One Day – The Importance of Opposites

It’s not hard to see why opposites are littered all over many different types of stories. What makes us different, in some cases, can be just as important as the similarities we find in one another. Think of Romeo and Juliet – a story built around the idea of opposites, of the forbidden. The fact that the story ends up being about the bonds we can forge despite these clashes of culture, despite our upbringing and the prejudices we’re told to uphold and live by, is one of the reasons it works so well.

In some respects, the same can be said for One Day, a Netflix adaptation of the 2009 novel by David Nicholls. (No, I’m not saying it’s as good as Shakespeare – whilst I did the series, that would be a step too far!)

Now, you may be wondering why I’m making such a comparison, but it’s important to note that, as with many love stories, there are similarities to Shakespeare’s tragedy. Romeo and Juliet is one of the quintessential love stories of its time, and frankly, any time, because its very message pertains to the fact that love can break down barriers that are so often placed around us in society. This universal message can be found emanating from many stories today, including One Day.

The beauty of One Day partly lies within its conceit – one that, on paper, can seem gimmicky at first but, with the story’s considered, careful execution, is anything but. One Day follows Emma Morley (Ambika Mod) and Dexter Mayhew (Leo Woodall) – showing their lives on the same day across many years. It is partly about the progression of time and how our lives can change, take turns we don’t necessarily want or ask for and, as such, it’s partly a tale about struggling to find a way in life.

Back to the theme of opposites. These two characters couldn’t be further apart, in many aspects of their life. Emma is from a working-class family in Leeds, has to take shitty, demolishing jobs to survive and dreams of being a writer; she’s a creative at heart. Dexter, however, is from money – raised in London and someone who has never had to even consider getting a job to make ends meet.

They bump into each other for the first time on July 15^th 1988; during their graduation party at the University of Edinburgh as they both see a nebulous, uncertain future laying ahead of them. You can instantly tell how different they are from their demeanours, as so much of their characterisation is clearly built on this.

Emma is shy, a bit awkward, clinging onto friends; found at the edge of the party as it begins to wind down. Dexter, however, clearly possesses confidence, a man who, as Emma states, gets noticed around campus for his dashing looks and sexual conquests. Whilst this may seem vulgar, this is important – again, it builds this contrast between them. In almost every possible way, they are different.

There’s a cynical edge to this; one that I’m instantly going to rebuff, but it’s worth mentioning. As a writer, you want to hook as many audiences as possible into noticing and reading your story. So, how would you do that? Simple – by creating characters who are opposites in order for there to be a greater chance of a reader or viewer seeing themselves in a character. Ultimately, many readers and viewers want to see themselves portrayed in front of them; to identify with a character, to see a piece of art they can recognise to tell them something about themselves.

So, the cynical argument could be: Well, they’re only different to draw in as many people as possible. After all, if you don’t see yourself in Emma, there’s every chance you could see yourself in Dexter. Theoretically, yes, that is possible, but, frankly, that’s just the nature of writing. Why? Because you WANT opposites! Opposites form the very basis of comedy, drama, hell, any writing, really!

Opposites help with character dynamics, plotting, can help build tension and make your characters seem more real. Now, this isn’t to say that characters can’t have things in common – my argument is both are important. But, in there lies the beauty of One Day (and many stories before it).

The journey of characters with opposite views is to show that people can overlook said differences. It ultimately doesn’t matter that Dexter is wealthy and Emma isn’t; it doesn’t matter that Emma is creative and Dexter doesn’t have a creative bone in his body – from a character-building perspective, it’s important to create opposites to build a diverse cast full of interesting characters, but the real message is that what could divide us doesn’t need to be what divides us.

And, of course, yes, you could do down a completely different route with this – you could create a bleak character drama where Emma and Dexter couldn’t get past their differences and they never saw each other again but in that is kind of my point: even if you wrote it that way, it only reinforces how important opposites can truly be.

The importance of side characters

Side characters are incredibly important to your writing. They can help reinforce the main themes, they can propel the plot or they can even be the audience’s voice in a given situation. I enjoyed watching the 2012 film Dredd recently but was initially put off by the introduction of a side character: Cassandra Anderson. This wasn’t because she was bad at all; it was because my initial response was an incredibly naïve one. My response was:

“Why do we need a side character if the film is about Dredd?!”

Ignorant beyond belief, I know, but, you see, as I’m sure we all have, I’ve been plagued with having to watch so many stories with superfluous side characters that made you roll your eyes because they are just taking up screen-time; used as a boring vehicle to deliver exposition. However, much to my pleasant surprise, Anderson was a great example of how to write side characters and, without spoiling anything, I’m going to give three main reasons why.

