Well. That came out of nowhere, didn't it? Who’d have thought that a Netflix Original 80s throwback would become the mega hit show it did? Certainly, it ran the risk of being lost in the glut of other Netflix-made shows (seriously, Netflix, slow down!), as they say, the cream rises to the top. And make no mistake, Stranger Things oozes quality from the top down.
But what is it that makes Stranger Things so great? It doesn't do anything especially new or groundbreaking - in fact, a huge chunk of the show’s appeal is trading on 80s nostalgia - and there's no strong hook that pulls the viewer in from the start (a boy goes missing in the woods has cliche scrawled all over it). I guarantee that if you're an avid fan trying to get a friend to watch and they ask you why they should, your response is usually “seriously, just watch it”, because to describe the synopsis of Stranger Things makes it sound quite boring. The odds were stacked against Stranger Things from the start. But anyone who has completed the first season will tell you that it is indeed a huge success of a show. It beats all odds, and yet if you were to ask me or most fans why it's a success they probably can't tell you why. So let's take this Showcase to throw Stranger Things upside down and put it under lab surgery to dig out exactly what it is that makes it so good. And what we find should encourage any would-be writer out there. Because Stranger Things works so well not from any clever concepts, big ticket set pieces or mind-bending plot twists, but from taking a straightforward story that's been told a thousand times and simply doing it well. Very, very well. Because, despite what many will tell you, ideas are cheap. New writers horde their clever ideas and concepts for stories like they’re something precious, laboring under the assumption that they're rarefied artifacts, meal tickets to fame and fortune that others would steal in a heartbeat. But the truth is that ideas are everywhere. For every novel in the bookstore there’s hundreds of thousands of ideas that get shelved, cannibalized, rejected or just plain forgotten. The famous mantra of “There's no more original ideas left in the world” is nonsense, serving to perpetuate this myth that finding an original idea is the equivalent of finding Atlantis. There's plenty of original ideas out there. If you were to sit down and concentrate for an hour you'd come up with at least one original idea for a story. No, the saying should be “Original ideas are like pollen: they're everywhere, really, and you can reach out and grab them at anytime. But originality is not quality. Very few pollen will survive to grow into tall trees.” Doesn't roll off of the tongue as easily, granted, but it's true: while anyone can have an idea, the rarity comes in great ideas. If you're an experienced writer you already know what I'm talking about: those great ideas that basically write themselves. No, most ideas are either out there ridiculous and will never come to fruition from lack of practicality, or the idea is pretty mundane. But here's the thing: mundane ideas are fine! In many respects, a writer who can take average ideas and massage them into something of quality is streets ahead of the writer who sits on great ideas, doing nothing with them because they can't decide how to do them justice. This is what Stranger Things does. It doesn't have an original bone in it’s body - it's a pastiche of Stephen King, John Carpenter, E.T. and The Navigator - but it takes these tried and tested storytelling formulae and quite simply uses them well. It doesn't try to introduce any clever twists or brain-melting ideas. It knows the cake it wants to bake from the beginning and sets about baking it to the best of its ability, with no crazy ingredients or wacky recipe in the mix. It's a tried-and-tested formula that it executes to perfection. It is a show that is very comfortable in its own skin. Because it knows what it wants to achieve from the beginning and how it will get there. It doesn't wrestle or struggle with those clever, high-concept ideas or complicate itself to the point that it needs to backpedal or hit a big reset button like so many shows do these days (see my showcase for Sherlock for a prime example of this). So the pacing is on point: no episode feels like filler or rushed. At no point do we need to have the story stop and have characters explain what the hell’s happening to each other (i.e. The audience). The most mysterious aspects of Stranger Things - the monster and the world of Upside Down - are not over explained and are barely glimpsed until the latter stages of the season. This is a smart move from the creators. Not only does this maintain the sense of mystery and suspense and put you firmly in the shoes of the protagonists who are as unsure of the facts as you are, but it takes advantage of just how...well, unoriginal the monster and the upside down are. Sounds harsh but it isn't meant to be - we’ve already established that originality isn't quality. Instead, because it is thick with the DNA of the many shows that came before it and inspired it, the audience can paint a picture in their own minds of what they believe the monster or the upside down