Death Is Not An Option

Posted on April 11, 2012 by Sarah

ABC’s The River played out its initial season true to the form of the Constant Jeopardy Syndrome. The very end of the eighth episode (last of the initial production order) has the crew of the Magus, along with the recovered Dr. Emmet Cole, believing they are heading home. [SPOILER ALERT] But the Boiuna River isn’t going to let them go. It changes the landscape around them, cutting them off from access to the main channels of the Amazon. They may have found Emmet, but the River is not letting them get away.

Of itself, that ending continues to feed into the restrictions of the Constant Jeopardy Syndrome. But the last couple of episodes also add another factor to the mix, which has a (pardon the pun) deadening effect on the over-all drama. Apparently, in the territory of the Boiuna, being killed does not necessarily mean you are dead.

We had seen this in varying degrees all along, of course. But with this finale episode, the non-death death gets pounded home with force.

Lincoln gets shot and killed. There is no doubt about the death. He is dead.

In typical mother-fashion, however, Tess tries to find a way around it. She convinces Jahel to perform a ritual to raise the dead — and it apparently works.

Emmet, however, having spent the last six months skirting the edges of death (he may even have crossed the border, but we don’t know for sure), realizes that the reanimated Lincoln is actually possessed by a hostile spirit. Lincoln’s own spirit may be present, but they have to get rid of the invader to be sure.

They succeed in that, using father-son emotional bonds to bring it about. Lincoln is back, alive, himself.

And then they find they’re still stuck on the River.

Over the course of the eight episodes, the storytellers have played with aspects of death. But because the intention was to create an ongoing series with a limited cast of characters, they have created a situation that plays against the key archetype of the series, Death.

When we look at Death, two things affect us — there is the deep sense of loss we endure; but there is also the sense that it is a part of a never-ending cycle. Archetypically, then, Death signifies massive change. Even if there is a resurrection in a story, our expectation is that there will be a drastic change because of it.

That is part of the horrible power of zombie stories, of course. We see the reanimated bodies of people we knew, but they are drastically changed. Usually because the personalities we knew and loved are gone.

In other stories of people who “go through death,” the characters come through the experience transformed. Perhaps their natures are purged of flaws, perhaps they gain extra powers from “the other side,” perhaps their attitudes are simply altered. But the point is that Death is the symbol of change.

In the stories of The River, however, we don’t see that. Death apparently doesn’t change anything. The spirit of the dead missionary child in the (really spooky) second episode just wants her mother back. No change. Lena’s father just wants to tell her again that he loves her. No change.

The return of Jonas is a bit more complicated, though. Yet even so, in the last episode we discover that his character has not  really changed in spite of experiencing death. And most importantly, once the resurrected Lincoln is freed of the hostile possessing spirit, we find … he’s pretty much just the same as he always was.

If the storytellers for The River are not going to allow change in the characters, they end up undercutting the power of using Death to “scare” us. If death really isn’t an option, if “everyone comes back” and does so without changing because of the experience, the accumulative effect on the audience flattens out because nothing is at stake. There will be neither loss nor gain for these characters as they go through death after death. It would be difficult to sustain emotional credibility, because though we watch them revert back to a status quo, we don’t believe the experience could mean so little to the characters.

Death is a very tricky archetype to play with. If you take away its power to transform people and circumstances, seriously transform them, you make it insignificant. And the problem is, the audience cannot believe that. For the audience, Death is the ultimate event. It must have significance. It cannot be treated as a plot tool to heighten emotional engagement for this moment. You cannot say, “Let’s kill the main character this week. The audience loves him. They’ll be shook up and so happy when we bring him back to life.” Well, okay, yes, you can say that. Once. And it will have to have an ongoing impact on the characters.

Unfortunately, for these eight episodes, The River wasn’t doing a very good job in giving us the transformations that should go with Death.

When Death is not really an option, you destroy your most powerful agent of change.

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Father Knows Worst

Posted on April 4, 2012 by Sarah

Most of the time, storytellers use Father Figures in a positive fashion. They use the figure to provide a Mentor to the main character, to give the Hero something to aspire to, or to provide an emotional anchor for the Hero (or other characters).

But interesting things can be done if you turn the purpose of the Father Figure upside down. When Father Figures go wrong, a storyteller can get a lot of drama and conflict from the resulting turmoil.

The third season finale for White Collar does just that.