1. At the most basic level, a side character should be able to be a character that the main character can bounce off that lets the audience know more about the main character. In this example, it would be Dredd. Due to the fact that the film is called Dredd, it feels like Anderson, by definition, is a side character but really, she’s co-lead. She develops Dredd while giving contrasting opinions about things which leads me onto point two.
2. As mentioned in the opening paragraph, Anderson is the audience’s eyes and ears. Dredd is a seasoned vet so, unless an audience member is a seasoned police officer who works in Mega-City One, he can be difficult to connect with. Anderson is a rookie – she’s literally experiencing her first day on the job and so she’s nervous, edgy, dealing with the situation as best as she can in the same way many of us would. Dredd is the initial selling point but, by seeing ourselves in Anderson, we become emotionally hooked.
3. It can’t all just be about highlighting the main character or being identifiable. The character needs to also bring their own perspective, their own set of skills, particularly in a fast-paced action film like this. If she’s caught floundering too much, the audience could grow impatient with her. Alas, Dredd gives Anderson a great power – the ability to read minds. This is used particularly well in the scenes between Anderson and Kay (played by Wood Harris). Their interplay is a highlight for me and, while it is integral to the plot, it is, importantly, independent of Dredd. You need to show that the side character can walk on their own two feet and a good way to do that is to show their skills away from the main character.

Anderson who is played very well by Olivia Thirlby.

While Dredd is far from a perfect film, the dialogue and characters really help sell the world and the story. I’ve long admired Alex Garland as a writer and this script only further shows why. In a brief 95-minute movie, the audience are shown a dystopian world with interesting characters and a simple, effective premise. Even if you’re dabbling in genre pieces, remember: character interaction is so important in selling your writing. By all means, develop the world but don’t be afraid to re-examine characters and give them more to do if it gives the audience a greater connection with them. There are other examples of great side characters out there and far more points than the three above but I genuinely think, using those three as a starting point, you can build an effective side character with a sense of independence and flair that will only help your story.

Spree: a problem of escalation

An important part of writing is gauging what you think the audience will be willing to believe. They need to remain invested throughout the entirety of what you’re writing which is why shock twist endings, a la The Sixth Sense, are incredibly risky unless done really well because it could leave the audience feeling like they’ve had their time wasted. That’s not to say I felt that way at all with that movie (it’s my favourite Shyamalan film) but, if you don’t sell a character’s journey or transition properly, it can hugely hurt your story because the audience switches off.

That was my main gripe when I watched Spree. Starring Joe Keery (of Stranger Things fame), the film is about Keery’s character, Kurt Kunkle, and his desire to become an influencer. The first ten minutes are promising – we see Kunkle’s videos getting little to no traction; often getting less than ten views.  You sense his gradual resignation and desperation until, one day, he posts a video exclaiming that he doesn’t know what to do. Some time passes and he posts another video claiming to have come up with the answer. His solution?

To become a driver and film himself as he murders his passengers.

I don’t really consider this to be a spoiler as the bloody poster (pictured below) clearly shows that violence is involved and this turn of events happens in the first fifteen minutes of the movie. The film is a dark comedy attempting to skewer the social media landscape – taking the desperation for social validation to a ridiculous extreme to poke fun at the whole enterprise. Now, in theory, the escalation to this point wasn’t a turn-off for me. I like all kinds of comedy and I particularly like dark comedy because I like that it takes risks; that it doesn’t play it safe.

The issue with Spree is that, for that transition to work, for the audience to believe that Kunkle has gone from desperate Youtuber to psychotic murderer, it’s a big sell. The writers need to invest time in getting that transition right. If they don’t, they risk the audience not caring after fifteen minutes. Despite it being a satirical dark comedy, despite it having extreme behaviour, you still need to believe the character’s motivations. This isn’t a stab at Keery at all – Keery’s great in many scenes here and really does the best with the material he has. The problem is that there’s almost no time given to this character development meaning that, when it happens, it feels hollow and cheap. Even if the writers had spent five, maybe ten, minutes fleshing out his character a bit more, really selling the audience on the idea that this teenager would start murdering people, it would’ve made the excessive violence that happens after palpable and, with that, funnier and more enjoyable to watch.

Take the film adaption of American Psycho, for example. Not only would I argue it’s just a funnier movie, helped by a great Christian Bale performance, it also works because the protagonist is clearly already deranged when the film begins and so the transition into him being a murderer isn’t as hard of a sell. If more of Kunkle’s psychological state was on show at the beginning of the film, the transition to him murdering people would’ve been much easier to swallow. There’s a twist towards the end of the movie that implies that he was always this psychotic but the film needed to show us that, not just tell us that. Spree is far from being an awful movie – it’s just one where the central idea behind it could’ve been a lot better executed if they just paid more attention to fleshing out the protagonist. Without that fleshing out, I wasn’t invested in what came later. The lack of interest in the psychology of the protagonist, in making him feel more real, turned a great idea into a mediocre movie.   

NEWS FLASH: Your characters don’t have to be likable!