are. Complementing the smooth pacing is the fact that there is no flab or excess in the 10-episode running time. There is no character who serves no purpose, nothing set up that receives no pay-off (notwithstanding questions deliberately left hanging for future seasons), nothing that doesn’t serve the story. The way the multiple sub-plots dovetail together in the final stages of the story is handled with deft skill, without feeling tacked on or ham-fisted. It all flows naturally And this is why everybody should take note of Stranger Things’ success, especially would-be writers. Because here we have a TV show that aims to do nothing more than tell a darn good story. No outlandish ideas, no ‘ultimate stakes’ with the end of the world looming, no competing with other media for who can shout loudest for the most attention from viewers’ eyeballs and eardrums. No. It instead quietly sets about telling abou the story it wants to as well as it can, regardless of whether it's tropes are cliche or not. Isn't it wonderful to know that simply great storytelling can still champion everything these days? Pacing No flab
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Mistakes. Errors. Sins. We love to point them out, don't we? And yes, it is a love. Because despite the faux annoyance folks display when they complain about grammatical hiccups they spot in a book or continuity errors in the make-up department that they spot in a movie, it is in fact a small delight, a thrill. Like when a magician messes up his trick and reveals the corner of the trap door under his feet.
The delight is twofold. First, it's like a peek behind the curtain. The illusion of the fiction slips ever so slightly - not enough to disrupt the experience - but just enough to be noticeable and comedic in effect. This gripping scene of a man dying in the arms of his brother as he utters words of forgiveness with his last breath is disrupted when the boom mic accidentally peeks into view at the bottom of the frame. The serious veers into the absurd so fast you can't help but laugh. Second, it gives the viewer or reader a small victory, a sense of superiority. In spotting errors and pointing them out to others, that person is essentially trying to establish themselves as better than the creator. Woah. Pretty strong claim, yes? Perhaps, but I wish to make two things clear here: first, that I'm not talking about solicited or constructive criticism - the act of highlighting mistakes with the purpose of making the book or film better. That is always welcome and wanted. And sometimes, yes, some things do deserve to be ripped apart, because it's clear there is no respect for the audience in this piece or from the creator. No, I'm talking about the rabid nitpicking sort of error-spotting. The kind that's really accelerated over the years. You've seen it. You can't move through YouTube for people making videos where they highlight a strand of hair in a red circle, throwing in a dirty great arrow for effect, pointing out this minuscule mistake that you wouldn't even notice unless you were - and this is the key point - actively looking for them. And that's my chief concern. It has become such an ingrained hobby - and don't say it isn't a hobby, if you dislike mistakes so much then why do you actively seek them out? - that people will fixate on the inconsequential errors and then walk away decrying the poor quality of the film, book or TV show. This is despite not focusing on the real meat in front of them - the story, the characters, the themes. It's like going to watch a great play but you mock it because you can see masking tape on the wall. Some people will dismiss the thrust of this article not because they have a constructive argument against it, but because they've already spotted the spelling and grammatical errors (deliberately) scattered throughout and dismiss it without further thought. And with our ever-increasing interconnectivity, people are racing to pile on top of that book, that movie, to spot the most mistakes and be the fastest at doing so, to feel the most superior. This has to stop. When a young aspiring filmmaker or author sees an otherwise solid piece of entertainment picked apart and ridiculed, what is he or she supposed to think? Believe me, newcomers to creative fields are already paranoid enough of making mistakes, they don't need any more convincing that the field is teeming with carnivores ready to pounce. We run the risk of scaring off our future greats because the perceived learning curve is too steep, that perfection is expected from the very beginning. And if the established directors and authors of the day can't get it right, how can they possibly hope to? There are many reasons why there are so few original movies coming from Hollywood these days, and this is one of them. Oh, you think they're precious little snowflakes who could do with a dose of the real world? Thanks for the clever rebuttal. Look, imagine someone is criticizing your 1-year-old child. Before you jump up and say that you can’t possibly equate a small child to a book, well to the creator it is. That book they’ve been working on takes months, possibly years to cultivate, to grow, to attend you. Your project