Earlier in the season, we had been introduced to Peter Burke’s Mentor in the FBI, Special Agent Kramer. Kramer is skeptical about Neal’s reformation and makes no attempt to hid this skepticism. He does, however, apparently like Neal personally, and he certainly likes the asset Neal has become to the White Collar Crimes Unit.

But Kramer acts as if he is still in full-on Mentor authority to Peter. He tells Peter that he believes Peter is getting too close to Neal. In doing so, in his very “I’m doing this for your own good” manner, Kramer treats Peter as a wayward son still in need of supervision, rather than a competent adult peer.

Likewise, Kramer’s attitude toward Neal shows the mindset of an oblivious, ruling parent. He believes Neal to be incapable of chosing the “right” action, and so intends to restrict Neal even more, by making sure Neal’s sentence is not commuted, and by removing Neal from the (actually healthy) influence of Peter, taking Neal back to the FBI’s DC office and making him work for Kramer there.

Peter advises Kramer that the senior agent is making a mistake. If Kramer treats Neal like a wayward minor child (or more brutally, like slave labor) by removing Neal’s freedom of choice, Peter warns him that Neal will react badly. But with all the willfulness of an out-of-balance Father Figure, who is sure he knows what is best for all concerned, Kramer plows right ahead with his restrictive plans.

The result, of course, is the season’s cliffhanger. Not only has Neal gone on the run, but Peter basically warned him to do so, rather than see Neal in Kramer’s smothering clutches. In this case, the next round of drama for the show will involve two “sons” in rebellion against an erroneous Father Figure.

Storytellers should note an interesting point here. Kramer is not actually evil. In spite of what we may think of his intended restrictions on Neal’s actvities (and his idea of forcing Neal to work with the DC bureau does reek of slave labor), Kramer believes his choices are good. He fears Peter’s character may be contaminated by association with Neal. He believes Neal needs even greater discipline. He believes he really does have the best interests of both younger men at heart.

He has mistaken the subtleties of the relationship between Peter and Neal.  And his mistakes cause conflict. He is trying to assert one aspect of the Father Figure (Ruler) when he would be better served if he exercised a different aspect (Priest). Instead of paying attention to Peter’s reasoning (treating Peter as a less-than-peer in understanding), Kramer asserts rulership authority without experiential knowledge. He only knows what is in the files on Neal and the cases he’s worked.

Skewing the effectiveness of a Father Figure can benefit storytellers looking for additional ways of adding drama to their tales. There are plenty of evil Father Figures, of course. But one who is just plain getting things wrong can be far more engaging in a story because of the unsettled emotional dynamics.

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Requited Or Unrequited

Posted on March 18, 2012 by Sarah

Romantic relationships (or romantically tinged ones) in serial storytelling can create problems and challenges for the storytellers. “Unrelieved sexual tension” (as it often gets called) can be used to generate plenty of drama in stories, and when it occurs between recurring (or at least significant) characters, the storyteller can have a lot of options.

The archetype of the Lovers specifically involves relationship. But the point about the relationship is that it is not merely about sexual lust, although physical attraction can be a (powerful) element. Instead, for the archetype to function, the relationship needs to be or to be growing toward a balanced partnership, demonstrating respect and appreciation going in both directions.

In recent years, however, there has been a tendency in some storytellers (particularly those writing for television) to believe that resolving the sexual tension, letting a couple come together fully as partners, would kill the dramatic tension between these principal characters. The reason for avoiding a relationship “resolution” is given in one word: “Moonlighting.”

But long before the show Moonlighting hit the air, the concept of a romantic couple working together to solve mysteries charmed audiences in a series of stories and films. Nick and Nora Charles romped through stories, playfully bantering as they worked their way to the stories’ ends. A couple, a married couple - definitely a case of requited love.

So, if it is possible to make a requited relationship work in a series of stories, what should the storyteller choose: requited or unrequited?

Some series start with an already established relationship, definitely invoking the prototype of Nick and Nora.

Hart to Hart, for instance, featured a wealthy couple who are shown as having a well-balanced relationship. As marital partners they demonstrate genuine love and respect for each other. That respect continues over into their crime-fighting activities.

Other relationships are presented not as an established partnership, but rather as one that is destined to become such.