There are many writers (myself previously included) who assumed that, when developing characters, their likability is a very important factor. After all, you want the audience to relate to them, make sure they care about them, so that they’ll be invested and willing to follow your characters on their respective journeys. It’s certainly not the case that every character would need to be likable, and certainly not in the same way because you want your characters to be varied and unique, but my assumption has always been that there needs to be at least a few likable characters in the cast that the audience can grapple to.

This is, obviously, still a valid method of writing but, having just finished season one of Succession, I have found that it isn’t the only way to create characters that are still incredibly engaging and fun to watch. How do I now know this? Well, because Succession is a great show but every single main character is awful. It still feels varied because they all seem to be horrible in different ways but, before watching it, I didn’t think it was possible to have an engaging comedy-drama with NONE of the characters being likable. So, how did the writers do it?

Tom (Macfadyen) with Shiv (played by Sarah Snook) in Succession.

The brilliance of the writing comes partly from showing different sides of the characters. None of the characters are caricatures, or one-note. Take Tom, for example, played brilliantly by Matthew Macfadyen. To his girlfriend, Shiv, he is adoring – he idealises the ground she walks on and, in this regard, is a bit of a romantic and potentially similar to other roles Macfadyen has played in the past. To his bosses, Tom is a complete arse kisser – he wants their approval, desperately seeks it and wants to rise up the company ladder as quickly as possible. He’s power-hungry which is something a lot of characters in the show have in common. Linking into the theme of power is how he treats Greg. Greg is effectively his underling, someone who he feels needs to prove his worth.

He treats Greg horribly.

This was actually the thing that drew me into Tom as a character and the same with all the others. What the show does really well is highlight different parts of the characters so that they still feel fleshed out. That’s crucial in storytelling, as we know, but what I wasn’t expecting is to still be drawn to these characters when so many of them are absolutely despicable. The show does have its roots in dark comedy; Jesse Armstrong, the creator, wrote another favourite show of mine, Peep Show and also wrote for The Thick of It. The balance here is fascinating to watch – the plot of a show is normally riveting because you’re emotionally invested in the characters. Here, it works differently in that you find yourself invested because they’re all power-hungry monsters so you can’t wait to see what awful thing they’re going to do next. It’s like with a lot of dark comedies; the build-up and execution of punchlines is so important apart from, with this show, while there’re very funny moments, here, the plot is the punchline because the plot is driven by awful act after awful act.  

You can’t take your eyes away from it because they are all so horrible and, because they’re all these awful little peas in the same pod, the calamitous events, mixed with the great writing and acting, makes it engaging in a way that I wasn’t expecting. Bear this in mind: you can make all of your characters unlikable and still have the piece be engaging. How you do this is to make sure you show different sides to them. Tom is still mostly an awful person but, as an audience member, you can’t deny that he clearly loves his girlfriend, Shiv, and it’s the same with every character on the show and, ultimately, every human being. Just because they’re awful doesn’t mean they have to be caricatures unless, of course, you want them to be to make some wider point. Give your characters enough depth, make them fascinating to watch due to you showing different sides to them, and your writing can still be a rousing success, even if we’re watching a bunch of hyenas, ripping each other apart.

How NOT to write twists

I hope you and your family are all well during this awful crisis. Be safe, wash your hands and be kind to one another. Now, onto the blog post…

I’ve been watching a lot of classic episodes of The Simpsons recently (thank you, Disney Plus) and I wanted to discuss a topic that has frustrated me about the show for a long time – namely one episode that understandably polarises the audience. I’d say it’s a spoiler but the episode has now been out for over twenty years and so feel like if it bothered you, you’ve probably already seen, or at least know about it. The episode aired in 1997 and it’s called “The Principal and the Pauper.”

The basic premise of the episode is that Seymour Skinner is an imposter, his real name being Armin Tamzarian, and that he stole the identity of the real Seymour Skinner. The episode is written by Ken Keeler who, for both The Simpsons and Futurama, wrote some great episodes. I have a large issue with this, though, and it essentially comes down to the answering of two questions: why was it written and what purpose does it serve.

The episode itself seems to flip-flop between what it’s actually trying to do. It exposes Armin as the imposter and he’s rejected from the townspeople. The real Skinner then takes over working at Springfield Elementary School until the town realises that they prefer Armin over Skinner. The rest of the plot then breaks its back to reinforce the status quo that had just been torn apart by the episode. They run the real Skinner out of town, reassert Armin as Seymour Skinner and state that no-one is allowed to discuss this matter over the penalty of torture.

Keeler has openly admitted that the episode is about “a community of people who like things the way they are.” It certainly is an interesting topic and one that could be explored in other avenues. However, the episode is structed in a way that is self-serving. In readjusting back to the status quo, it shows that the twist itself lacked all meaning. It is purposeless – to serve as the sole plot point of one episode. Also, by claiming that the episode is about people who don’t like change, Keeler has now created an automatic defence in case people don’t like the episode.