is as precious as a child. And then some strangers begin throwing superficial criticisms around about your child: their hair, how they have an orange juice spill on their shirt, how they can’t enunciate the word ‘Mama’ properly...how would you feel? How would you react? This is how a new writer can view the landscape before them. They have motivation and drive, and they know that criticism comes with the job, but when they see just how destructive and cynical their potential audience can be, combined with how difficult it can be to get recognition from even one person (ask an aspiring writer how many rejection letters they have) and some will surely give up before they start. Why go through all that hassle? It’s even harder for authors. Filmmakers, at least, collaborate with a small army of people. The collaborative effort means that errors and problems are more likely to be spotted and corrected in the production process. This, I suppose, makes the pointing out of issues in film more justifiable - how did that get by so many people without being seen? - but spare a thought for the author who works solo for most of, if not the whole process. Professional editors are not cheap, meaning that for the wannabe writer the first step on the ladder means showing your work to an audience when it’s been edited by yourself. And you’ve done your best to eradicate as many errors as possible, but it’s really hard to spot problems in things you made, especially if it’s your third or fourth read-through. And when the criticism rolls in, there’s no team to share the blame with. It’s all loaded on one pair of shoulders. Once again, I’m not talking about meaningful, constructive critique. Pointing out structural issues, inconsistencies in character, anachronisms - things that are making the story less good than it could be - then by all means, critique away. And sure, point out spelling mistakes and grammatical hiccups, but mix it up with positive feedback too. The author, if they are sensible, will be all ears. I’m talking about taking superficial potshots for personal satisfaction. It’s fun, gratifying even, to poke holes in something, especially if it’s been so obviously, cynically produced. But let’s remember that there are human beings behind the thing you’re poking holes in. Be fair. Be empathetic. Help that creator to grow. It’s more work and less exciting, but that gratification you’re seeking will come in time when that author comes back to you with a finer, stronger end product that you had a part in helping to build. And to think, you nearly scared them away! It’s become something of a running joke about how long we have to wait between seasons of BBC’s Sherlock. Two year gaps for seasons 2 and 3, a three year gap for season 4...and all for three (albeit movie-length) episodes. And yet it doesn’t seem all that long ago when Sherlock first donned the trenchcoat and scarf and wowed us in the first episode, A Study In Pink.
Back then, Sherlock could do no wrong. The cases were cleverly presented then deftly deconstructed by the Baker Street detective. It was a smart, quintessentially British show with tight storytelling (both small and large arcs). Together with Watson, Sherlock carved his way through problems and into the hearts of audiences and critics alike. The show peaked with the ‘Reichenbach Fall’ episode, which concluded with Sherlock faking his own death. The world seemed to light up with Sherlock-mania. How did he do it? What will happen next? Theories were as wild as they were numerous. The build up to ‘The Empty Hearse’ was palpable. That is when the cracks started to appear. ‘The Empty Hearse’ made two huge missteps. First, it failed to address the question that everyone wanted an answer to. It’s general attitude to the whole faked death mystery was a shrug, a grin and a jovial “It don’t matter LOL!” Plot holes are one thing, but you can’t simply wave away the central question that’s been driving the Sherlock franchise for the past two years. That, and this is a detective show for crying out loud! The whole point of Sherlock is to solve riddles and problems. Shows like, say, Doctor Who (which shares a lot of DNA with Sherlock, thanks to sharing a showrunner in Steven Moffat) get a bit more elbow room with plotting because it’s a sci-fi show that has always played fast and loose with the rulebook. But Sherlock had, up until this point, been a watertight show that had been very careful about tying up loose ends. Second, Sherlock as a show seemed to become self-aware. Rather than playing out the story in-universe, it seemed to buy into it’s own hype and - critically - mock people for it. Oh, you wanted to know how Sherlock faked his death, did you? Had your own theory about how he survived? Well, not only will we not give you a straight answer, we’ll insult you for even being interested. The ‘Conspiracy Nerd’ at the end of the episode is an obvious stand in for the audience. Sherlock all but looks straight down the camera lens as he rolls his eyes at him, saying ‘Everyone’s a critic’. I’m surprised Moffat and Gatiss didn’t walk in and start shaking their heads at the viewer at that point. This was a watershed point for the Sherlock series, that saw