In the sceince fiction series, Farscape, the relationship between John Crichton and Aeryn Sun explodes from the very beginning. She beats him up. She’s a pilot and commando and he’s a sceintist astronaut. But from the moment the audience sees John’s reaction to this impressive woman, they know this pair will eventually work their way to a requited relationship. Dramatic tension does not disappear between the two: they often have different opinions about solutions to problems, and circumstances around them also keep pulling them apart.

Working toward a functional partnership has been used in other series, to good effect.

In the series Remington Steele,  private investigator Laura Holt kept running into chauvinistic dismissal because she was a woman. (Hey, it was the ’80s). So she created a fictional boss, “Remington Steele.” One day, by accident, a charming con-man and thief stepped into the alias and once Steele had a public face, Laura couldn’t get rid of him. Because of his (seemingly) unrequited attraction to Laura, the (now known as) Steele more or less reforms his ways, and works to learn her business, to really become her equal partner.

Another couple who work their way toward requited affections are Fox Mulder and Dana Scully of The X-Files.

This pair begins with a level of professional equality. They are both FBI agents in their own rights. Mulder is also an eccentric genius, while Scully is a brilliant trained scientist and medical doctor. Mulder’s acceptance of outre possiblities gets balanced by Scully’s insistence upon hard evidence and strict science. That dichotomy creates a tension that carries stories a long way. In the meantime, the fact that Scully grows to understand Mulder and he is never intimidated by Scully’s intellect creates a strong bond between them.

Understanding between participants in a relationship is a very powerful glue. It can be used in many ways by storytellers. In Burn Notice, understanding acts as a very important catalyst between Michael Westen and Fiona Glenanne.

Their story together begins before the series starts. They had been lovers, but parted. Michael states it was to protect her when his cover was blown, but as things unfold it is clear to the audience that another reason was that she was getting “too close.” Fiona understands Michael very well. She challenges him when he’s inclined to let expedience supercede morality. For a spy, even a burned one, issues of the morailty of immeidate actions can be tricky. There is a definite tendency to let the ends justify the means. But for Michael, if he stays on that path he runs the danger of becoming just like his souless mentor, Larry.

Fiona serves as Michael’s moral compass, and he has grown to realize how necessary she is to him, causing their intimate relationship to re-establish itself. Requited.

So what about unrequited relationships? Isn’t it possible to sustain a sort of romantic tension between a couple without their bringing it into the open, even consumating it? After all, many critics in looking back at Moonlighting feel that the storytellers for the show should never have taken that route.

If ever there was a character in the realm of fiction who seemed immune to the hold of romantic relationship, it is that of Sherlock Holmes. Yet even his creator, Arthur Conan Doyle, could not resist the lure of romance. He chose to make it “unrequited” (as in unconsumated, or even openly acknowledged), but for Sherlock there was always only one woman, The Woman, Irene Adler. The storytellers of the modern version hold to this.

The power and attraction between this pair is a matching of intellect and understanding. They challenge each other as no two other people do. Yet, they hold off from each other, standing on opposited sides of an ethical fence (among other things). For the audience, the question hovers as to just how strong that fence really is.

Another famous literary couple who held themselves at a distance for some time is amateur detective Lord Peter Wimsey and novelist Harriet Vane.

Author Dorothy L. Sayers created a “relationship” for these two where once he encountered Harriet – on trial for murder – Lord Peter was entirely smitten with her. He had to suffer the pangs of unrequited love for a few novels, because, although she enjoyed the intellectual partnership with Lord Peter, Harriet deeply resented the weight of gratitude on her emotions. Eventually this hindrence to requitement got worked out, but not without several challenges to the relationship.

What does all this say for a relationship that lingers in the in-between zone, such as that on Castle?

Like Lord Peter, novelist Rick Castle was speedily smitten with Detective Kate Beckett. As a professional detective, Beckett frequently chafes at Castle’s flights of fancy. However, he also brings attentive observation and excellent insight to the table. As with Lord Peter and Harriet or Sherlock and Irene, Beckett and Castle have encountered an intellectual equal and partner in the other person. The show’s storytellers have (over most of four seasons) avoided bringing requitement of love entirely out into the open, but the health of this relathionship is quite evident. Genuine respect and trust exists between Beckett and Castle, and has been there from the start.

Can there be problems when love is requited between characters? Of course. Just look at what happenes between the principals in Camelot.