Audience: We didn’t like this. We felt that the Skinner character that we’ve come to know and love for eight years has now been tarnished.

Keeler’s defence: That was the point!

I kind of understand what Keeler was trying to do but it leads us down a rabbit hole of issues. Firstly, we now need to look at any flashback about Skinner both before and after this episode as a lie because the fact that he is Armin is never brought up again. Secondly, why aren’t the audience allowed to feel cheated by this? Skinner isn’t a small character; he hasn’t only been introduced to the show – we’re talking about eight years! The episode is pulling the rug from the audience’s feet, then replacing the rug at the end of episode and stating how the point of the episode was to show how everyone loves rugs. That’s not the point! The point is that when you build a character and create a story, the audience understandably don’t like feeling like they’ve been conned by the writer. It isn’t just the one episode that’s the problem – it’s the fact that we, the audience, now need to question everything about the character that has come before or since.

And, again, I repeat, for what? What was gained by this episode? Even if you liked the episode, don’t you feel a sense of distrust with every bit of information we now learn about Skinner? Or, hell, let’s take it further. If the writers are willing to do this with Skinner, why not with every other character? In this you see the real issue – the trust between the writer and audience has been broken. I imagine it’s similar to the how audience members felt regarding the infamous Dallas twist. It’s fine having a character that’s untrustworthy if the audience are aware of that. But, to have spent hundreds of hours building a character only to tear it down and then, when understandable outrage is created, to turn back to the audience and state that the episode is a comment on the reaction is lazy.

As far as I’m concerned, the episode clearly shows where the line is regarding twists. I love a good twist, personally, and, in fairness to Keeler, having watched a lot of his other work, I can genuinely say he’s an excellent writer. The problem is really from the very foundation of the episode. It’s fine to subvert expectations and shock people. But, in my mind, a good twist gives the audience breadcrumbs beforehand. Why? Two reasons: to give the twist weight and meaning. In the instant moment of the twist, the audience should understand and appreciate its importance. The weight and the meaning of it are interlinked – the meaning of it is what comes before (breadcrumbs) in that it shows the audience why the twist happened, the weight of it is the potential ramifications of it going forward. Think about The Sixth Sense. Amazing twist. Why? The weight and the meaning of it are completely interlinked. It’s one of the greatest twists I’ve ever seen for that very reason and it makes you re-examine the entire film through a different lens. Why is it not a twist in the same vein as “The Principal and the Pauper”? Because the clues are there, the impact of it is instantly felt and it actually has meaning because it has massive ramifications.

There’s a difference between misdirection and misleading the audience. Misdirection is absolutely fine and critical for a twist to land. Misleading is a different game. It’s where you’re deliberately feeding wrong information to the audience only to show them later that they’ve been lied to. I don’t like twists like that because it breaks the trust created by the writer and the audience. I want to be thrilled, shocked and entertained. I don’t want to be lied to and the issue with “The Principal and the Pauper” is in attempting to critique that instinct without having anything to say afterward.

 

The Problems with Voiceover

When writing a protagonist, there are many storytelling techniques to make the audience feel like they know the character; to make them well-rounded. It could be by giving them a detailed backstory, by showing different sides of their personality or by seeing how they respond in a desperate situation. These all can be used effectively and frequently are. In novels, they can create intimacy between the character and the reader by having the protagonist occasionally refer or talk to the audience. This can also be done in great television shows, like Fleabag. However, sometimes, with movies and television shows, they want the protagonist to really get in the audience’s face – to make the entire narrative about the experiences of one character, or have one character completely control the structure of the piece. They do this through voiceover and I’m going to illustrate the pitfalls of using such a technique.

I got the idea for writing this piece by watching the latest DC film, Birds of Prey. I’m a fan of superhero films when they’re done right, and this one is a spin-off to the frankly awful Suicide Squad focusing primarily on the character of Harley Quinn. In there lies the first problem: the film isn’t simply from Quinn’s perspective; the film is Harley Quinn. She constantly narrates every single event that takes place on screen, as if either the audience need to have everything explained to them or because Quinn’s humour is too “charming” to not have her interrupt the action every ten seconds to deliver another zinger. The problems with this are two-fold. Firstly, if you don’t like Harley as a character it makes it very difficult to get past because she throws herself onto the entire weight and structure of the narrative. It isn’t heavy-handed so much as overbearing. The film doesn’t seem to be selling a plot and characters so much as selling a personality. Secondly, the constant interruptions and interludes by Quinn destroy the entire flow of the film. Any time the film appears to be building momentum, Quinn chimes in with another needless observation. If used sparingly, voiceover can be effective but there are times when it merely feels like it’s covering up the thinness of the plot and the bare-bones nature of the characters around her.

