The Issue With Retconning

This week we’re going to talk about one of my absolute pet peeves. I often see it in television writing and that is the retcon.

Retconning is basically when a piece of information is quickly introduced to conveniently stop or sidestep the logical consequences of a particular action. This isn’t the same as a plot twist – a plot twist hinges more on structure and when exactly information is revealed. A retcon is, effectively, a way a writer can conveniently stop a particular foreshadowed or forewarned event from occurring.

You may wonder: why would a writer want to do this? Well, I said before that I see this issue happen more in television writing than in films and novels and there’s a reason for this. You see, to build tension in a drama series, there could be a storyline that threatens the life of a particular character or could result in a character getting fired from a work position, resulting in them potentially no longer being in the show.

The reason you may not find such storylines in a film or novel is simple: because most of them aren’t long forms of narrative; not when compared to a long-running television series. And, to a certain extent, I get it – writing is really hard and it must be a very difficult balancing act trying, week in, week out, to come with engaging and interesting storylines that come to a satisfying conclusion. In this lies my issue with the retcon: it results in the storyline almost never building to a satisfying conclusion.

Let’s give an example to highlight what I mean. I’m currently watching The Morning Show on Apple TV. It’s not the greatest show in the world but the acting is great and the storylines can, in some instances, be engaging. It also has some soapy tendencies that I’ve learnt to enjoy.

Now, I should say there are very minor spoilers for Seasons 1 and 2 of the show here, but they are needed in order to make my point. Billy Crudup plays Cory Ellison, the CEO of UBA, the network that runs the aforementioned Morning Show. Now, at the end of Season 1, Cory, working with Bradley Jackson (Reese Witherspoon) and Alex Levy (Jennifer Aniston) enable an interview with a whistleblower.

This isn’t just any whistleblower – this is a woman called Hannah who has been sexually assaulted by the now-disgraced, former anchor Mitch Kessler (Steve Carrell). The ins and outs of this aren’t really important. However, what is are the stakes involved: you very much get the sense that, if this goes poorly, baring in mind they are biting the hand that feeds them, that the network could fire them for enabling this interview.

So, Season 2 begins and Cory Ellison is brought into a meeting with other board members to discuss his actions. In one effective, well-acted scene, he’s fired because he disobeyed the network and made them look bad by enabling this interview. This was a potentially expected outcome; one that sold the dramatic stakes of the interview and one that seemed to complete the dramatic story arc laid out from the end of the previous season.

HOWEVER, the show then flashforwards several months and, lo and behold, Ellison is suddenly back in his office as CEO. There is one mention in the episode that Bradley effectively helped Ellison get his job back by threatening to quit.

There are a few issues with this:

1. Show, don’t tell – The show breaks one key writing rule which is show, don’t tell. It’s a lot more effective to see something as opposed to simply being told something. If we’d seen Bradley defend Cory in the first place, and threaten to quit, it would’ve been much more of a compelling development.
2. The lack of details – I’m halfway through Season 2 currently and there really hasn’t been many details provided as to the meeting Bradley had with the board members. Now, of course, you could just say, “well, Max, what is there to tell? She threatened to quit and they caved.” You’d be correct but the writers have made it feel so throwaway that it’s almost like they don’t want us to think about it too much.
3. Undermining dramatic tension – Here’s my main issue with it – if you have a storyline that threatens or builds towards certain fallout or consequences, by not following through with it, it undermines the storyline as a whole. The Hannah interview storyline was built up through Season 1 and, literally as Season 2 is starting, any ramifications of it seem to be swept under the carpet. It turns from a great storyline to one that doesn’t fully stick the landing.

Now, there are, of course, worse things than retconning and I understand that the writers clearly didn’t want Crudup to leave the show (they shouldn’t want that, he’s great in the role.) The problem, however, is that by building a dramatic storyline, the viewer expects some ramifications from it. In having Cory already have his place back at UBA, it begs the question of why those particular stakes were raised in the first place.

The writers could have simply not included the firing scene at the beginning of the episode. Why include it if you’re just going to go against it in ten minutes’ time? The answer is simple – it’s because they knew, logically, that Cory would have to fall on his sword but didn’t want to deal with actual consequences of that. They wanted to have their cake and eat it too.

Such writing techniques as the retcon can undermine your storylines and characters, leading to your writing losing some of its dramatic weight. My advice would be to not use such a device whenever you can. You don’t want to sell your reader or audience short. Always remember: like life, in writing, actions have consequences and you need to fully commit to them if you want to create a compelling world that people will want to come back to.

