievement and mastery of “the child.”  And Gibbs always delivers that affirmation when it is really needed.  He has given McGee affirmation that he has become a good investigator at a time and in a way that makes public Timothy’s growth, by saying it in front of Tony DiNozzo, who relentlessly exercises the “superior” priviledges of an older brother to Tim.

But Gibbs has also done the same for Tony: during a case in which Gibbs had given Tony the lead, Tony becomes so frustrated that he begins verbally abusing the team.  Gibbs takes Tony aside and tells him he had been doing a good job … up to that point.  The fact that this is a “priestly” action is shown by the fact that Gibbs addresses DiNozzo as “Anthony,” something he almost never does.  Tony is both chastened and encouraged by this.

As the boss of the team, Gibbs is in fact the Ruler of them all.  But one of the duties of the Ruler is to command the discipline of his subjects, and this is the need Gibbs fills for DiNozzo and Agent Kate Todd.  Although Tony is actually a good investigator, his own impulses are to flake off, chasing pretty women or playing games.  Gibbs enforces discipline and so gets excellent work out of Tony.

Kate, though she came to NCIS from the Secret Service, also had some need of the discipline Gibbs requires.  In the pilot, she is shown as having become romantically involved with a co-worker on the Presidential detail, something that would never have happened if she’d been under Gibbs’ rulership.

As a Protector, we see Gibbs protecting both Abby and Ziva.  When Ziva was framed for the assassination of someone under FBI protection, it is to Gibbs (and not her own father) that she turns to, to get her out of it.  And he does. 

When Abby is stalked by an ex-boyfriend, Gibbs becomes very fierce in resolving the matter.   (As all the team acknowledges, Abby “is his favorite.”)

To all of the team, he is their Judge: he evaluates their work, and they turn to him for his opinion on everything other than romantic attachments (his three ex-wives serving as a warning to them that he is not perfect, especially in that).

So far, the points I’ve made have been about what Gibbs gives to his team, what needs he addresses for each of them.  But what does he get out of it?  What makes it possible for him to continue playing Father Figure to this unlikely “family”?  He gets their nearly undivided devotion.  Abby in particular bestows on him the love of a daughter, which addresses the biggest hole in Gibbs’ own life, since his first wife and only child were killed long ago.  He is not the Father Figure to this group just because they need him.  He is such also because he needs them.

As I said, this team is a highly functional family unit.  If they were dysfunctional, the incidental pains of failure and abuse would be considerably less appealing to the audience.  It is the functionality that propells the show into success and audience affection.

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Signing and Selling at Loscon

November 25th, 2009

This weekend I will be attending Loscon at the Airport Marriott near LAX, here in Los Angeles.  I attended the first time last year, and kicked myself for skipping it all these years (I have a lot of friends who go regularly).  It was fun.

This year, as a member of the Greater Los Angeles Writers Society (known as GLAWS) I’m taking part in a couple of panels.  One is on Writing Hard Science Fiction When You Are Not a Scientist.  The other is on World Building in Science Fiction & Fantasy.  They both should be great discussions - my fellow panelists are great.

I’ll also be at the GLAWS booth in the dealers room, from time to time (depending on the con schedule).  I’ll have copies of The Scribbler’s Guide to the Land of Myth for sale — with a special discount on the price for attendees at the con.

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Everyone is on a Journey

September 28th, 2009

A lot has been written about the Hero’s Journey.  Even I have tossed in my two cents worth on the matter.  It can be very, very hand for any writer to know the shape of the Hero’s Journey.  But many writers have gotten stuck on a single model, Chris Vogler’s redaction of Joseph Campbell’s outline.   I’m not saying that it is a bad model, for it isn’t.  But the problem of being stuck on it is that the Vogler/Campbell outline is not the only one available.

It is entirely possible for a writer to be on fire for his story, and struggling to get his plot to “fit” the Hero’s Journey outline that he knows — only to dispair because his story doesn’t want to go that way.  It’s possible for that frustratd writer to think that he is wrong about his story (even though he is still jazzed by it, in the back of his head).  So he stops.

Now, it’s my feeling that no writer should give up on a story that excites him.  It may be a mess, plot-wise, and need work.  But no writer should feel she has to give up on something just because it doesn’t fit one outline.  So, that’s why I felt it important in The Scribbler’s Guide to the Land of Myth to mention some of the principal variations of the Hero’s Journey that I have encountered over the years.  The different outlines often have elements not included in the Vogler/Campbell model.  But every writer should also remember that these things are not cut in stone: they are very flexible, and you can move things around a bit, to suit your own story.  After all, you are the storyteller.