This leads to another issue with voiceover: if you’re relying on one character to control the narrative and selling the story purely on them and them alone, do you notice a problem? The problem is that, unless your piece is about a single character stuck in a box, every other character is going to be underdeveloped. Even if I was a fan of Quinn, it was still frustrating to see how poorly developed and fleshed out the characters around her were. This is a narrative problem is so far that it leads to character arcs that either don’t feel earnt or feel inconsequential – resolved by voiceover just before the credits roll, making the audience completely unengaged with their plight. They are given a reason to be around Quinn and that’s it. Many of the characters may as well be cannon fodder as the audience is given no compelling reason to care about them beyond the fact that they are relevant to Quinn’s journey. That is the role of a side character in a few scenes of a film, not the role of a main character, but in there lies the issue. Compared to the protagonist doing the voiceover, every other main character feels like an afterthought.

Voiceover can also lead to a controlling of narrative structure. For example, in Birds of Prey, Quinn constantly takes us back and forth; getting to certain parts of the story before realising that she needs to “introduce” another character to explain why the scene we’ve just seen is relevant. If overused, it proves tiresome, like a kid skipping back and forth on a vinyl player. Even if it’s used sparingly, it still needs to justify its own existence as a narrative tool. Okay, you can change the structure, but it must be used to build to something or at least make the sequence of events more compelling by creating a flow within the structure. This doesn’t do any of those things. It appears that it’s used purely to showcase Quinn’s zany and erratic nature. The problem? We already know she’s zany and erratic from the very first scene of the film. It needs to make the narrative stronger to justify its own existence and, if it doesn’t, it needs to be left in the first draft.

Voiceover is hard to get right. As such, many writers steer clear of the technique completely. I can think of shows like Scrubs that actually use the technique well, but that’s for a completely reason. Scrubs is a fast-paced comedy program in which a lot of the humour comes from J.D’s perspective and imagination. The cutaways into J.D’s imagination justify the approach because we, the audience, need to know what’s going on in his mind for the jokes to land. Without the voiceover, we would have no idea why these scenes are actually in the episode. It is a hook that illustrates to the audience why it’s present; justifying its existence through the practical implication of it. Birds of Prey doesn’t do this. Quinn’s voiceover often feels forced, as an exaggerated attempt to simply have the character hog the limelight unnecessarily. It lessens the impact of other characters, underutilising and under-developing them, and leaves the narrative around her feeling anaemic, in desperate need of developing.

 

How (not) to make teenage characters relevant

Teenage characters are difficult to write, like any character. The reason they seem harder to write than your average adult character is because, in many cases, these characters are set in an adult-orientated world and narrative. What this means is that they are normally not the full focus of attention. In most examples, the narrative in question is not My So-Called Life: teenagers are not the focus and anything that is not the focus can detract from the pacing and relevance of the piece. I’ve been watching a couple of television shows lately that do a lot of things right, but the contrast with how they deal with their teenage characters is particularly startling. Before I begin, I want to make abundantly clear that I think BOTH shows are very well-written. The illustration of the difference in the approach and execution of teenage characters is more to simply show how difficult they can be to write and to highlight common pitfalls that you want to avoid.

Homeland is an excellent show. I’ve talked about this previously on here – the dynamic between Nicholas Brody and Carrie Mathieson is, as far as I’m concerned, very well-handled and poignant. In depicting Brody’s family, however, the narrative, at points, struggles to remain relevant to what the overarching plot. Jessica (Brody’s wife) always feel relevant because she is given the spotlight with Brody at many different points and the show doesn’t shy away from depicting the difficulties of their marriage after Brody has been captured. Where the struggle lies is in attempting to characterise their daughter: Dana Brody. A lot of people (myself included) have said the same thing about Dana’s character:

“She’s annoying!”

What do the audience mean when they say this? Dana, right from the very beginning of the show, is a character that acts out – whether its smoking weed or disobeying Jessica. Instantly, this can make the audience dislike her which you could, of course, argue is the point. There’s nothing in any writing that specifically states that you have to like a character. There are countless television shows where you’re bound to find a particular character irritating because they either leach the spotlight or just showcase certain personality traits that you despise. That is normal. What, however, is particularly frustrating about Dana’s character is her lack of relevance to the overall plot which means that most scenes involving her or her narrative just feel completely inconsequential to the show. Even if the audience didn’t find her annoying, the writers are fighting an uphill battle here. This is a show that deals with terrorist threats on American soil: it is a very dramatic and high-stakes show. To contrast this with the issues of a teenage girl suffering with family problems, while potentially very interesting, simply drags the narrative down because it is NOT relevant enough. The only times, for me, where Dana felt relevant or significant to the plot involved her interactions with her father. This isn’t surprising, of course. In trying to provide Dana with more screen time, it not only makes the show lose its footing, it also slows the pace and detracts from most episodes. Her problems, while no less necessarily significant, just feel like small potatoes when compared to the rest of the plot and in that lies the problem. It is fine for them to be small potatoes, but then, why should the audience need to sit through five to ten minutes of barely relevant plot every episode? It doesn’t do the audience or the character any favours.