Normal People – The Power of the Unsaid

Normal People is a BBC miniseries which is an adaptation of Sally Rooney’s novel of the same name. The plot is incredibly simple and, in that, lies one of the story’s strengths.

The series starts following two characters in high school – Marianne Sheridan (played by Daisy Edgar-Jones) and Connell Waldron (played by Paul Mescal). Marianne is shy and awkward when it comes to meeting people but is also incredibly passionate and fiery; talking back to teachers and other students when she grows inpatient at their responses to her behaviour. Connell, however, has plenty of friends, an active social life and is even on the school’s Gaelic football team.

At first glance, they seem to be complete opposites. But, within the first episode, as the show peels back their layers, it suggests they have an understanding with each other that they seem to not have with anyone else.

First and foremost, I’d like to make this abundantly clear from the get-go: I absolutely love this show. It’s beautifully acted, very well paced and is very clear and concise in what it’s trying to say and how it goes about it. We’ve spoken before about how opposites can work on television, using One Day as an example of this. However, it’s the subtle storytelling of Normal People that really sets it apart.

You see, there are many themes that flow through Normal People, but there is one that pervades through it again and again, which is the power of the unsaid, the unspoken. Normal People follows Marianne and Connell’s on-and-off friendship throughout a series of years and, in doing so, you see them both mature and grow. It’s partly a story about them trying to find out who they are amidst the chaos and confusion of everyday life.

Marianne and Connell, at various points, seem to want to be together before an event occurs that seems destined to blow them apart once again. In many cases, this is due to miscommunication – someone not knowing how to communicate their feelings or being unable to find the right words in the right moment.

A perfect example of this happens in Episodes 6 and 7. In Episode 6, it transpires that Connell is going to lose his job meaning that he will be unable to pay rent and, therefore, be unable to stay in Dublin over summer. Bearing in mind they both go to Trinity College and are currently dating one another; Connell’s friend makes a valid point – why don’t you simply ask Marianne if you can move in with her?

However, Connell seems unable to ask her, scared it would put too much pressure on the relationship. He overthinks it, resulting in him leaving Dublin to go back to Sligo. Their relationship ends not with a scream but with a whimper. In Episode 7, time has clearly passed since their break-up – the better part of a year. However, Connell contacts Marianne again after getting mugged whilst drunk.

It is only in this state that he’s able to apologise to Marianne for leaving Dublin the previous year and effectively ending their relationship. In a terrible moment of realisation for Connell, Marianne states that she would’ve, without question, let him stay at her house over the summer, confirming what we, the audience, already know – that Connell screwed up the relationship for no tangible reason due to his own doubts and insecurities.

This theme of miscommunication, of struggling to say what you really mean, is seen throughout the show. Marianne feels like she is worthless partly because of how Connell treated her early in the story. Due to this, she begins dating men who, at least sexually, dominate her, telling her exactly what to do because it mirrors her own feelings of worthlessness. She actively encourages this behaviour because she feels like she isn’t worthy of love. It takes a long time for her to admit to herself (and, by proxy, the men she dates) that she is worth more than this – that she no longer wants to be treated as an object of desire.   

Normal People is a beautiful show. Through deft acting, it navigates two characters who struggle to cope in everyday life but does it in a way that feels incredibly poignant and relatable. Much of this needs to be attributed to both Edgar-Jones’s and Mescal’s acting. They both beautifully navigate scenes with little or no dialogue with vulnerability that depicts to the audience through silence what they’re actually thinking.

It isn’t a show that’s afraid to let the audience interpret why a particular character performed a certain action. It’s bravely written; not looking away at incredibly honest, heart-breaking moments so you can fully absorb yourself in their journey.

It’s also a perfect example of how less is more. Runtimes for a lot of the episodes come to less than half an hour and there is no fat on the episodes at all – its razor-focused on these two characters and, whilst there are other important characters on the show, the story is ultimately about the two of them and their relationship. Luckily, the writing isn’t afraid of that focus, needlessly creating convoluted storylines to pad out or “add” to the narrative.

Instead, it tells a very relatable story about two people trying to connect in the world. It’s in its simplicity that Normal People has its ace up its sleeve – showing that you don’t need a vast array of characters or a complex plot to make something entertaining, honest and heart-breaking. There needs to be more stories like this – ones that aren’t afraid to show deep, compelling complexity through a simple, focused premise.

How Dune Subverts The “Chosen One” Narrative

The “Chosen One” narrative is an incredibly old, tried-and-tested trope. It’s intrinsically linked to the idea of the hero – a person who is designed, through fate, to vanquish evil, or achieve all of the goals the narrative needs them to achieve to get to a happy or convenient ending. Narratives like this have their place and, in some respects, can be fun or comforting to watch but I have several bugbears regarding them.