it go into a gradual but clear decline. In Seasons 1 and 2 the show always backed up it’s cleverness with reason. Sherlock would make huge leaps of logic but then explain itself. When he picked out John as a soldier, he proceeded to explain how we deduced that fact. It made sense. This was the first time we’d seen the show written into a corner. Inevitable for a show of such complexities that it would checkmate itself one day, perhaps, but it could’ve handled the sidestep with more grace, more brains than it did. Not sidestepping it while flipping the audience a middle finger. It started off a chain reaction of events in the Sherlock series that seemed to exponentially increase right through to Season 4 Episode 3, ‘The Final Problem’: events with no weight. With alarming frequency, Sherlock makes those huge jumps to a conclusion with minimal to little explanation. In ‘The Lying Detective’ (the strongest episode in Season 4), the number of times we hear Sherlock’s fore-planning, how he’d laid out the logistics of most of the episode’s events weeks before they happened, is startling. And there’s none of those clever ‘Mind Palace’ explanations anymore, you’re just expected to go with it. How did Sherlock know that John would leave his cane by his hospital bed so he would have the recording device to catch Culverton Smith? Oh, he just knew. How could Sherlock be sure that John would watch the DVD of Mary at the perfect time so he’d rush to the hospital and catch Culverton red-handed? Oh he just knew. You can guarantee that if Watson had been introduced in this season Sherlock would call him out as a soldier and leave it at that, he’d just know. Solving crimes is Sherlock’s MO. What we are seeing is like a magician using CGI. Sherlock isn’t supposed to be all knowing. His brainpower is remarkable but it is a human brain, not a superpower. Again, if this were any other show, it might have gotten away with it. But this is a detective show. We’re seeing the impossible and inexplicable happen, then it’s pushed aside. Doctor Who can technobabble its way out of problems and wave his screwdriver, ruffle a few feathers for taking the easy way out, but the integrity of the show remains. When Sherlock tries to do the same thing, it cracks the core of the show itself. That core being solving crimes. In ‘The Final Problem’ the believability is stretched to breaking point as we’re asked to believe that Eurus and Moriarity can hatch a masterplan in 5 minutes (and do all that recording as well). That Sherlock makes paintings cry blood just for flushing info out of Mycroft. That Redbeard, the family dog, wasn’t a dog at all but a family friend. None of these make sense. In the first two seasons, Sherlock would be presented with seemingly nonsensical crimes that he’d then dismantle until the ‘how’ was clear. Until it was ‘Elementary, my dear Watson’. Not any more. You’re just expected to go along with it. You’re expected to believe that Eurus can be defeated with a hug. That the whole ‘plane in the sky’ shtick was all in her head. That a friend can drown in a huge well on one’s private property yet mysteriously cannot be found. Where’s the paper trail leading up to these nonsensical revelations that make them believable? Where’s the explanation? It often feels as though the writers came up with stylish ideas, decided they’d work out how it would make sense later, then forgot to work it out anyway. This makes the stories feel weightless. There are no consequences. The patience grenade is clearly an excuse to have Sherlock and John make a cringeworthy jump through a window as Baker Street explodes behind them, but where’s the injury? Not even a limp? Oh, and as for Sherlock’s flat, well that’s quickly repaired and back to normal. The strongest scene in this episode, where Sherlock has to force an ‘I love you’ from Molly Hooper before the timer hits zero and she dies, is ultimately meaningless as we see Molly arriving at the flat in the ending montage, all smiles, that devastating phone call apparently forgotten. It makes for a disjointed, unsatisfying viewing experience that feels artificial. There seems to be an entire DVD boxset of posthumous recordings of Mary, and she turns up so often in John’s mind that you begin to wonder if her death had any consequences, either. Speaking of Mary, it can be easy to lay a lot of blame at her feet, but as I think we’ve established, the downfall of Sherlock has run in tandem with her story, not because of her. But she is part of another problem Sherlock created for itself, something which seems to be a common problem with projects that Moffat handles: overbearing family melodrama. The purity, the simplicity of Sherlock and Watson solving crimes is quickly pushed into the background of the plot as we are subjected to an increasing entangled web of Sherlock/John/Mary/Mycroft/Eurus affairs. When was the last time we saw Sherlock solve a crime that wasn’t directly related to family problems? Certainly not in Season 4. Moffat and Gatiss ran the whole Mary story like it mattered, like we should be interested, but all the audience is seeing is someone getting in the way of the two stars doing what we love them doing. This happens in Doctor Who