I will now give an example of a teenage character I think has been characterised very well and does not suffer from the same problems: Paige Jennings from The Americans. In season 2, there is a plot that involves her becoming involved in a church group which she begins to feel some form of affinity towards. However, as oppose to Dana’s plotline, the focus of this largely remains within the household which instantly makes it more relevant. Across the entire season, we have literally ONE scene of Paige at this group. Why? Because the characters in the group itself are not relevant to the plot. The family dynamic, however, is. The strength of the storyline is in managing to show that Paige is changing, beginning to form her own ideas of the world around her, without taking time away from the narrative. The plot becomes relevant when she admits to her parents, Elizabeth & Philip Jennings, that she enjoys the group. In that lies conflict. Without giving anything away, Elizabeth despises the idea of her being part of this group, feeling like she will become indoctrinated by religion. Almost every single scene about this storyline involves Paige and the two main characters, her parents. In that lies the beauty of it: it is relevant because the show illustrates to us the conflict inherent within it and does not take up too much screen time. It does a lot with a little which is all the audience needs. We sympathise and appreciate Paige more partly because she is fulfilling her role in the narrative very well: she isn’t detracting from the main plot; only adding to it in the way all good subplots should.

Both television shows are very dramatic and, if they were shows like My So-Called Life, Paige’s storyline would be considered under-developed because, in that instance, the teenage characters would be the focal point. That is not the case here and it takes intelligent writing to be able to flesh out these characters with the little screen time that should be allocated to them. While not necessarily poorly written, Dana is simply given far too much screen time and simply detracts because of it – her storylines are made relevant but only after episodes of seemingly feeling disconnected from the rest of the narrative. This makes the audience become exasperated by her and leads to her being seen with a more critical eye than is potentially justified. Paige’s treatment, however, is a perfect balance: it shows her acting defiantly in front of her parents while creating more tension in the dynamic between all three of them which means that even if you don’t like Paige’s character, you cannot say that her storyline is not relevant to the overarching plot of the show. In that lies a golden rule:

You can never make any audience like any specific character but remembering what your show or story is about and making sure that every exchange feels relevant can stop pacing issues and make sure that the audience remains engaged throughout.

Why Flashbacks can be so effective

Structure is integral to any story. The story is essentially about delivering information to the audience in a compelling way. Many stories are told in a linear fashion. There’s nothing wrong with this approach at all – it simply depends on the type of story you are trying to tell. Often, if there’s a large amount of characters or if simplicity with regards to the plot is the main aim, the story will only be told in this way to not confuse the audience. Many action films, for instance, are told in this fashion because delivering spectacle is one of their aims. While the story can, of course, still be compelling, keeping the story as simple as possible (a character has to get from A to B) means the narrative can be better focused on delivering the high-octane action that audiences thrive on.

This, however, is not always the best approach, as I’m going to demonstrate. You’ll hear in many workshops or discussion threads the phrase: the hero’s journey. It’s essentially the character arc that has been designed for the protagonist. One way to grip the audience into the journeys of your characters, and to immerse them to a greater level, is through flashbacks or flashforwards. This instantly places your narrative on more complex ground and comes with risks – if it’s not firmly established at some point when an event is taking place, it can take the audience out of the experience and simply confuse them. I have two excellent examples below of how a more complex narrative results in enriching the story and drawing the audience in.

The first is an excellent HBO show I’m currently catching up on: Westworld. Don’t worry, no spoilers here, as I’m only focusing on one very specific aspect. During season 2, a character called Bernard is struggling to remember events that have taken place. It becomes abundantly clear that these scenes are taking place in the “future” narrative which instantly builds tension. The destruction and rubble surrounding the character, as he attempts to establish what has been lost, only heightens the audience’s sense of dread. In these scenes, we are Bernard wondering to ourselves: what could’ve possibly happened here? If done correctly, a flashforward (which is essentially what these scenes are) helps build tension extremely well – think of how often thrillers use this technique to add to the sense of mystery. Not only that, but, as the season continues, Bernard slowly begins trying to piece together what happened; memories come to him as he enters certain rooms, or touches certain objects. This is often how memories flood back to ourselves. Not only are the memories designed to tease the audience regarding what’s actually happened but they place us in Bernard’s shoes; making us sympathise with him as he struggles to come to terms with what he may’ve done.