Getting comfortable with the Journey your Hero is on is only the first step, however.  If you want to add depth to your story, and to help the other characters take on substance, you need to remember that the Hero is not the only character actually going on a “journey” in your story.  The villain is pretty sure he’s the Hero of his own life.  And your love interest or B Story sidekick is also making a journey.  Do you know the shapes of their Journeys?

This brings us to another reason why there is an advantage in knowing multiple versions of the Hero’s Journey.  Your three principal characters do not have to be traveling according to the same pattern.  In fact, it can be very interesting if they are not.  Nor does everyone’s Journey have to start at the same point.  For instance, your villain’s journey may begin well before the point where you want to start the story.  This could turn into what Blake Snyder called Act Zero material.  The Journey for your B Story character may not be so complicated.

The mechanics of coordinating the different Journeys will reveal how well you understand your plot.  A villain’s high point may be your Hero’s darkest moment, or it may just be one of the trials and tests the Hero meets.  It’s your story.  You decide.  But at this point, index cards or a computer program that has a similar function, where you can shuffle and mix individual story beats can be a big help.

And there can be great satisfaction in looking at the meshed outline, mere you can clearly see where each charcter is on his or her particular Journey.  When you realize you know exactly what the villain wanted as his victory and what is a set-back for him; when you know just what the B Story character’s Journey is, at that point your story become more solid and deeper.

Everyone is on a Journey.  Everyone has a goal.  They may not all be met by the events in your story.  But when you start constructing things this way, you will discover that it is very useful.

As always, if you are interested in talking more about this matter than blog comments allow, visit my MESSAGE BOARD.

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Burning Jeopardy

August 13th, 2009

One of the many things I talk about in The Scribbler’s Guide to the Land of Myth deals with franchise storytelling.  This can cover comic book series, sets of movies, television shows or a string of novels.  Most such creations are built on what I call the “Incidental Jeopardy” context: that means that in any specific story, your main character (upon whom the franchise depends) has a 50/50 chance of failing to meet his or her goal.  But some other series get set up where the main character is driven by some burning goal.  I call this the “Constant Jeopardy Syndrome,” where the set up is such that if the main character ever reaches his goal or solves the Big Problem of his life, the series ends.

In the book, I discuss the problems encountered with the Constant Jeopardy Syndrome, especially that involved in keeping the characters emotionally realistic.  The point is that when over a long span of time a character fails to solve the Main Problem in his life, he tends to lose emotional credibility, especially if the constant failure doesn’t seem to faze him.

Cable’s USA show Burn Notice is constructed on a Constant Jeopardy Syndrome: Michael Westen used to be a spy and got burned — this means he has been black-listed and rendered an official non-person, no bank accounts, no official records (driver’s license or passport).  The series deals with his attempts to find out who burned him, why, and his getting himself reinstated.  (And if he ever achieves all of these, it’s likely the show would end.)

Since Michael is presented from the beginning as being one of the very best at his job, if he did not make some progress in his quest to solve his Big Problem, we would quickly lose interest.  Fortunately, the series creator and writers address this by giving Michael progressive stages of existence (professional and personal problems) to deal with.

One of the first obstacles he has to face is that he has been dropped into his hometown of Miami, Florida, where he has to deal with his mother.

Madeline Westen is expert at wielding emotional blackmail over Michael — which works because at rock bottom, Michael is a good guy and does love his mother.  Madeline also serves to show that although Michael may be officially a non-person, he also needs to relearn how to be a real person, with a real (ie, emotional) life.

Madeline is assisted in this by the presence of Fiona — the love of Michael’s life.

Fiona’s “official” position is “not his girlfriend.”  Except that she is his ideal partner.  The ups and downs of their relationship ring true, for they are dealing with real issues: the nature of Michael’s old job, what that job requires of his character, how to accommodate another person deeply into your life.

The two characters are alternately obstacles and assistants in Michael’s hunt for information and reinstatement.

First after being burned, he was watched by FBI minders.  He upped the stakes on them, to the point where a special overseer was assigned to keep Michael subdued.

It’s a new problem in Michael’s way, which he removes over the course of a few episodes by creating the appearance that the overseer has been compromised.  This leads to the mystrious organization that burned him revealing itself slightly.

The series very carefully continues revealing obstacles for Michael to overcome.  Each step forward also reveals more of his own character to Michael.  First, he seeks to put a face to his new “manager”, Carla, and in fact draws her out to revealing herself.

She tells him she helped burn him in order to recruit him to the secret organization she serves.  She sets Victor to “manage” Michael.