as well. As intriguing as the whole River Song arc was, it sucked the air out of a lot of Doctor Who. They ran around the universe playing out their own problems at the expense of the clearly more interesting settings. Check out the ‘Let’s Kill Hitler’ episode: within the first 10 minutes they've gone back to wartime Germany and crashed into Hitler’s office, accidentally saving his life. What a great premise, eh? Do they follow through? Heck no! They put Hitler in a cupboard (literally) and get on with chasing River Song through Berlin. For all its worth they may as well have set the whole thing in a giant empty box. The show positively delights in acting like it's own melodrama is vastly more interesting than the settings it crashes when, really, the opposite is true. Sherlock is spirally down the same hole. That mystery at the beginning of ‘The Six Thatchers’ with the dead body in the car is the best part of the episode because it lets Sherlock operate at its purest. But alas, it's not long before it becomes tied into Mary’s past. So Mary is the River Song of Sherlock. Not just because of how aggravating her presence is, but because she just won't stay away. Moriarty too. Not even death has consequences, it seems: you just live on through DVDs, mental projections and flashbacks. I felt absolutely no sense of peril for Sherlock, John or Mycroft throughout the Eurus Maze of Doom, no matter how many times they waved guns at each other, because even if one of them died, the impact would inevitably softened by their semi-returns from the dead that would surely litter future episodes. No consequences, no peril, family melodrama, a disregard for plot holes, style over substance...Sherlock is far from the only TV show to commit these crimes. Many are worse offenders. But the sting comes from seeing just how far Sherlock has fallen: from a deftly written and tightly constructed drama to a flashy, self-satisfied wannabe James-Bond (don't get me started on THAT explosion!). The ending of Season 4, while far too sugary sweet and perfect considering what had come before, did at least reset the series and give a carte blanche to proceed with no baggage. It's just a shame it took a reset for that to happen. You know, it's interesting: you would think that after 15 months of writing about writing, I'd be running dry of things to talk about by now. And it does sometimes feel that way. Sometimes my eye wanders endlessly across a blank page, waiting for the inspiration to strike. Other times it's not so much a case of not finding a subject to write about, but feeling as though you've said everything you already want to say and anything more you add to that is just surplus. It's those days where every single sentence you pen feels painful, and getting even a couple of a hundred words down feels like a mammoth task.
And then there are days where you can't write fast enough for all of the ideas sparking through your brain like a fireworks show. Those glorious days where you could write for hours and not feel drained by it - on the contrary, you feel stimulated by it, and the only thing that stops you is the fact that it's one in the morning and tomorrow is a school day. We'd all like to have more days like the latter and less like the former, wouldn't we? But how? Inspiration seems to strike at random and with no particular pattern: it can happen late over a Friday night after-work drink, while you're at the gym, sleeping, commuting, or just gazing out of the window. Quiet and loud times, day or night, perfect or terrible timing, inspiration is a mistress that taps your shoulder when she is ready, regardless of whether you are or not. Or is it? I believe that inspiration is more like watching wildlife: there's a certain amount of luck, yes, but there's a methodology to maximizing your chances of success. Here, then, are 10 ways to encourage inspiration to strike you at a time you need it, and how to hold onto it. 1. Find your space. Think of all the places you regularly spend time: your desk at work or school, your living room, the garden, the shower, your bed...in which space do you feel most creative, where ideas seem to come thicker and faster than usual? The answer may surprise you, because it may be a place that on the surface doesn't seem like an inspirational place. We balk at the idea that our work desk or the chair at the back of geography class is our place of inspiration! But while there's a multitude of reasons why certain places encourage creativity more than others, one common thread is that it's a place that overlaps with little else in your life. Your inspirational place is rarely the same place you relax, study, or play games. Your chair in the living room where you watch TV, play video games, browse the web and occasionally eat is so tied up with other aspects of life that creativity has no means to cultivate here. It's the reason people have “shower thoughts”, why so many novelists write in their sheds or on long train journeys. It's not the same as a boring, distraction-free environment though. It's about finding a space that you can mentally partition as being the place you write, so whenever you sit yourself at that place your brain begins to associate it with writing. 