Another example of this is actually from a book I’m currently reading: Acid for the Children by the bassist Flea from Red Hot Chili Peppers. The autobiography is a coming-of-age story that covers his childhood and early adulthood growing up in the 1960’s and ‘70’s. It’s a fascinating read anyway but one thing that stood out to me, that truly made it unique, was how the book was clearly interested in detaching itself from a linear narrative. At many occasions, Flea actually flashforwards to explain why a particular scene is important or to provide more detail regarding why a specific person is important to him. It grips because, at its most effective, it adds layers to the previous scene. There are several times when he writes a lovely scene between himself and another only for the writing to change to italics to confirm the unfortunate way in which the other person died and how much he misses them. It creates a lived-in space; Flea is using the passage of time and the perspective with which he is writing the book to strengthen the stories within it. It’s an excellent tool and it only engrosses the reader further.

Linear narratives will always have their place, but there is something fundamentally human about flashforwards and flashbacks regarding how they link to someone’s memory. The technique personifies how we exist, learn and think as a species. How many times have you picked up something or gone to a place only for it to remind you of something incidental, that you haven’t thought of in years? As we are gripped with how techniques like this are used, we also identify with what it says about us – it immerses us because the faulty or brutal aspects of memory is something that we can all relate to and experience on a daily basis. It not only gives the writer a greater sense of freedom regarding how they want to tell the story, but the technique highlights that we are all passengers in time, living within its confines and forever remembering or forgetting the battles we’ve already faced.

 

The Golden Rule

“You shouldn’t care what people think.”

This is what you’re always told as a writer, or a creative of any kind, really, and it is the hardest rule to follow because you are never going to be able to accomplish it. There is always going to be someone whose opinion you care about; whether it’s a partner, a group of friends or some family members. You pour so much time and effort into the work that it’s only natural to care. You don’t want people to hate it, so it doesn’t make sense to only be indifferent. Caring about what others think shows that it means something to you. I actually think it’s strange if you didn’t care at all.

So, I’m proposing a change to this ‘golden rule’ – one that’s achievable for every person but also one that realistically takes into account other people’s views in the right way. The rule I write to is this:

You should only care about what the target audience will think of what you create. And, even then, try not to care too much.

I’m going to use a film I’ve seen as an example of this amended rule and, through it, explain the rule’s worth. I saw Jojo Rabbit recently and thought it was a great film. For those of you who don’t know the plot, I’ll summarise it for you in a spoiler-free way. I’ll only explain to you what’s been shown in the trailers. A ten-year old boy called Jojo is living in Germany in the later stages of World War II. He lives with his mother, Rosie, and is involved in the Hitler Youth. Jojo has an imaginary friend (his own interpretation of Hitler, seen through his young, easily-influenced eyes.) He is avidly devoted to Hitler’s cause but his resolve is tested when it’s revealed that Rosie is hiding a Jewish girl in their home.

Now, instantly, looking at the premise, you and I both know that people will be offended by this. Hitler is portrayed by the director, Taika Waititi, who is, quite frankly, brilliant. By having Hitler be an imaginary friend, it lets Waititi make Hitler incredibly childish which lets the character become ironic because the audience know of the atrocities Hitler carried out. The humour works on several levels; one being that the film uses the audience’s knowledge to its favour. It’s a wink and a smile that some will definitely find offensive and, you know what? That is absolutely fine. There seems to be a problem nowadays where every single person has a “hot take” on everything – some people seem to think that being offended is literally the worst thing that can ever happen, other people think that offended people are self-entitled. The truth is that people are allowed to be offended but that the creator actually really doesn’t need to care at all. Why do I say that?

BECAUSE THE PEOPLE THAT ARE OFFENDED ARE CLEARLY NOT THE FILM’S INTENDED AUDIENCE.

Regardless of the film’s intentions, it is inherently allowed to exist. People who are offended by its mere premise will miss the true point of the film. Without giving anything away, Jojo Rabbit is a film that highlights the disgusting and revolting nature of such hatred and really shows that we can only survive if we continue to see the humanity in one another.

Now, some people will understand the message but not appreciate or like the humour in the film. Again, while I thought it was hilarious, not everyone will agree because humour is subjective and, I’d argue, incredibly hard to get right. One thing Waititi does very well is that he doesn’t appease in his use of humour: he has themes and rhythms to it that work throughout the entire film. The humour comes from the absurdity of Jojo’s interpretation of Hitler or from the absurdity of Nazi beliefs in general. You could argue that Waititi keeps ringing the same bell, but I’d counterargue by saying that it’s very focused in what it’s trying to do. The weakest part of comedy writing is when you try to appease every member of the audience, as if your goal is to simply make everyone laugh at least once. The goal is to be funny. You will not achieve that goal with everyone and that’s fine. If you’re winning some over with your humour but not others, the ones who aren’t laughing are not your target audience.