Victor is like Michael (ie, burned), “but with rabies” (according to Sam Axe, Michael’s friend and sidekick).  Michael transforms Victor from opponent to ally and the pair remove Carla, forcing the organization’s Management to reveal himself.  Michael is offered better conditions in the organization, under the threat of removal of their protections (from enemies and authorities).

Michael opts to reject the protection and the job.  The new set of obstacles in his way toward reinstatement include dealing with a police detective who has suspicions that Michael is behind some unusual occurances in town.

Michael succeeds in turning her from opponent to an at least hands-off observer.  So the next obstacle steps up.  “The Devil” (Strickler) offers Michael assistance at reinstatement, in exchange for Michael working for him.

This is too much for Fiona, who questions what this deal will do to Michael’s character.  This emotional “real person” challenge conflicts with Michael’s desire to be an “official person” again.

Every time Michael progresses closer to his goal, either a new obstacle gets in his way, or the goal becomes slightly redefined and moved.  The writers avoid all the traps of the Constant Jeopardy Syndrome: failure to make any progress toward the goal and/or lack of emotional reality.  The audience is satisfied by the proof that Michael is indeed as competent as claimed (he makes progress), and also maintains a realistic emotional response to both his successes and failures.  The show is a fine example of how to handle the Constant Jeopardy Syndrome.

[I was going to write about Burn Notice in regard to other motifs, but I may come back to them later.]

(Pictures and characters are property of Fox Television and Fuse Entertainment.)

I invite your comments here or on my MESSAGE BOARD.

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The Problem with Wonder Woman

August 2nd, 2009

Every so often readers (and writers) comment on problems they have with the comic book character Wonder Woman.

The Amazon princess, Diana, was created in 1941, by William Moulton Marston.  On the heels of the appearances of superheroes like Superman and Batman, Marston felt that girls deserved their won role model.  His creation was beautiful and strong, and carried the Lasso of Truth.  Detecting truth was a matter of interest to Marston, as he invented the polygraph, popularly known as the “lie detector.”

Wonder Woman has a number of contradictions attached to her — she is a warrior and yet she is also an ambassador of peace from the Amazons to “Man’s World.”  Try as they might to downplay the incongruity of a warrior society such as that of the Amazons also purporting to be more peaceful than the rest of humanity, writers have been stuck with it.  It just will not be shaken off.  Recent writers have shown the Amazons as less than perfect in their adherence to peace.  Yet, “warrior for peace” remains an element in the character of Princess Diana.

The Lasso of Truth also forces an unusual quality upon the nature of Wonder Woman.  By using it, Diana can force a perpetrator to face aspects of his or her own nature that they have been denying.  Even if she doesn’t use this pwoer, its presence with her is a constant reminder of what she could do.  It bestows a certain implacibility to her character.

Molded in clay by her mother, Queen Hippolyta, given life and powers (strength, flight, and apparently immortality) by the Greek gods, Diana is in her origin somewhat removed from normal humanity.  And yet she is not really a goddess (although one writer did have her become the Goddess of Truth for a time).

However it came about, there is something in the nature of Wonder Woman that defies easy pigeon-holing.

She won’t be easily pegged and yet, readers do have a sense when she’s being taken off track, when she is “out of character.”  She is caring and merciful, and yet if she goes too far into emotional territory, something feels “off.”  She’s passionate about her family and protecting those under her care, but romance inevitably seems unbalanced when brought into proximity with the Amazon princess.  (It might be that readers feel she has no peer, so that all possible romantic partners are “beneath” her.)

Some of the factors that create this unsettling nature spring from how closely Wonder Woman’s character parallels that of the Greek goddess Nemesis.  Nemesis was the daughter of Night, which places her in the realm of the mysterious and unaccountable.  We have come to treat nemesis as a negative force, but she wasn’t such originally.  She was all about keeping things in proper balance.  She made sure virtue was rewarded and injustice was brought to balance.  She is, in fact, the figure of Justice we see in courts these days; blind-folded for impartiality (she doesn’t care about your social status), holding both a sword and a balance scale — and she will use that sword to help put the scales in balance.  Nemesis is very unsettling — and Wonder woman, for similar reasons, carries the same effect.

Diana is a “divine hero” — in a community, but not of it, and she brings a boon to society.  We are a bit ambivalent as to whether we want to take the whole of her boon: truth and peace require things of us that are hard to give up.

But one of the other crucial elements that figure in the nature of Wonder Woman is that, unlike Nemesis, she is not a figure of Night.  By nature, with her openness and her commitment to reason and truth, Wonder Woman fits the dynamics of a solar figure.

