The Ultimate Pilot Story Checklist: Transparent

I love this show! It fails the checklist in many ways, but it’s pure joy. If you haven’t seen it, check it out over on Amazon, then meet me back here (or read on and let me sell you on it.)

Mort Pfefferman has decided at age 69 to come out as transsexual and begin living as Maura. Her three grown children, Ali, Sarah, and Josh, are all neurotic and selfish, and Maura loses her nerve about telling them. Ali is aimless and seeks out a submissive relationship with a personal trainer. Sarah is in a loveless marriage to a man but attracted to her former college girlfriend Tammy. Josh is sleeping with a too-young singer that he reps. In the final shot, Sarah is kissing Tammy in Maura’s when Maura comes home and finds them there.

PART 1: IS THIS A STRONG CONCEPT FOR AN ONGOING SERIES? (15/20)
The Pitch: Does this concept excite everyone who hears about it?
Does the concept satisfy the urges that get people to love and recommend this type of series?	Yes, it works as a family dramedy.  It’s funny and meaningful.
Does the series establish its own unique point of view on its setting?	Not really.  The camera drifts among the four principal cast members.
Is there a central relationship we haven’t seen in a series before?	Very much so: A trans-parent and her three grown kids.
Does the ongoing concept of the series contain a fundamental (and possibly fun) ironic contradiction?	The “moppa” is the one coming out and begging for her kids’ understanding.
Does the concept meet the content expectations of one particular intended network, venue, or audience?	Yes, it fits in with the emerging genre of streaming sitcom.
Even if the setting is unpleasant, is there something about this premise that is inherently appealing? (Something that will make the audience say, “Yes, I will be able to root for some aspect of this situation to recur episode after episode.”)	The setting is mostly pleasant.  Some of the judgment Maura faces can be unpleasant, but we cheer for her in those moments, so they’re still fun to watch.
Series Fundamentals: Will this concept generate a strong ongoing series?
Is there one character (or sometimes two, in separate storylines) that the audience will choose to be their primary hero (although these heroes should probably be surrounded by an ensemble that can more than hold their own)?	Yes, Maura.  Ali almost rises to the level of co-hero, but not quite.
If this is a TV series, is the hero role strong enough to get an actor to abandon a movie career, come to work in TV for the first time, and sign a five-year contract before shooting the pilot? (And even if not for TV, is the hero role still that strong, simply for narrative purposes?)	Yes, Jeffrey Tambor was a big TV star and big “get”.
Is the show set in an unsafe space?	Yes, it’s made very clear in the pilot that this family is toxic, although well-intentioned.
Is this a setting that will bring (or has brought) different economic classes together?	Yes.  It’s about a family that lives as if they were rich when in fact they’re all in precarious positions (It’s unclear at this point whether or not they once had money or if they were always just living beyond their means)
Will trouble walk in the door on a regular basis?	No.  There is no story-driver on this show.  Small realizations or decisions will drive the episodes, some of which are almost plot-free.
Will the heroes be forced to engage in both physical and cerebral activity on a regular basis?	No.  It’s going to be almost entirely talky.
Are there big stakes that will persist episode after episode?	Yes, we sense that Maura’s resolve and courage will constantly be tested for years to come.
Will the ongoing situation produce goals or mini-goals that can be satisfactorily resolved on a regular basis?	Just barely.  Maura and to a less extent the three kids will set goals for themselves every week.
The Pilot: Will this pilot episode be marketable and generate word of mouth?
Does the pilot contain all of the entertainment value inherent in the premise (rather than just setting everything up and promising that the fun will start next week)?	No, it does precisely the opposite.  It withholds the central reveal until very late, and Maura puts off the central action to a future episode.  You could never get away with this on a non-streaming show.
Does the pilot feature an image we haven’t seen before (that can be used to promote the show)?	Maura dressed up.
Is there something bold, weird, and never-before-seen about this concept and/or pilot?	Yup, there had never been a show before centrally focused on a transgendered character.
Is there a “HOLY CRAP!” scene somewhere along the way in the pilot (to create word of mouth)?	Yes and no.  Each of the four characters is sexually transgressive in some way, but the show’s thesis is that this is all okay, so they don’t encourage you to ever say “Holy Crap”
Does the pilot build up potential energy that will power future episodes (secrets that will come out, potential romances, etc.)?	Yes, when will he finally tell each kid, his ex-wife, etc.
Even if this is episodic, is there a major twist or escalation at the end (though sometimes this twist will only be new to, or only revealed to, the audience) that will kick future episodes up a notch?	Yes: Sarah begins an affair, Ali seems to be entering into a masochistic relationship, and of course Maura is about to come out.
PART 2: IS THIS A COMPELLING HERO (OR CO-HEROES IN DIFFERENT STORYLINES)? (12/16)
Believe: Do we recognize the hero (or co-heroes) as human?
Does the hero have a moment of humanity early on? (A funny, or kind, or oddball, or out-of-character, or comically vain, or unique-but-universal “I thought I was the only one who did that!” moment?)	Out of character: accepts abuse, then briefly stands up for himself
Does the hero have a well-defined public identity?	The womanizing old divorced dad.
Does that ironically contrast with a hidden interior self?	Very much so.  She’s a woman on the inside.
Does the hero have three rules he or she lives by (either stated or implied)?	It’s time.  I can do this.  It’s okay to be afraid.
Does the hero have a consistent metaphor family (drawn from his or her job, background, or developmental state)?	Jewish: “It’s because we’re shtetl people”
Does the hero have a default personality trait?	Sad, scared, quiet
Does the hero have a default argument tactic?	Acquiescence with fits of barked protest
Care: Do we feel for the hero (or co-heroes)?
Does the hero have a great flaw that is the flip side of his or her great strength?	Scared, possibly selfish
Does the hero feel that this flaw cannot be resolved until it’s time to abandon the world of the show?	She feels that she can (and must) stop being scared in order to enter the world of the show, but she fears that, as a transsexual, she can’t escape unfair accusations of selfishness (ie. “Why can’t you just keep this to yourself for our sake?”)
Does the flaw resonate with the theme and/or setting of the show?	Yes.
Invest: Can we trust the hero (or co-heroes) to tackle this challenge?
Does the hero have a great strength that is the flip side of his or her great flaw?	Compassionate to her kids, brave
Is the hero good at his or her job (or family role, if that’s his or her primary role)?	Yes and no.  She’s never been a particularly good dad or a brave transsexual, but she’s trying to rectify both situations.
Is the hero surrounded by people who sorely lack his or her most valuable quality?	Her kids lack her newfound sensitivity.
Is the hero curious?	No.  She’s pretty clueless about what’s going on with her kids and still not curious enough. (She vaguely believes that Ali won a fortune on “The Price is Right”)
Is the hero generally resourceful?	No.  She’s totally without resources, but she’s slowly trying to build some.
Does the hero use unique skills to solve problems (rather than doing what anybody else on the show would do)?	Yes and no. She relies on her money, which she uses to control her kids and buy their affection.  Other than that, she’s pretty unskilled.
PART 3: IS THIS A STRONG ENSEMBLE (BEYOND THE HERO OR CO-HEROES)?  (11/13)
Powerful: Is each member of the ensemble able to hold his or her own?