1. They are often very contrived. The idea that someone could achieve a particular task or goal because they were simply BORN to do it is contrived and, frankly, pretty boring. If the character achieving their goal is always meant to be simply due to their existence, it diminishes their achievements and can make it tedious to watch.
2. They are often lazy. My main issue with these types of narratives is that, for me, I identify with a character who has to go through trials and tribulations, who needs to sacrifice or compromise in order to get what they want or what they think they want. With a “chosen one” narrative, this is often not the case. They often accomplish tasks simply because of their status as the “chosen one” protagonist – not due to their actions or accomplishments. It doesn’t feel earnt and so I often struggle to get emotionally invested in their plight.
3. It destroys any sense of tension. Any narrative driven by a “chosen one” protagonist is, instantly, in my mind, slightly hamstrung. This is because, as much as the narrative will try to sell you on the idea that they could be in peril at any moment, frankly, that isn’t going to happen. It can sometimes drain the risk or tension out of a scene. Now, in fairness, a writer writing a “chosen one” narrative can just lean towards the side characters to create risks of danger or death (and a writer will often do that) but it still seems like a bit of a detriment to me that, whenever the “chosen one” is in danger, you never really FEEL, as an audience member, that they are in danger.

These gripes, in fairness, can be nullified if you have a believable protagonist who, despite their status in the narrative, still has to make sacrifices or overcome challenges, but part of my brain can’t help thinking “well, this is a chosen one narrative, so they’re going to be fine in the end.”

So, given my distrust or dislike of these types of storytelling conventions, you may be wondering what my opinion of the latest Dune film is. Technically the second part of what is a supposed trilogy, Denis Villeneuve’s Dune Part Two picks up right where the first one left off (no major spoilers here, don’t worry.)

I could focus on lots of aspects of this film as there’s a lot to like here – the performances are great, visually, it looks stunning, it manages the difficult feat of being almost three hours long and not feeling like three hours long and, well, what can I say about Villeneuve? He’s directed several of my favourite movies from the last decade and he rarely, if ever, misses.

However, the main aspect I want to focus on with Dune Part Two is how it subverts the “chosen one” narrative. You see, without spoiling anything, it is seemingly set up early in the narrative of Part One (and re-established in Part Two) that Paul Atreides (Timothée Chalamet) is the “chosen one.”

However, the writers add a complexity to this that makes this idea not only not boring, but one of the core aspects of the story. This involves:

1. Never CONFIRMING whether he is or not. Stilgar (played by Javier Bardem) is the leader of the Fremen tribe and is convinced that Paul is the “chosen one” that his tribe, and their world in general, has been looking for. However, there is no prophecy, poem, book or text that categorically tells the audience that Paul is the “chosen one.” As such, the audience is never really quite sure if he is or not which adds a much-needed layer of tension to the narrative.
2. There being actual CONFLICT regarding this. Often, with “chosen one” narratives, there is little conflict from characters regarding whether the person in question is the “chosen one” or not. Take Harry Potter, for instance. From the very beginning of his life, given what he did to Voldemort as a baby, no-one doubts Harry Potter’s ability – some people are even scared of him. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with that, but there’s little to no tension about people questioning it. In Dune Part Two, Chani (Zendaya) is against the idea that Paul is the “chosen one” and it creates a gradual dramatic shift throughout the movie, which propels the narrative along, taking it to interesting places.
3. Showing the IMPACT of Paul’s actions. Ultimately, in Dune Part Two, it’s less about whether Paul is the “chosen one” and more about whether other people think he is. Paul, frankly, seems completely unsure of it himself until he thinks that the Fremen tribe need a leader. Over the course of the film, it shows the danger of there being a “chosen one.” At first, many people doubt him but, over the course of the film, people begin to believe and it doesn’t shy away from asking uncomfortable questions about the idea of there being a messiah in the first place.

Is Paul as powerful as he thinks? Is it right that he has this power? What should or shouldn’t he do with this power and, with this power, is he the right person to be a leader?

A lesser narrative wouldn’t ask these questions – the fact that Dune Part Two does means it avoids the normal pitfalls of the “chosen one” narrative. The narrative isn’t about confirming one way or the other if he is a messiah or not – it’s about dealing with the moral implications of ANYONE being a “chosen one.” It doesn’t use Paul’s potential status as as a convenient, lazy plot point, but instead asks questions about humanity and our need for structure and belief amongst chaos. It is, ultimately, a much better story for doing that.  

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.

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.   