She’s “a babe,” a confident woman, beautiful and bold.  And yet, Wonder Woman remains difficult to peg.  That is, perhaps, part of her enduring power to fascinate us.  We try to sort her out, to figure what makes her tick, because we don’t really want to deal with someone as completely committed to truth and justice as the Amazon princess is.  She’s not some wild woman who needs taming, nor some insecure heroine who needs coaching.  She is, as she has always been, Wonder Woman and something more than we expect.

Feel free to comment here or on my MESSAGE BOARD.

(Wonder Woman images are copyright DC Comics, or their designates; the character is a property of DC Comics.)

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Before Going “Up”

July 6th, 2009

It’s one of those rules you learn in screenwriting courses: don’t front-load your tale with your Hero’s backstory.  Sure, you the author need to know it, but don’t explain it all up front.  Get on with your story, and explain it later, in little bits and pieces.  Write it out for yourself if you need to, but don’t stick it in the actual story in one piece.  My friend Blake Snyder calls this “Act Zero”.  Most of the time you do not need to explain the backstory before you begin the adventure.

And then, there is Disney-Pixar’s Up.

Let us be clear: the story-adventure of Up actually begins when Russell shows up on Carl’s doorstep insisting he has to help the elderly man.  That is Carl’s Call to Adventure, and he’s not having any of it. (His Refusal of the Call makes for a bit of comedy: he sends the kid on a snipe hunt.)  That is, structurally speaking, where the story starts.

So, that wonderful, poignant stuff that went before that moment, what was that?

Backstory.  Act Zero.

Usually, we do not have to see that up-front.  But let’s consider why we need it for this story.

The Hero’s Journey (and Carl is our Hero in this story) begins in the Hero’s Ordinary World (or his Old World).  Usually, something needs to be changed, and he ventures out from that world.  But in Up, if the presentation of the story really did start with Russell at the door, what follows would still be entertaining and engaging (crusty old man learns to care about someone while on a wild adventure), but it would not have the depth of meaning that Up possesses.  We actually do need to see this Act Zero.

First off, we see that Young Carl is almost exactly like the young Russell we will shortly meet.  He dreams of adventure, but his scope is small.  Until he meets Young Ellie.  In the boisterous Ellie, he meets someone who startles and entrances him with her active response to the call of adventure.

Of course they fall in love.  Their enjoyment of each other is its own adventure.  Their dream of a real adventure is a shared dream, but not the real glue of their lives (though it will take Carl a while to understand that).

It is important for us to know that Carl is capable of love and that he does understand the call of adventure that has a hold on Russell.  And that we are given the chance to love Ellie too, this gives us the powerful gift of wanting Carl’s adventure to succeed.  We connect with the forces that drive him on, in a very powerful way.

The storytellers use Act Zero to also set up the Opponent, and very nicely compact it with Carl’s youthful hero worship of Muntz.  Because that hero worship is something we understand, it adds a poignant bite when Carl learns his Hero is no hero.  Carl has to be his own Hero.

Up is one occasion where the storytellers present at length how the Hero’s Ordinary World became what it is.  And unusual as that is, they made it work — basically by giving it its own three-act structure and telling it swiftly, without over-dwelling on it.  Beautifully done and perfectly structured.  (Warning: these storytellers are trained professionals, so “don’t do this at home.”  Remember, Up is an exception when it comes to revealing the backstory.)

[Pictures are property of Disney-Pixar.]

For more on the Hero’s Ordinary (or Old) World, read The Scribbler’s Guide to the Land of Myth.

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“Divine” House

July 2nd, 2009

Dr. Gregory House has a genius for diagnosing unusual medical conditions..  And he sets about changing illness to health, Transformer figure.  As I say in The Scribbler’s Guide, all doctor stories are Transformer stories.

But House is also an example of what I call the “Divine Hero.”  Now, this doesn’t mean that the Divine Hero has superpowers.  It means that the hero comes from outside the community, bringing a boon to it.  He is in the community, but not of it.

Gregory House is in the community of the hospital, but he is not really of it.  He refuses to conform to the dress code, he is always at odds with Cutty’s administration, his only friend is Wilson (whom he regularly provokes).  But the boon he brings to the community is his skill as a diagnostician, and they genuinely value it.  So they keep him.

What makes for the dramatic tension in the show is the fact that Gregory House does not want to be this Divine Hero.  He is a misanthrope, disliking people.  He doesn’t really want their praise or appreciation.  His personal conflict is that the one thing he does well, that he loves doing, is the one thing that actually requires him to be in contact with other human beings.

House is just one of the possible ways of using the Divine Hero archetype.  And an excellent, off-beat one.

The characters of House, M.D. are property of the Universal Media Studios (for Fox TV).

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