If this is a network TV series, are there at least two more roles that are strong enough to get TV veterans to sign their own five-year contracts? (And even if not for TV, are the characters still that strong, simply for narrative purposes?)	Yes, Gaby Hoffman was once a movie star.  Carries Brownstein has another popular show, etc.
Are all of the other regular roles strong enough on the page in this first episode to attract great actors? (ditto)	Yes.  The cast is uniformly amazing.
Does each member of the ensemble have a distinct and defensible point of view?	Very much so.
Is each character defined primarily by actions and attitudes, not by his or her backstory?	Very much so.
Do all of the characters consciously and unconsciously prioritize their own wants, rather than the wants of others? (Good characters don’t serve good, evil characters don’t serve evil.)	Very much so.
Do most of the main characters have some form of decision-making power? (And is the characters’ boss or bosses also part of the cast, so that major decisions will not be made by non-regulars?)	Yes, because Maura still owns the house, she has power over all of the kids who want it (or want to cash it in.)  Without the house, the show wouldn’t really work.  Sometimes the house is text and the trans stuff is subtext and sometimes the opposite.
Balanced: Do the members of the ensemble balance each other out?
Whether this is a premise or episodic pilot, is there one point-of-view who needs this world explained (who may or may not be the hero)?	No.  We have to catch up on the fly.
Does it take some effort for the POV character to extract other characters’ backstories?	NA
Are the non-3-dimensional characters impartially polarized into head, heart and gut (or various forms of 2-way or 4-way polarization)?	Every character is 3-dimensional
Does each member of the ensemble have a distinct metaphor family (different from the hero’s, even if they’re in the same profession)?	Ali: teen, Sarah: mom, Josh: music “I’m doing a little riverdance on you boobs.”
Does each member of the ensemble have a different default personality trait?	Ali: Flighty, Sarah: Unfulfilled, Josh: Horndog
Does each member of the ensemble have a different default argument tactic?	Ali: Sarcastic sniping, Sarah: blandly deceptive, Josh: flashes of anger, then drops it for later
Is there at least one prickly character who creates sparks whenever he or she appears?	Both Josh and Ali.
PART 4: IS THE PILOT EPISODE A STRONG STAND-ALONE STORY AND GOOD TEMPLATE FOR THE ONGOING SERIES? (16/22)
Template: Does this match and/or establish the standard format of this type of series
Does the pilot have (or establish) the average length for its format?	Yes.  Streaming shows are more able to get away with going over, but it’s precisely 30 minutes)
If this is intended for a form of commercial media, does the pilot have the right number of commercial breaks for its intended venue?	NA
If this is intended for commercial TV, does every act end on a cliffhanger or escalation, especially the middle one (and, if not intended for commercial TV, does it still have escalations happening in roughly the same places, simply for narrative purposes)?	1st act out: Arrive at house. 2nd act out: Reveal of Maura. 3rd act out: End
Does the pilot establish the general time frame for most upcoming episodes of this series?	Yes, it takes place over one 24 hour period, which will be common.
Do all of the pilot’s storylines intercut believably within that time frame?	Yes.
If this is a premise pilot, is the basic premise established by the midpoint, leaving time for a foreshortened typical episode story in the second half?	No.  The premise only begins to be established in the final shot!
Pilot Story Fundamentals: Does the pilot episode have a strong story?
Does the pilot provide at least one satisfactory stand-alone story (even if that story is just the accomplishment of a mini-goal)?	No.  We just get the beginnings of ongoing stories.  If we want satisfaction, we have to stream the next one immediately.
Is this episode’s plot simple enough to spend more time on character than plot?	Very much so.
Is the pilot’s challenge something that is not just hard for the hero to do (an obstacle) but hard for the hero to want to do (a conflict)?	Very much so.  It’s so hard to do and hard to want to do that she doesn’t do it!
First Half: Is the problem established in a way that reflects human nature?
Does the hero start out with a short-term goal for this episode?	Yes, but we don’t know what it is yet: Come out.
Does a troubling situation (episodic pilot) or major change in the status quo (premise pilot) develop near the beginning of the episode?	Almost: she tries to tell them of her major life change.
Does the hero eventually commit to dealing with this situation personally?	Yes, she did so at her previous support group, as we find out later.
Do the hero’s efforts quickly lead to an unforeseen conflict with another person?	Yes, her kids are too selfish to let her talk.
Does the hero try the easy way throughout the second quarter?	Yes, she backs down from telling them.
Does this culminate in a major midpoint setback or escalation of the problem (whether or not there’s a commercial break)?	Yes, they all leave quickly.
Second Half: Is the mini-goal resolved as the ongoing trouble escalates?
Does the hero try the hard way from this point on?	No, she doesn’t try again in this episode, until she accidentally outs herself to one in the final shot.
By halfway through, are character decisions driving the plot, rather than external plot complications?	Yes.
Are the stakes increased as the pace quickens and the motivation escalates?	Not really.
Does a further setback force the hero to adopt a wider view of the problem?	Not really.
After that setback, does the hero finally commit to pursuing a corrected goal?	Yes, at the group.
Before the final quarter of the story begins, (if not long before) has the hero switched to being proactive, instead of reactive?	No.
After the climax, does either the hero, the point of view character or a guest star have a personal revelation and/or life change, possibly revealed through reversible behavior?	Yes, she’s out to one child now.
PART 5: IS EACH SCENE THE BEST IT CAN BE? (The family dinner 23/23)
The Set-Up: Does this scene begin with the essential elements it needs?
Were tense and/or hopeful (and usually false) expectations for this interaction established beforehand?	They’re worried she has cancer, and they want her money.
Does the scene eliminate small talk and repeated beats by cutting out the beginning (or possibly even the middle)?	Yes, it cuts to the middle of the dinner.
Is this an intimidating setting that keeps characters active?	Yes, it’s been made clear already that this is a toxic environment.
Is one of the scene partners not planning to have this conversation (and quite possibly has something better to do)?	None of them relish dinners with their dad and they’re not sure why he would call them there.
Is there at least one non-plot element complicating the scene?	Lots: Gluten, barbecue messiness, etc.
Does the scene establish its own mini-ticking-clock (if only through subconscious anticipation)?	Josh has a show to get to, but we don’t find that out until he ditches.
The Conflict: Do the conflicts play out in a lively manner?
Does this scene both advance the plot and reveal character?	Yes.
Are one or more characters in the scene emotionally affected by this interaction or action as the scene progresses?	Yes, Maura cries, the others freak out.
Does the audience have (or develop) a rooting interest in this scene (which may sometimes shift)?	Even though this scene introduces Mort/Maura, we’re instantly on her side, because we’ve already been turned off by her kids’ mercenary instincts.
Are two agendas genuinely clashing (rather than merely two personalities)?	She wants to come out, they want her money and/or to confront her about her bad parenting (“You never taught us how to eat.”)
Does the scene have both a surface conflict and a suppressed conflict (one of which is the primary conflict in this scene)?	Surface: Does he have cancer? Who will get the house?  Suppressed: Why were you a bad dad?  What’s really going on?