How ‘Better Call Saul’ works as an effective prequel

‘Better Call Saul’ is a great example of how sharp, organic writing can look as if it was planned years in advance. On ‘Breaking Bad’, Saul Goodman was largely used as a comedic relief – the crooked lawyer of Jesse and Walt who was obsessed with making money so long as he didn’t end up in a body bag. He was entertaining and had some fascinating moments, but he was definitely a side character to create a contrasting tone to the show; as the show became darker, Saul was the tragic, dancing clown designed to remind you how to laugh. So, when ‘Better Call Saul’ was announced, many fans wondered how the show would work. I’m going to look at several aspects the show did well that helped make it a successful prequel.

Firstly, Vince Gilligan, Peter Gould and the other writers used the Saul Goodman character as the end point and spent countless hours wondering who the man behind the mask was. Jimmy McGill, ultimately, turns into Saul Goodman and so, much like how Walter White became Heisenberg, there is a journey and character arc that must take place for that transformation to happen. They used the fact that Saul was the dancing clown to ask the question of how he became that. Instead of simply saying that they couldn’t do a prequel about an important but not particularly fleshed out character, they instead used that to their advantage. ‘Breaking Bad’ fans already enjoyed Saul as a comedic presence so they were more than likely going to watch it to see what else could be done with the character. Saul is arguably the perfect example of how you pick a character to do another series from: he’s both likable enough to draw an audience and engrained in the shady underworld of ‘Breaking Bad’ enough that it’s likely to hold your interest. The unknown aspects of Saul were used to help build intrigue into the character’s journey. It creates an element of mystery; a desire from the audience to find out more.

The two sides of Jimmy McGill

Mystery is also important when building towards my second point: the fate of particular characters. After all, not much is known about Saul’s life when he’s in ‘Breaking Bad’ and there are several key characters introduced in ‘Better Call Saul’ who, obviously, are not in ‘Breaking Bad’ which begs the question: where are they? What happens to Kim, Chuck, Howard and Nacho which makes them not present in ‘Breaking Bad’? This tension would obviously be baked into many prequels because you’re always going to have new characters that were not in the original piece but this is made extra tantalising when examining my final point.

Similar to Walt’s journey in ‘Breaking Bad’, Jimmy McGill’s is essentially about a man crossing worlds: from the legal to the illegal. Knowing that this is something that must take place not only adds more tension to the dynamic of the show, it inevitably makes the prequel as much of a character study as ‘Breaking Bad.’ This is because you’re investing in wanting to know what drove McGill to become the “criminal lawyer” Jesse refers to when we first meet him. Many shows examine the bad decisions of characters but few do them with as much forethought and deliberate pacing as ‘Better Call Saul.’ This crossing of worlds is naturally engrossing when tied to the people that Jimmy has in his life or around him who aren’t in ‘Breaking Bad.’ After all, we know Jimmy is still alive as Saul in the ‘Breaking Bad’ timeline but it doesn’t mean that his mistakes couldn’t potentially lead to the deaths of those around him. As Jimmy goes further down the rabbit hole into the criminal underworld, the threat and tension are constantly heightened. The writers have managed to make the journey compelling by already having an endpoint. They do this by revelling in the unknown; by using Saul’s status as a tertiary side character in ‘Breaking Bad’ to their advantage.

Good Twist / Bad Twist

To a writer, there’s nothing quite like delivering a twist – leading up to a huge moment in your narrative that either answers mysteries posed previously or created a turning point that changes the entire narrative landscape. It’s important, however, to be careful with these moments as they can easily make or break the entire experience for your reader or viewer. Today, I’ll be examining at a twist I’ve experienced, as a viewer, that left me cold and, in doing so, explain my golden rule for writing a good twist.

Sam Esmail’s Mr Robot first aired on USA Network back in 2015. It’s a very well-made show and I was compelled to watch most of the first season very quickly, finding the characters engaging and the dark, gritty world surrounding the protagonist Elliot Alderson endlessly intriguing. There seemed to be so many possibilities regarding where the show could go. It, however, unfortunately led to a twist that completely put me off watching anymore of it. What could it possibly be? It has to do with Elliot’s perception of the world.

In the pilot episode, it is clearly established that Elliot has mental health issues. He doesn’t like being around people, he finds any form of social interaction troubling and he’s known as being a recluse. All of this is expertly portrayed by Rami Malek. It’s a performance truly worthy of the Emmy that he received. You feel sorry for Elliot as you watch him attempt to cope with the world around him. In the first episode, Elliot meets his father, Edward Alderson (aka Mr Robot) who recruits him to become part of a vigilante hacker group. The unsavoury twist comes in Episode 9 when it’s revealed that Edward Alderson is actually dead and the Edward that Elliot is seeing is simply one of Elliot’s personalities.