Now, the hardest part of this is to work out what your target audience actually is, as this changes from piece to piece. Personally, I tend to write things that I think work mainly for the 18 – 45 age category. My protagonists tend to be strong female characters which luckily is a LOT more widely accepted than it used to be because of how the bigoted view of female characters has slowly diminished. My work is quite modern in terms of language. That, and with the varied subject matter, has let me slowly identify my main demographic. As said before, however, this will change from during every piece. For example, my first novel (which I plan on self-publishing soon) focuses on music which means that people who aren’t particularly invested in music or its functions will probably find it incredibly boring. Your target audience may be different to mine and it can be painful trying to work out what it is. The encouragement I give myself is simply this: If I’m interested in it, there simply has to be other people that will be as well. This isn’t to say that you can’t always improve, that you shouldn’t take advice or that you shouldn’t amend things, but simply be weary of who you take advice from. Don’t blindly follow if it isn’t in-keeping with the vision of what you are trying to make.

Let’s go back to Jojo Rabbit for a second. Can you even imagine the feedback Waititi would’ve received if the script had been given to people who weren’t invested in the idea?! There are people who are convinced that the film shouldn’t have even been made! It’s narrow-minded to think that because, whether you agree or disagree with any story, the story still has a right to exist. Half the battle when writing is convincing yourself that your voice deserves to be heard. Take Jojo Rabbit for what it is, whether you like it or don’t: an excellent example of how caring the right amount got a film made that some would say has no right to exist at all.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why it’s important to never care too much.

The Importance of Honesty

“Honesty is always the best policy.”

We’re told this from a young age by our parents, our family, sometimes even teachers but it’s important to analyse why honesty is deemed so important. Honesty is linked to such character traits as being honourable and genuine. This final word, genuine, is significant regarding the topic for today: that of honesty within the creative sphere. Today, I’ll be looking at a couple of artists I admire to make the case that the style of music that is presented makes the listener engage with their songs on a more personal level.

The idea for this blog post came from my appreciation of particular artists and realising why I seem to relate or find deeper meaning from their lyrics than other musicians. It’s a realisation I’ve made over the course of the last few years: that, if the writing of something feels more personal, more raw, visceral and intimate, I become engaged with it on a deeper level, as if it seemingly means more. Let’s look at my first example.

Fiona Apple released her first album, Tidal, at the age of eighteen. Not only being an incredibly talented pianist, she also has an excellent voice – her tone able to range from a quiet whisper to a roaring, pained scream. Her style, both when singing and playing, manages to straddle a line beautifully between being intricate and also somehow feeling naturalistic, as if the lyrics are simply coming to her as she plays. Whether the lyrics of the songs across her discography are about sex, love or the inner turmoil she potentially feels, there is one quality that is undeniable: the way the music sounds and is delivered seems personal. The brutal honesty with which she describes the loneliness, detachment or fear of the characters she creates and writes about draws the listener into the plight due to such raw emotion. This can also be seen in musicians, like Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails. The music and the lyrics combine to paint a personality that encapsulates the singer. Without knowing anything of Apple or Reznor’s difficulties in their life, you would assume that they have been through pain, suffered great loss and used the medium of music to “deal with” some of the pain.

Here’s the problem with that, however: it’s a dangerous assumption. Writers can get ideas from many different places and, if you listen to many songs that Reznor has written, there is a likelihood that they simply can’t all be personal – certainly not to the same degree. This is one of the beauties of creation and one of the things both Apple and Reznor do so well. Yes, you can read articles about them, research their work to see which songs particularly mean something to them but I would argue, from the listener’s perspective, it actually doesn’t matter.

The beauty of their work isn’t that it’s necessarily personal. It’s that it feels personal. It creates a bond with the listener because of the emotion being conveyed and the way it can relate to another person. To assume that everything a writer creates is personal is never a stance I’ve been comfortable with, but a bond can still be created between the singer and the audience regardless. By assuming that things are personal, I feel like the audience would essentially be limiting the potential interpretations of what’s been created and, if we are to assume, we are creating ideas in our minds about musicians that could simply be fictitious. Look back at the paragraph higher up when I state that Apple has created characters when she writes. This could, of course, be completely untrue and every single song could be about her own struggles, but I strongly feel that it isn’t the audience’s place to assume that. It is within our right to interpret but never to confirm by assumption.  It’s for the artist to confirm which they are well within their right to do.

Take, for example, the song ‘With Teeth’ by Nine Inch Nails. Great song with excellent lyrics about a toxic relationship. It must be about a woman, right? Wrong. It’s about Reznor’s battle with alcoholism that he struggled with before making the album. Now, of course, because Reznor has stated that is the idea and meaning behind the song, I can now categorically tell you one of the meanings of the song. However, if Reznor hadn’t admitted that, the listener could simply assume its meaning and, while I wouldn’t necessarily agree with the assumption, in it lies the beauty of the style. It creates a link between the listener and musician that doesn’t need to be literal or answered. The honesty that seems to be portrayed within the songs make us want to delve deeper into them, to work out all of their intricate meanings, but in focusing on the emotional only, we can embrace the beauty of the lyrics without putting words into our musician’s mouths. To do both is the challenge that the listener faces and really highlights the beauty and importance of interpretation.