Is the suppressed conflict (which may or may not come to the surface) implied through subtext (and/or called out by the other character)?	Sarah wipes Maura’s face, isn’t allowed to wife Josh’s, implying that Maura is infantilized and controlled, while the kids treat each other as peers.  Singing “Operator” implies a lack of communication.  “Gluten-free” stands in for neurosis, shows lack of compassion by others.  Fighting about messiness speaks to levels of repression/anal expulsion.  When Maura asks “Do you kids want me to have cancer?” Josh literally licks his lips (which have barbecue sauce on them).
Are the characters cagy (or in denial) about their own feelings?	Very much so.
Do characters use verbal tricks and traps to get what they want, not just direct confrontation?	He proposes selling the house to test their compassion, they fail the test.  Later he outright pays Ali for compassion.
Is there re-blocking, including literal push and pull between the scene partners (often resulting in just one touch)?	Sarah wipes his face.
Are objects given or taken, representing larger values?	The food is shared, then taken away.
If this is a big scene, is it broken down into a series of mini-goals?	Come out, divvy up the house
The Outcome: Does this scene change the story going forward?
As a result of this scene, does at least one of the scene partners end up doing something that he or she didn’t intend to do when the scene began?	Yes, he winds up offering up the house.
Does the outcome of the scene ironically reverse (and/or ironically fulfill) the original intention?	She offers them death (Mort, giving them their inheritance early) instead of life (Maura, coming out)
Are previously-asked questions answered?	Does he have cancer?
Are new questions posed that will be left unanswered for now?	Who will get the house?
Is the audience left with a growing hope and/or fear for what might happen next? (Not just in the next scene, but generally)	What did he really want to say?
Does the scene cut out early, on a question (possibly to be answered instantly by the circumstances of the next scene)?	Where are you gonna live, Daddy?
PART 6: IS THIS POWERFUL DIALOGUE? (13/15)
Empathetic: Is the dialogue true to human nature?
Does the writing demonstrate empathy for all of the characters?	Tremendously so.
Does each of the characters, including the hero, have a limited perspective?	Very much so.
Are the characters resistant to openly admitting their feelings (to others and even to themselves)?	Very much so.  This is the central theme of the show.
Do the characters avoid saying things they wouldn’t say?	Very much so.  The circumlocutions on this show are things of beauty.
Do the characters listen poorly?	Entirely.
Do the characters interrupt each other more often than not?	Always.
Specific: Is the dialogue specific to this world and each personality?
Does the dialogue capture the culturally-specific syntax of the characters (without necessarily attempting to replicate non-standard pronunciation)?	Lots of Jewish phrasing is used to comic effect.
Does the dialogue capture the jargon of the profession and/or setting?	Yes, we get lots of the new jargon of coming out. The language of parents, children and siblings is very naturalistic.
Does the dialogue capture the tradecraft of the profession being portrayed?	NA
Heightened: Is the dialogue more pointed and dynamic than real talk?
Is the dialogue more concise than real talk?	Yes and no.  Scenes are allowed to play long and there’s less compression than in usual dialogue.
Does the dialogue have more personality than real talk?	Yes. It’s not so realistic that it’s not colorful or amusing.
Is there a minimum of commas in the dialogue (the lines are not prefaced with Yes, No, Well, Look, or the other character’s name)?	Yes.
Do non-professor characters speak without dependent clauses, conditionals, or parallel construction?	Yes.  The hero is a professor, but even she doesn’t.
Is there one gutpunch scene, where the subtext falls away and the characters really lay into each other?	Yes and no.  He puts off the main confrontation, but he lashes out a bit at their dinner.
PART 7: DOES THE PILOT MANAGE ITS TONE TO CREATE AND FULFILL AUDIENCE EXPECTATIONS? (9/10)
Genre and Mood: Does the series tap into pre-established expectations?
Does the series fit within one genre (or compatible sub-genres)?	Family dramedy
Are unrealistic genre-specific elements a big metaphor for a more common experience (not how life really is, but how life really feels)?	Yes, coming out as transsexual parallels all other repressed desire.
Separate from the genre, does the pilot establish an overall mood for the series?	Very much so.  We are enveloped in a comfy blanket of Altman-esque ‘70s mellow gold.
If there are multiple storylines, do they establish the spectrum of moods available within that overall mood?	Yes: Josh’s is more serious, Sarah’s is more dramatic, Ali’s is more comedic.
Is there a moment early on that establishes the type and level of jeopardy?	When Ali visits Josh, we realize the danger is that these people will ruin each other’s lives by dripping acid on them.
Framing: Does the pilot set, reset, upset and ultimately exceed its own expectations?
Are there framing devices (flashforwards, framing sequences and/or first person narration) to set the mood, pose a dramatic question, and/or pose ongoing questions?	No, we dive right in.
Is there a dramatic question posed early on, which will establish in the audience’s mind which moment will mark the end of the pilot?	It takes a while to establish it (you could say that the opening credits establishes it, I suppose) but the question of “When will she come out?” is answered with the last shot.
Does foreshadowing create anticipation and suspense (and refocus the audience’s attention on what’s important)?	Fears about cancer misdirect us, making the reveal land bigger.
Are set-up and pay-off used to dazzle the audience, distracting attention from plot contrivances?	The Croce song is nicely set up and paid off, setting up a beautiful closing montage.  There are no real plot contrivances.
Is the dramatic question of the pilot episode’s plot answered near the end of the story?	Yes, she comes out to one child in the final shot, accidentally.
PART 8: DOES THE PILOT CREATE A MEANINGFUL ONGOING THEME? (14/14)
Pervasive: Is the theme interwoven into many aspects of the show?
Does the ensemble as a whole have a unique philosophy about how to fill their role (and competition from an allied force with a different philosophy)?	Yes, this is clearly an exceptionally neurotic family, and their lovers are pretty baffled by that.
Does the pilot have a statement of philosophy and/or theme, usually either at the beginning or ¾ of the way in. (Sometimes this will be the ensemble’s statement of philosophy, sometimes this merely be the implied theme of the series itself.)	“They are so selfish.  I don’t know how it is that I raised three people that cannot see beyond themselves.”
Can the show’s overall ongoing theme be stated in the form of a classic good vs. good (or evil vs. evil) dilemma?	Sacrifice your needs for your kids or follow your heart
Throughout the pilot, do the characters have to choose between goods, or between evils, instead of choosing between good and evil?	Sarah faces the same dilemma as her dad, Ali must choose between accepting money or facing her failures, Josh must choose between love and propriety
Are the storylines in the pilot thematically linked (preferably in an indirect, subtle way)?	Very much so.  They all involve selfishness and suppression.
Are small details throughout the pilot tied into the theme?	Food taken and given = nurture offered and denied, etc.
Will the heroes grapple with new moral gray areas in each episode?	Yes, all are now in transgressive relationships and they must grapple with that.
Grounded: Do the stakes ring true to the world of the audience?
Does the series’ set-up reflect the way the world works?	Very much so.
Does the series have authentic things to say about this type of setting?	Very much so.
Does the ongoing concept include twinges of real life national pain?	Very much so.
Are these issues presented in a way that avoids moral hypocrisy?	Yes.
Do all of the actions in the pilot have real consequences?	Yes.
Untidy: Is the dilemma ultimately irresolvable?
Do the characters refuse (or fail) to synthesize the meaning of the pilot episode’s story, forcing the audience to do that?	Yes.
Does the end of the pilot leave the thematic dilemma wide open and irresolvable?	Yes.