2. Inspiration isn't a random chance, it is cultivated.“But I don't have a place like that!” you might say, “I don't have a shed, take trains or think of anything in the shower, I'm too busy singing!” But that's the thing: inspiration may seem to be random but that doesn't mean you should just go about your day waiting for it to sneak up on you. You need to cultivate a place within your life where the magic happens. It can be any place, so long as it doesn't cross over too much with an area in your your daily life that your brain associates with other things (for example, you may want to avoid using your bed because it's a place your brain associates with sleep, so if you try and get creative on the mattress don't be surprised if you fall asleep after 10 minutes!). I tend to use my dining table, because it's a place where I eat (not much brainpower associated with that). Was it a particularly inspirational place at first? Hell no - it's a plain table in a cold room - but in time it became the place I'd sit down for an hour each day to create. It doesn't make inspiration happen by default but it did become the place where I'd flesh out my art, and so cultivated the seeds that would attract inspiration to fly my way like bees towards pollen. Now whenever I sit down at the dining table and there's no food there, my brain knows the deal: it's time to open up the valves for creativity - and increasing the likelihood of inspiration hitting me. 3. Look in the small things. Inspiration. It's a big word, and I don't mean that by the number of letters. It's a word that seems to conjure images of the greatest experiences, the deepest emotions, the most spiritual side of our humanity. That’s inspiration, right? Well, yes, but these big events aren't the only ways you can get inspired. You don't have to stand at the top of a mountain or be moved to tears by an orchestra. It can be found in the simplest of things, the small details - even in the mundanity of daily life. Who here loves being tucked indoors, warm and snug, watching rain patter down windowpanes? Or people-watching in the local park on a sunny day? Or - and this is my favourite - going for a midnight stroll? Inspiration lives in all things big and small, and one should never undervalue the inspiration found in the small things and daily experiences. Indeed, big moments of inspiration can be tricky because words can fail to translate it into practical creativity. But inspiration nestled in daily life is more meaningful, more real, and can be more easily captured and used for ideas. Sunsets are nice, but raindrops racing down a window is just that little bit closer to home. 4. Write in white, live in multicolor. While finding your physical and mental space for writing requires some forethought and will differ from person to person, in general when you write you want to be free of distractions. Some prefer absolute silence and solitude for their work, while others prefer a bit of background noise. Nobody wants overt distractions when they're trying to concentrate and be creative. You “write in white”, so to speak. But when you put your pens and pencils down, you must let life in with both arms wide. Go for a walk, meet friends, watch a movie, read a book…”live in multicolor”. It's not just for the sake of having fresh experiences and fodder for ideas, mind: being creative and weaving something practical from the creativity (be it writing fiction, making music, graphic design etc.) is a big drain of brainpower. The trouble with being a creative mind is that even when you step away from your assigned workspace you never 100% switch off. You can't stop ideas from coming to you - on the contrary, the more you live life, the more your creative juices will flow. But it does require a certain amount of discipline, a balance, so you're able to bottle the inspiration that strikes while you're out and about and use it for later while not actively running for a notepad every five seconds. You don't want to feel you live just for the sake of your writing: you'll quickly grow to resent it for invading aspect of your life, and you'll begin introducing aspects of your creative lifestyle into your everyday life - quiet, solitude, constantly needing time and space to think. You will begin fading the many colours of life you desperately need, which will make your writing poorer - you didn't allow your batteries to recharge, and you've been living a reduced life that is starved of experience. So make sure that when you step away from your work that you go out and properly live, not just for replenishing creative juices but to put life in perspective and there's more to it than writing. And when you return to your writing, you will be ready and willing. Back in the summer of last year, an anime movie landed in Japanese cinema called ‘Kimi no na wa’, which translates roughly as - and indeed the English title is - ‘Your Name’. Now, the release of this movie was already hotly anticipated - it was the latest work from Makoto Shinkai, who at that point was already a hot name in the world of Japanese entertainment thanks to his previous works, for example ‘Five Centimeters Per Second’ and ‘The Garden of Words’.