Arthur and Guinevere have respect and affection between them, but not passion. Lancelot and Guinevere have passion, but her marriage to Arthur prohibits acknowledging that passion. And of course, the affection and respect both have for Arthur holds them back. But the moment they consumate their passion, openly requite their love, everything crumbles around them, and the very thing that drew them to each other drives them apart. They basically lost respect for themselves  and could not sustain the relationship.

So, what really did go wrong with the characters on Moonlighting? As we have seen, there are a multitude of ways to handle requited relationships in serial storyteliing. More than simply being mismatched (as Crichton and Aeryn are, or Laura and Remington, or Beckett and Castle), Maddie and David began from a place of disresepct. She was a high-class model and he was a blue-collar gumshoe. Witty banter and one-upsmanship flew between them, and the audience was dazzled by it. But under the “unrelieved sexual tension” between them was very little solid groundwork of respect and understanding.

The power of a relationship, whether openly requited or not, lies in a partnership of respect and understanding. Sex alone is not a good glue.

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Up The River Without A Clue

Posted on February 20, 2012 by Sarah

ABC launched The River with a deal of hype, possibly because Spielberg has put his name on the project as an Executive Producer. It features lush scenery not often seen on series television and an ominous tone of supernatural horror hovers over it all. The triggering event for the series involves the mysterious disappearance of Dr. Emmet Cole (played by Bruce Greenwood), a world-famous explorer who for 20 years (or more) has brought the far corners of the world to television audiences. He’s been missing six months at the series’ start and his son Lincoln (Joe Anderson) has concluded his father (from whom he is estranged) is dead.

But a beacon signal has gone off at last and Lincoln’s mother Tess (Leslie Hope) wants to mount an expedition to go rescue Emmet. The catch is they have to take a film crew in order to fund this trip.

Okay, you say. Could be interesting. Mysterious Amazon setting, family quest, supernatural tales. All workable, right?

Well … not exactly.

In The Scribbler’s Guide to the Land of Myth, in discussing franchise storytelling, I present what I call the Constant Jeopardy Syndrome.

If the premise of the franchise involves a major problem for your main character (or characters), and if the overall story ends when the character solves the problem, you are dealing with the Constant Jeopardy Syndrome.

The River fits this template. There are certain problems that come from using the CJS as the frame for your stories. And already, after just three episodes, some of these problems are starting to surface.

First off, there is the set-up for the series. It isn’t just that a team of people are on a quest and if they find Emmet the stories “end.” It is that the show’s creators have committed the audience to the knowledge that what we are seeing is “found footage,” which implies the questers do not make it back.

Obviously, the show’s storytellers want to make it a scary show. The “found footage” aspect implies disaster waiting ahead and we are to be anxious about the future of the characters. But this is where the problems of the Constant Jeopardy Syndrome come into play.

There’s the dangling carrot of Emmet Cole’s mysterious fate. Of course, we can’t have the questers find him very quickly. But he cannot be perpetually unattainable. At some point, the audience will want to see the questers’ perseverence rewarded in some fashion.

But say they do find Emmet? Does that necessarily put the story at an end?

Not exactly. As it happens, Emmet chose to lose himself in an “uncharted region” of the Amazon River Basin. The intrepid hunters are sailing up a tributary that is “not on any charts” (even though it does have a name). A storyteller could keep them lost in these mysterious regions where supernatural elements run free.

However, the show has a limited cast. There is no cannon fodder, there are no “redshirts.” In the first hour they killed off a couple of people to dramatize the threat the team is heading into — but now, three episodes in, they are pretty much set. This becomes a problem, in storytelling, keeping the audience hooked. The audience is outside the story. We know it is a series. In spite of the storytelling conceit of the “found footage” and its implications, we know the story “will go on.” For the characters, they believe they could die at any moment — they’ve seen it happen. But for the audience, we can guess that from this point on, none of the regulars will die. There’s no way to add in new characters, and we know this set are regulars.

The storytellers are working very hard to make this a scary show, tinged with horror. Emmet’s quest to find “the magic” out there sets the tone for this. The doctor’s dabbling with native supernatural phenomena gives the questers a lot to deal with as they go along.

The show unfolds the backstories of the characters. But they come with plot-necessitated aspects, which means we will see some very specific behavior from each as the series progresses.

Son Lincoln is a big problem: he didn’t want to come on this quest. He was estranged from his father and has eschewed Emmet’s interests.