Every Star Wars Post

Hi guys, I’m glad my posts this week on The Force Awakens were so popular. Just so you know, I’ve written a lot about the series and what it can tell you about writing, so feel free to sample any or all of the below. (As for next week, I’m tempted to rush into my year-end list to keep the current-movie discussion going, but it’s not ready, so I’ll spend two weeks dissecting a recent pilot instead – I hope people stick around anyway!)

The Ultimate Story Checklist: Star Wars

How Star Wars Proves That Legacies are Better than Prophesies 

The Value of Obi Wan’s Counterintuitive Metaphor Family in Star Wars

Luke as Emotional Manipulator in Star Wars

The Value of the Half-Fact in Star Wars

The Way the Worlds Work in Star Wars

The Value of Shaggy Dog Storytelling in Star Wars

Considering Luke's Late Introduction and the Deleted Scenes of Star Wars

James Kennedy wrote an in-depth letter (1, 2, 3) about why we like Luke, and I responded

How Star Wars Tapped into Real Life National Pain

How Return of the Jedi Dared to Confront the Great Hypocrisy

How Star Wars Set Its Tone and Rewrote Our Genre Expectations

Freudian and Jungian Arcs in Star Wars

The Value of Moving Up the Timeline in Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back

The Value of Writing it Bad Today so You Can Write It Better Tomorrow

The Way That No World Works in the Prequels

And finally, I did a four-part series (1, 2, 3, 4) entitled The Force Awakens Was Great Until It Wasn’t

The Force Awakens Was Great Until It Wasn’t, Finale: The Remake Problem

My final complaint about the movie is one that’s already been widely aired, but it’s worth laying out again. Like Abrams’s previous movie, Star Trek Into Darkness, it can’t decide whether it wants to be a remake or a sequel. Let’s look at all the many, many ways that it plays like a remake:

• We begin with a shot of a huge evil ship, then a big black-clad bad guy interrogates someone about the resistance.
• We cut away to a robot-buying scene in a desert culture with a discontent working class hero.
• Our hero finds a plucky droid with hidden info that demands to be taken back to the rebels.
• She flees the planet in the Millenium Falcon with Stormtroopers one step behind.
• (out of order) She goes to a cantina-like bar with Han Solo
• She gets taken on board a planet-size super-weapon.
• The resistance blows it up after identifying its one big weakness (And they’d already reused this one, but this movie did it for a third time!)

But does that have to be bad? After all, I love the James Bond movies, and they’re nothing if not derivative of each other. As with everything else I’ve covered this week, it’s starts out okay and then gets depressingly problematic over the course of the movie, inducing a collective eye-roll by the time we get to the “plan the big attack” sequence.