So, you’re probably now wondering how they managed to pull this off. Well, this is the awkward part because, while it certainly makes sense given Elliot’s personality disorder, it doesn’t really make sense as part of the viewer journey. It isn’t that it’s not a clever twist (I was certainly surprised!) The issue is that, up to that point, the viewer has clearly been seeing both characters in scenes, with everyone else around them not acting a bit strange at what is occurring. You see, in reality (the reality the viewer doesn’t see until this twist is revealed), whenever Elliot is speaking to Edward, he is fact just stood there speaking in a different voice to another version of himself. Again, inherently nothing wrong with that in theory until you put that into practice:

Why was no-one who was a witness to this shocked?

Why weren’t there other clues building up to this?

Why does it feel like I’ve been deliberately misled?

Let’s start with answering question one. Frankly, I can’t! The show implies that people around Elliot already know of this issue which could go some way to explaining why no-one seems particularly bothered. The explanation is that, because Elliot has had treatment for his issues, he has forgotten previous symptoms like this but the people around him, of course, still remember. It’s always felt like a huge stretch to me. How could you not react? Every single person just seems to accept what is happening to Elliot in front of them with no-one giving any sign that his behaviour is strange or that the entire thing makes them uncomfortable. I just don’t buy it.

Now, regarding question 2, in fairness, as I haven’t watched it back, there probably are clues which indicate that this is happening. However, my lack of a definitive answer for this leads me onto question 3. I know friends that attest that this is an excellent television show and that it only gets better, but the reason this twist was my cut-off point is simply because I felt like, as a viewer, I had been deliberately misled. The fact that I didn’t anticipate the twist before it happened is not the issue. I actually like being surprised by the stories I read and watch. My favourite television shows are The Shield and The Wire, partly for their ability to shock their audience’s with expertly crafted twists. No, my issue with this goes deeper into the fact that Mr Robot does a similar trick to Fight Club, only cheating a little in its execution.

You see, in Fight Club, Tyler Durden being an extension of the nameless narrator makes sense. Why? Because he’s the only person that ever talks to Tyler Durden. So, when the big twist occurs, while shocking, it actually makes sense because you realise you have been seeing the entire story through the eyes of the nameless narrator and his perception. Esmail tries to do that but he’s trying to have his cake and eat it too due to the fact that other characters interact with both of them to make every scene look normal. Also, not every scene is from Elliot’s perspective so it makes even less sense! I could understand why Esmail thinks that he is simply making a subversive narrative but, for me, it goes too far into the direction of simply misleading your audience.

Regardless of how that twist was exposed, it’s also important to consider the ramifications of it going forward which I also struggled with. If the show can pull a twist off like that, where it simply states that, because we’re seeing some of the narrative through Elliot’s eyes, anything can be real or not, it begs the question: why should I believe anything I’m seeing? This is the fundamental problem with the twist and it was definitely a make-or-break aspect for me the more I thought about it.

Okay, television show, you did your twist. Excellent. Now tell me why I should care? I’ve talked about this previously; with a twist like this, the audience could completely lose faith in the storytelling because there is now no way to decipher between what is real and what isn’t. What’s the point investing further into a story when, for all you know, the writer could just do the same thing again further down the line? It killed my enthusiasm for the show because I no longer trusted anything that was being shown to me. Due to that, I no longer cared.

The reason that breadcrumbs are normally laid out for the viewer is because the twist needs to seem plausible and to not feel like a narrative stretch that completely unhinges what came before. If your twist feels too unlikely (which can arise from the fact that you haven’t put the required groundwork in to “sell” it to the audience), then they can feel rightfully cheated. My golden rule when writing twists is quite simple: It doesn’t matter if the audience guess the twist before it happens so long as it makes sense and goes to an interesting place anyway. Think about it: even if I guess correctly that the butler did the crime, if it leads to an intriguing situation or event happening, why should I care that I guessed it in the first place? There have been many occasions when I’ve actually wanted something to be true, having guessed the twist, and have been pleased when it actually happened. With any good twist, it is about build-up, execution and showing the ramifications of it. So long as your twist makes sense and you follow through with it, still finding interesting places to go afterwards, then it matters a lot less if the audience have already guessed what’s going to happen. That’s my issue with the twist described above: while I admire the conviction of Esmail for doing it, it made me apathetic towards the narrative and the show essentially lost itself a viewer. While you, understandably, may feel differently, just beware when you write a twist of this nature: you may be losing as many audience members as you potentially gain and, in that, you need to ask yourself if it’s really the route you need to take.

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.