Lincoln has studied medicine, meaning he went in the opposite direction his father took pursuing magic. But the circumstances of the journey are forcing Lincoln to engage with Emmet’s quest. And already, in just three episodes there are implications that Lincoln is by nature the shaman his father wants to become.

The “jobs” of each of the characters are already getting too entrenched. Tess, Emmet’s wife, drives the quest forward. We’re not entirely sure why, since Emmet went off on his quest without her.

And then there is the young woman-child Jahel (played by Paulina Gaitan), who speaks only in Spanish although it is quite clear she fully comprehends English. She also seems to know all the names and lore of the supernatural things in this uncharted region.

The cameraman, AJ (Shaun Parkes) and their security man Captain Kurt Brynildson (Thomas Kretschmann) don’t really have an emotional investment in the quest. Well, except for the fact that Kurt has a satellite phone he uses to contact the outside world. And it would seem his hidden mission is to keep the questers and Emmet from finding “the Source.” Lena (Eloise Mumford) is looking for her father, the only close friend Emmet took with him. Lena is the techno-info encyclopedia for the series. She also seems to know far more about Emmet’s recent choices than his family do. Jahel’s father (Daniel Zacapa) keeps things running. And then there is Clark (Paul Blackthorne), the producer, a long friend of Emmet’s and laboring under an apparently unrequited love for Tess.

Where can you take these relationships? It’s hard to see the growth room. And Kurt reeks of Dr. Smith (from Lost in Space). Let’s throw him overboard now.

Three episodes in, and I’m not certain how they can sustain this. Without the threat of genuine disaster (from the audience’s point of view), the scary factor dwindles. Things like this work in movies, because we accept the storytelling convention that a movie has an end. The convention of a series is that it is open-ended.

Mechanically the series has some additional stumbling blocks.

Joe Anderson tends to mumble in his line delivery. This is an big problem because Lincoln is (so far in 2 out of 3 cases) the one who has the insight to the solution of the current problem. It would be nice if we could understand him better.

The locked-down cameras on the boat are a bit contrived. Particularly the one focused on the prow, because that has become a favorite “private” conversation point. The conventions of this particular show are setting in too fast.

This is not to fault the actors, mind you. Although I complained about Anderson’s enunciation, he plays his part well — even though the scripts require him go from scientific skeptic to insightful believer at a twist of the plot.

The concept of the series also strains our credibility a little bit. In an age of global satellite surveillence they require us to believe in a vast “uncharted region.” In three episodes, we’ve apparently covered only 12 days or so. But I’m starting to wonder — what’s fueling this ship? It sat abandoned for six months, and they got it running again. But what about fuel supplies? Energy sources for all the equipment they have with them? I’m guessing their cameras are all digital, but they still have to be charged and the data transfered to … something. And food? It’s going to take suspense out of things if they have to make regular supply runs. But the characters (so far) aren’t questioning these things.

After all, “there’s magic out ther!” (Emmet’s catch phrase.)

I also have some deeper questions about what this show is saying. Emmet is evidently on an obsessive spiritual quest. He is looking for the Source, which apparently can only be found by a select few. It is hidden, guarded, protected from all but the initiates. It’s rather like ancient mystery religions, or Gnosticism. Additionally, Emmet left his whole family, close friends, everything, without explanation, taking one friend with him into danger. It’s a very selfish act on his part and leaves the audience with very little sympathy for his personal quest. No matter how wonderful the anticipated end of his quest is, is it worth the damage he has done to those closest to him?

All this leaves an impression that the storytellers are willing to consider any spiritual quest in the same light: selfish, harmful to those around the quester, all for obscure purposes.

The incidental stories, however, tend to run counter to that trend. The solutions have come through a willingness to act on compassion or self-sacrifice. These qualities are seemingly rewarded by the supernatural powers of the region.

Again — how long can the storytellers sustain this? The frame of “found footage” implies a failed quest. Yet the structures of the set-up indicate no regular character is in danger of being killed. They could all go crazy, of course, but would we want to watch that?

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The Aspiring Writer – Shadow

Posted on January 26, 2012 by Sarah

Well, I’ve finally finished the Traditional Archetype series of videos for “The Aspiring Writer”. Below is the last of them, focusing on the Shadow figure. It’s been fun making these, especially as I decided to give my Aspiring Writer a progressive arc of competency.

I’ve been considering doing more videos like this to illustrate other writing points. If you have suggestions that would interest you, let me know.

And I hope you enjoy this one.

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