But the real problem is that the movie only makes sense as a sequel. Goldeneye may be derivative of the best Bond movies, but it doesn’t create emotion by bringing back Pussy Galore and killing her off. This movie, on the other hand, is all about cashing in on old value. This is most obvious in the killing of Han Solo, but an even bigger issue is the movie’s driving force: the search for Luke Skywalker. Why? Why is anybody besides Leia searching for him? Do they need him to help the resistance? Does he have key information they need? Why would Rey or Finn care about finding him?

The only reason that anybody cares about Luke, on-screen or off, is because of our affection for the original trilogy: this movie gives us no reason to like him or want him to join the cause.

If the movie wanted to do an ultra-faithful Bond-style pastiche, then it had a responsibility to create its own story value, instead of coasting on the pre-created value. On the other hand, if it’s going play like a sequel, it’s got a responsibility to give us a fresh story.

The biggest problem with the remake issue is it required them to instantly flush away the happy ending of the original trilogy. Somehow the politics have instantly rebooted back to the original set-up: Scrappy rebellion vs. huge fascist army. How hard would it have been to simply make the “First Order” into an Al-Qaeda like group? Shouldn’t they call themselves the resistance/rebels, and denounce the ruling Republic as a new empire in disguise?

That would have been an interesting chance to flip and critique the politics of the original trilogy, but instead we just get a reset button, because a virtually-scene-for-scene remake wouldn’t make sense under those new parameters. It’s a slap in the face to the original trilogy and the epic journey that we took with those characters.

Oh well. It’s a fun movie to watch, and I can’t begrudge it its huge success, but it certainly has massive problems. Will I get sucked into watching the next one? I guess. But will I enjoy the inevitable fan fatigue and critical backlash if they stick to their plan of making a new movie or spin-off each and every year into perpetuity? Boy oh boy yes.

The Force Awakens Was Great Until It Wasn’t, Part 3: Ren and the Old Gang

When I heard that JJ Abrams was rebooting Star Wars right after the fiasco of Star Trek Into Darkness, I was mortified, but then I thought, “Well, I dunno, the first two seasons of ‘Alias’ were good fun, and he says he likes this franchise a lot more, so maybe I should give it a chance…”, but then I heard that the original cast was coming back, and I thought, “Oh, never mind,” because it seemed to me that there was no way to bring back the cast without quickly writing them out again, and the only way to do that would be to make them victims of the new story, sacrificing old value for future value.

So was I right? Yeah, pretty much.

But first, let’s once again look at what worked:

• Abrams and company do a great job writing fun and witty dialogue for Han. They split up Han and Leia in a not-overly-depressing way and give Han and Chewie a fun new scoundrel-y life. Ford slipped back easily into the role (something he wasn’t able to do with Indiana Jones) and his line-reading of “That’s not how the force works!” stole the movie.
• Leia works great as a general, and Fisher is great as well in her small role.
• Their son Kylo Ren is an interesting new take on evil-as-son figure as opposed to evil-as-father that we’re used to, and Adam Driver does a great job showing us the evil potential of Luke’s old petulance (inspiring a great Twitter feed.)

But then this element is once again spoiled. As the always-excellent Rob Bricken writes here, Kylo Ren killing Han permanently sours both this trilogy and the original trilogy in one fell swoop. All six movies have now inescapably become one big tragedy. Whenever a son murders his father, then his life, his dad’s life and his mom’s life are always going to be defined solely by that horrible moment, and everything else fades into insignificance. (And if he does it with training and a weapon he got from his uncle, then you can toss him in there as well.) 

Why turn this wonderful love story into a horrible tragedy, JJ? What gives you the right? You didn’t create that value, so you have no right to destroy it. If you want to create a tragedy, create your own, don’t take this wonderful story other people created and ruin it for your own shock value.

Worse, this feels like a deliberate slap in the face to the idealism of Return of the Jedi: Once again, a hero insists on confronting a family member and trying to bring him to the light when others think that’s naïve, but this time they’re all proven right. It’s another example of being embarrassed by the idealism of the source material and defacing it while nevertheless trying to extract its value.

It’s one thing for us, who have had 32 years to enjoy the happily-ever-after before having it snatched away, but think of the kids of the future who will finish Jedi and go straight on this this, only to instantly have the exultation of the first trilogy slapped right out of them!  And Chewie watching Han get killed?? That’s something nobody ever wanted to see!  It’s unbearable for me, but I can’t imagine how painful it must be for a kid.  My kids (ages 4 and 1) love the originals (the whole “limited screen time” thing goes out the window with the second kid) and I’ll be keeping them away from this one for as long as humanly possible.

So what’s the solution? Just start a generation later! Let the original characters die peaceful deaths in their sleep and then create all-new value. (Or at least let Han and Leia die peaceful deaths, and then maybe have their son turn evil years later and kill Luke, who was already a bit conflicted from the last two movies.)

This leaves one more problem for tomorrow, the biggest one…

The Force Awakens Was Great Until It Wasn’t, Part 2: Rey

So let me start out by saying: Rey is appealing throughout the movie. Actress Daisy Ridley is a natural star, and she rises to this very large task …I would say she steals the movie from her co-stars, but that gets to the problem: She doesn’t get a chance to steal it, because it’s handed to her.

The movie takes a bold risk I usually advise against: it introduces its heroes separately, and gets us to care about each of them separately in unconnected scenes. This is a lot more work, and works against our natural inclination (to cling to one character and let that character lead us through the story), but in this case it works great. They win us over to both Finn and Rey in their separate intros, and we invest them equally as co-heroes.

There’s a lot to like about Rey right away:

• Like Luke, she’s a working-class-hero on a glory-less hard-scrabble backwater planet.
• As with Luke, we don’t quite get what’s going on economically, but we understand enough to get invested in her financial struggles and frustrations, which is all we need. We think she’s earned those rations and we burn when she doesn’t get them.
• She has humiliations and tough decisions to make that make us like her, especially with BB-8.
• She has independence, attitude and gumption. We love her when she says “Stop taking my hand!” (and how she says it.)

Then things start to get a little shaky as we think, “Hey this girl is really good at everything.” She’s never seen greenery before, but she can fly the Millenium Falcon single handedly? Well, okay, I guess she’s naturally talented. She can speak Wookie? Okay, sure I guess there might have been wookies on that planet (but it would have been nice to see one).

Then it gets worse. Everybody is suddenly giving her more praise than she seems to earn: Han, Finn, Maz, Kylo Ren...everybody. We already liked her, okay, guys? You can stop telling us to like her. Then, all of a sudden, she goes from thinking the Jedi were a myth to being a Jedi master in a few hours …and she just becomes kind of a joke.

The turn is so baffling that it’s convinced everyone that she must be Luke’s daughter in order to explain it, but what would that explain? Yes, Return of the Jedi introduced the notion that the Force is strong in some families, but it was kind of an afterthought. Luke didn’t have it easy because his dad was a Jedi: he had to train the hell out of himself, and, more importantly, he had to go on a searching spiritual journey to access the power.

This movie flushes all that spirituality down the toilet: It’s 2015, who has the time? Yes, it’s neat to see a girl do all this stuff, but it feels empty: it’s unearned and it cheapens Luke’s journey along the way, implying that it was all in the (midichlorian-filled) blood, not won through trials of the heart or soul.

How could they have fixed this problem? Either have her just not be a Jedi until the next movie (James Kennedy pointed out that Luke never even used his lightsaber in battle in the first movie, back when we had patience), or make her a life-long would-be Jedi groupie who takes to it instantly because she’s a book-taught amateur and she’s just been waiting for her chance to put her fandom into practice. (That would also explain why she’s suddenly so eager to find Luke at the end, when she couldn’t care less before that.)

Tomorrow, let’s get to the guy whose ass she kicks…

The Force Awakens Was Great Until It Wasn’t, Part 1: Finn

So you all know that I’m a Star Wars fan. And you all know that I’m a curmudgeon. So will I be a fan or a curmudgeon when it comes to the latest movie to have “Star Wars” in its title? Eh, both. I thought the first half was shockingly good, but then everything I liked about the first part turned sour. So let’s spend a week looking at those elements and figuring out how they lost me.

Let’s start with Finn, played by John Boyega. A stormtrooper-turned-deserter is a great idea for a character, for so many reasons:

• It’s something that we never saw, or even imagined, in the original trilogy. It implies right away that this movie will venture into new territory, and not just be a retread.
• It automatically sets him out on a great Maslovian journey, going from literally zero to hero.
• It gives the actor a lot to play, and Boyega does a great job with it.
• It recreates the thematic idealism and inherent pacifism of the original trilogy: if a stormtrooper can be redeemed, then anybody can.
• It gives us something else that we’ve never seen in a Star Wars movie before: an everyman. A guy who is essentially new to this universe and to heroism, who gets to plunge in over his head, get confused, say gee whiz to some things, and roll his eyes at others, just like we’re doing in the audience. (That wasn’t really what Luke was like. He was actually a pretty canny operator throughout.)

But it’s that last quality that gets him in trouble in the second half. Here’s the thing about everymen: they have to come into their own eventually. We love to identify with a hero at first, but then we want them to leave us behind: we don’t want to play a video game in which we have to push the joystick in order to get our avatar to move.

This brings us to the other problem big problem with Finn: his motivation never tracks after the first half, even though it could have and should have.

These two problems both come to a head in a bit of dialogue that gets a nice little laugh in the theater, but harms the character irreparably: when he reveals to Han that he was actually just a janitor in the big base, and he lied to the rebellion about being able to blow it up. That’s bad enough, but then he compounds the problem by implying that he doesn’t particularly want to blow it up and he’s actually there to save his would-be girlfriend.

I’m sorry, what? This is an everyman trope too far. He’s a stormtrooper, he’s agreed to lead an assault on the stormtroopers’ planet-destroying weapon, so everyone he’s just met and indeed the entire galaxy is counting on him. This is his chance to use his special skills and become the big hero we all want and need him to be, but he’s too busy crushing? Suddenly I hate him.

And the movie doesn’t really seem to like him that much either. Did you notice that they never put him on the same level with Rey, literally or figuratively? In the cantina scene where he wants to ditch out on her, he is for some reason on a lower step and a head shorter than her. Why? And that hug they have when they reunite at the base, he’s hugging her low, which makes for the most friendzoney hug of all time: His big romantic gesture (I’d rather find you than save the universe!) results in zero romantic sparks. Is it any surprise that he gets knocked out and misses the finale (not even waking up for the epilogue)? At that point, he’s been totally sacrificed as a character, rendered to just the role of not-Rey. It’s a bummer because it turns a potentially-great character into an impossible-to-cheer-for dud.

But hey, what about Rey? Let’s get to her tomorrow…

It's a Christmas Miracle!

How should I cap off a year of light-posting? By knocking off early, of course! I apologize for the light content and promise that next year will be a very, very cool one that will see lots of big-time pay-off. See you in the new year for my best of the year countdown and much more.

Storyteller’s Rulebook: Should a Monster Ever Meet Its Metaphor?

Are all monsters metaphors? Well, I’ve said before that every fictional story an author tells, even work for hire, is automatically a metaphor for his or her own experiences, so my answer is an always yes. But it usually goes further than that.

Almost every fictional monster is intended by its author to be a walking metaphor for a “real” issue facing the hero/heroine, at least on some subconscious level. Here are some common versions:

• Ghosts ≈ guilt and/or grief, often in a very specific way.
• Vampires ≈ repressed sexuality.
• Manmade monsters ≈ the folly of mankind.
• Romero-style zombies ≈ societal collapse
• Slashers ≈ the evils of expressed sexuality

But that “≈” is a problem, isn’t it? Metaphors should never be 1 to 1. On the one hand, we want to tell a story that actually means something, instead of just creating horror for horror’s sake. On the other hand, we don’t want the metaphor to be too obvious or simplistic. We want one that can have a range of implications and interpretations. We want to be able to make complex, nuanced points. The vampires on “Buffy” represented sexuality in general, but every week they’d represent something else specifically.

For most of a horror story, of course, you don’t want the audience to be thinking about the metaphor. You want them to simply accept the monster as it is on the conscious level, even while they unconsciously squirm, semi-aware that this is a “monster” that also exists in their real lives.

The tricky part is the end, when the metaphor and the meaning often meet up, just briefly. You can see this at the end of The Babadook when the monster morphs into Amelia’s dead husband, who invites her to join him in death. It’s a controversial moment, and I think it contributes to the idea that this isn’t a “real” horror film for some.

Some say don’t do this whatsoever, or at least do it more subtly. Certainly one of the all-time great horror endings is Night of the Living Dead, in which the last survivor is a black man who is promptly shot and killed by the authorities when they show up. The cops don’t turn to each other after that and say (as they might on “The Twilight Zone”) “I guess we were the real monsters here,” but you get the point.

But I think somewhat on-the-nose ending of The Babadook works, for many reasons. For one thing, the emotions are so horrific (“I wish you’d died instead of him”) that it doesn’t break the spell to call them out. For another, the supernatural element isn’t waved away at that point: The monster remains a monster right through the epilogue. We get this moment where the subconscious rises to the surface, and then it plunges back down.

Most importantly, I think it works because Mr. Babadook is clearly not a 1 to 1 grief monster. After all, he enters the house as a creepy pop-up book, and we hardly associate those with grief! In fact, for me, even when I “got it” I didn’t fully get it yet. It wasn’t until a few hours after the movie was over that I finally put together the title’s true meaning, for example. ...But now we get back into the realm of unintentional metaphor. Here’s Kent on the name:

• I was staying with a Serbian writer, and I asked him, “What’s Serbian for ‘Boogeyman?’” He said “Babaroga,” and I didn’t think that sounded right. But I started playing with “Baba,” and then “Babadook” came up, and then it was just rhyming with everything, and it just felt right. But it’s stupid, it’s just a made-up thing.

Did she really never notice that “The Babadook” was really “The Dada Book”? I doubt that, but it’s possible. In the end, it doesn’t really matter: Great horror creators speak from their subconscious to your subconscious, and the meaning that they intend or you construe has little to do with it.

Rulebook Casefile: The Progress of the Problem in the Opening of The Babadook

The Babadook also exemplifies three more rules:

• A story follows the progress of the problem, not the progress of the character
• Cut ten pages out by starting scenes late and ending them early
• Never let your characters apologize

By the time the story begins, Sam’s behavior has already gotten pretty bad, and things are quickly getting worse. The first ten minutes feature breathtaking storytelling in every sense of the word: We begin with ten 30-second scenes of Sam’s escalating violence and monster-obsession, then at the 5-minute mark he’s kicked out of school. After ten more 30-second scenes, he pulls the “Mr. Babadook” book off the shelf exactly at 10-minute mark, and the real terror begins.

How on earth does Kent get such a richly-characterized movie to move so fast? How can you say anything with a 30-second scene, and how can you keep up that pace for 20 quick scenes in a row?

The lack of apologies has a lot to do with it. Presumably, after each of Sam’s problematic incidents he apologizes abjectly to his mom or she to others, but the movie has no time for that. It’s tricky, because those scenes are tempting to write: after all, that’s big drama …but it’s empty drama. The audience doesn’t want to watch characters talk about something that’s already happened, they vastly prefer to watch characters discuss things that might happen, or that are happening. What’s done is done.

Here’s what Kent has to say:

• “Deciding the structure of it, I was always trying to make it more and more constrictive. It’s a matter of rhythm. For me, films have more in common with music than with novels or literature. The flow of this movie was determined by its musicality. We didn’t stop in the edit until it felt that way. We clipped out a lot from the first half until we got there, about 10 minutes, I’d say.”

Getting out of scenes also creates a nice effect near the end, cleverly manipulating our genre expectations. The scene:

• Once we know that Amelia is over the bend, their kindly old neighbor knocks on the door to make sure they’re okay. We see wild-eyed Amelia trying to send her away. We then cut to Sam discovering their dead dog on the kitchen floor, only to have him turn around to find his murderous mother standing over him, explaining that the neighbor won’t be bothering them anymore.

So did Amelia kill her neighbor? Well, no, but we don’t find that out until the epilogue when the neighbor is babysitting Sam again. Not only is this a great example of the power of cutting away to keep tension high, it helps with the problem we discussed last time: In the end, Amelia kills no humans. This violates our genre expectations, but it’s necessary in order to have a semi-happy ending, so one solution is to cut away from that scene early, implying just for a while that maybe she has killed someone, which makes the rest of her rampage that much scarier.

It’s a brilliant cut: If we figure out that she’s not going to kill anyone, then the movie loses tension, but if we know for certain that she has killed someone, then we lose all hope of a happy ending, which also decreases tension (our tense hopes that this might still turn out okay).  By cutting away, both sources of tension are kept alive.

Straying from the Party Line: The Babadook vs. Genre Expectations

There is no genre that has a more tortured relationship to its own conventions than horror. The burdensome pile up of rules and tropes has gotten so thick that there’s a whole subgenre of movies about those rules and tropes (Scream, Cabin in the Woods, etc.)

Even horror moves that aren’t about the rules wind up being about the rules: It Follows was a movie that tried to start fresh, but I felt that it was so concerned with rejecting conventions that it became merely a commentary on those conventions, and failed to work on its own. The filmmakers gave interviews in which they basically said, “Yes, we have flat characters, but we’re subverting that trope, don’t you see?” Thanks, but I’d rather just have compelling characters.

Would-be horror directors now seem to have three choices:

• Dutifully check off the all the boxes to please the basic horror fans.
• Flatter the smarter fans by acknowledging and then subverting those tropes and expectations.
• Piss all the the fans off by making a movie that doesn’t count as a “real” horror movie (all the while knowing that you might have a hard time finding non-horror fans, who tend to reject anything that has horror elements.)

From her interviews, it’s clear that Jennifer Kent feels the burden of these expectations and the stigma of the genre:

• “There’s a snobbery around ‘genre films’ being perceived in a certain way. That’s why I shy away from using the term ‘horror,’ because it can be a reductive term. I think people expect, ‘Oh, I made this horror film, so now I can make a serious film,’ but for me this is a serious film.”

So why make it horror?

• “Can you imagine this story as a domestic drama? It would be so melodramatic and stupid. I like films where I’m forced to feel something”

Sometime when female directors make horror, they make sure that they’ll be allowed into the boys’ club by amping up the violence and gruesomeness, but not Kent. She doesn’t shy away from the notion that this is a “women’s” horror movie, not only because it’s about motherhood, but because, amazingly, it has no (human) deaths!

Can you have horror without onscreen deaths? That’s a pretty huge genre convention to ignore...and yet this could not be more of a horror movie! First and foremost, it’s just really goddamn scary. Even when you become pretty sure that neither the mother nor son will die, the mere notion of a mother trying to kill her son (and a son fighting back) is sufficiently horrific. Beyond that, the monster is terrifying, the jump scares are effective, and the atmosphere is tremendously creepy.

And it’s interesting to note all of the genre tropes/clichés that the movie does include, without any attempt to subvert them:

• Going to the police and being ridiculed as crazy
• Hallucinating swarms of roaches, even though that has little relationship to the main story
• Cutting the phone cord
• Her dog growling at her when she’s possessed
• Lights flickering in the house
• Just when you think the monster’s dead, it’s not!

As I’ve said before, some things become clichéd for good reasons. For instance, it would be too unbelievable if she never went to the cops, and yet that avenue must be closed off immediately, and it’s certainly understandable that they wouldn’t believe her.

This movie is the ultimate confirmation of the rule that you must embrace two conventions for every one you reject, but you must not embrace all of them. Just don’t fall into the trap of subverting them just to prove that you’re too cool for school. You’ll please the clever fans, but you can’t tell a great story that way.

Straying from the Party Line: The Selfless and Self-Less Heroine of The Babadook

Is there ever a good reason for a character to have generic dialogue? Yes, The Babadook is one movie that gets away with it.

In my definition of metaphor family, I say that it’s drawn from the hero’s job, background, or developmental state, so I guess that this could include the simple job of “single mom”, but ideally we want something more. The heroine here has fairly generic mom dialogue:

• “I don’t want you making weapons anymore. This monster thing has got to stop.”
• “No, it’s all right, I’m fine.”
• “No worries, I’ll make you another one.”
• “I’m going to have a serious talk with him. What he needs is some understanding.”
• “I don’t want you to feel awful, we’ll be fine, we’ll be absolutely fine.”

So that’s bad, right? Well, not necessarily. Once again, let’s go to an interview with writer/director Jennifer Kent:

• Amelia is being a “very good girl” in the beginning. She’s had these terrible things happen and people are trying to help her out, but she’s like, “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’ll do something for you.” And that’s a typically altruistic feminine trait, and I think it has massive negative repercussions. You get the suppression, and then underneath the nice girl is this monster that’s waiting to explode. [Laughs.] Beware of the woman who’s too nice!

So Amelia’s lack of personality is central to her flaw, and to the movie’s commentary on the wider world. Of course, we don’t know that yet as we watch it, so Kent had to do everything she could to keep Amelia from bugging us too much in that first half-hour. Here’s what she did:

• [Early] readers feared that Amelia would be cold or unfeeling or unsympathetic, but this was someone I cared so much about, so I wanted an actress that would have the capacity to give the character warmth. Essie uses her heart when she acts.

In other words, Kent knew from her note-givers that the lack of specificity and humanity on the part of the character would make her hard to identify with at first, so she knew that she’d have to find an extraordinary actress that could provide the heart and soul the character seemed to lack. If you’re going to break a rule, you have to know the danger you’re putting yourself in and have a plan for overcoming it.

Rulebook Casefile: Jennifer Kent vs. the Naysayers

For the upcoming pieces on The Babadook, I’ll be relying heavily on the great interviews that Jennifer Kent has done to promote this movie, because she talks about herself and her art more perceptively and more honestly than just about any of the other writer/directors whose work we’ve looked at.

It’s interesting to look at her statements about the development of the movie, because they exemplify one of the dangers I singled out in two posts a long time ago. On the one hand she talks a lot about protecting and purifying her individual vision:

• Of producer Kristina Ceyton: “She’s really protected this film. It’s been able to stay pure from the get-go because of her.”
• Of mentor Lars Von Trier: “The biggest thing I learned from him was courage. He’s stubborn, and he does what he wants. I needed to see those things up close.”
• Of her script development lab: “They are an extraordinary bunch of people because they really wanted to find out what your vision was first, and then they helped you develop the film and got on board script advisors that were suited to the vision that you had, and that for me has given this a strong base.”
• About the ending: “We had many people fight the ending. I had to really defend that ending.”

This sort of talk is catnip to both fans and potential creators. Fans love it because it convinces them that they’re not watching some work-shopped product, but rather an unadulterated vision that flowed right from God’s brain into their eyes. Aspiring creators love this talk even more because it feeds our suspicion that we don’t need notes after all: Don’t adulterate our vision, man!

But rather than get seduced, it’s always important to keep your head on your shoulders. Wait just a second, what’s that other thing she mentioned in passing in one of those interviews?

• I had been working on a number of film scripts, and they were just too out-there. Screen Australia supported me up to a point, but they thought these scripts were too ambitious financially. So I realized I needed to look at an idea that was contained and more intimate.

So she did listen to the naysayers, up until a point. At what point do you say, “Okay, this is it, all of these notes have been great, but at this point I have to declare it done and start defending what I have”? Kent picked just the right moment. She let herself be talked out of all of those too-out-there scripts and found something instead that was contained and intimate, but then, once she was fairly certain that she had finally nailed it, she started digging in her heels and fighting for her vision.

The problem of course is that most aspiring writers start fighting too soon. We fight to defend the “purity” of those too-out-there ideas, because we think that that’s what writers do. We pay attention to those first four quotes from Kent, and skip right over that last one. Knowing when to take your stand is one of the hardest calls in life.