But I don’t think anybody could’ve anticipated just how massively ‘Your Name’ blew up. It is now one of the most successful Japanese movies of all time, second only to ‘Spirited Away’. In the Japanese Box Office it has surpassed the first Harry Potter movie and has ‘Frozen’ in its sights. It became No.1 in the Chinese box office - and for a Japanese film to become so popular in China is a big deal. But most incredibly, it made my 62-year-old, kickboxing, stoic as a stone father-in-law cry. And at the time of writing this, ‘Your Name’ is still doing business at the box office, and the records keep falling. Make no mistake, ‘Your Name’ has been a seismic event on the pop-culture landscape of Japan. And yet…while ‘Your Name’ was certainly met with equally rave reviews from the western press, it didn’t seem to transcend into the general public. Oh sure, in dedicated circles of anime fans it has been raved about, but ‘Your Name’ snuck quietly into theatres and then promptly snuck back out again. Compare this to a Ghibli film which sees almost as much fanfare as a Disney movie. What’s going on? Well, a clue is in the last sentence: Ghibli has the heft of Disney behind it, meaning they have the market know-how (and, let’s be frank here, the money), to get the Ghibli movies out to foreign markets and into foreign minds. ‘Your Name’ doesn’t have that kind of backing. But I think there’s something else at play here. Something a little deeper than numbers on a spreadsheet: that of cultural differences. For while I have no doubt that a western audience with little to no knowledge can sit down and enjoy ‘Your Name’ for what it is, it will be missing something. Something that is richly weaved into every frame of the movie: Japanese culture. “Now wait just a second there!” You might say, “Ghibli movies are dripping with references to Japanese culture and folklore, and they do just fine!” And you are correct. Look at ‘Spirited Away’, for example, with the onsen hot springs and Japanese spirits...that movie couldn’t be more Japanese if it tried. But Spirited Away became such an international success because of how it can work on two levels: Someone born and raised in Japan, who has been through the school system, has learned the history, knows the myths and legends of Japan, and is aware of the challenges his or her society face, will view ‘Spirited Away’ in a certain way. When Chihiro’s father talks about the white elephants built during the bubble era of the 80s, then turns into a pig while engorging himself on food. Now, to anyone this is a message about greed, but in Japan it works on another level. Inside the hot spring itself, the uninitiated non-Japanese audience are enthralled by the strangeness of it all, while in Japan there is a social commentary here on the uneasy mix of Japanese culture and the the power of capitalism. That’s the crux of it: Ghibli movies are internationally successful because of the many levels they work on: there’s the universal themes that we can all relate to, then there’s the social commentary of Japan, and then there’s the mystery factor for the uninitiated. Now I’m not saying that ‘Your Name’ doesn’t work on multiple levels: it absolutely does. But it doesn’t wear its commentary on its sleeve: it seems more concerned with telling a cracking good story. And it does so by weaving in nods to Japanese life and culture, but unlike Ghibli which puts fantasy in the front and centre of its story, the world of ‘Your Name’ is modern, and...well, normal. To the uninitiated, ‘Your Name’ seems like a darn good anime movie, but not much more beyond that. And that’s because the culture of Japan isn’t explicitly waving at you from the screen like an exhibit. It’s hidden, weaved into the finer details like the Miyamizu family’s intricate braids. For example, ask any Japanese person who has seen the movie what scene stuck with them, and the vast majority of them will instantly point to the scene where Taki flashbacks through Mitsuha’s life after drinking the ‘Kuchikamikaze’ in the cave. To you and me, that scene is simply a beautiful moment where Taki sees Mitsha being born and growing up. But to the Japanese, this is a pastiche rich with imagery that echoes on their shared experiences and lives. Look out for the moment you see a teardrop hit a map of Japan and the ripples spread out - that moment and indeed that whole disaster very deliberately mirrors the 2011 earthquake. The red thread is also a constant throughout this scene and the whole movie, and while some western viewers may not think twice about it, to the Japanese that red string of fate has long been a part of East Asian legend as tying together two people with a shared destiny. Or how about when Mitsuha cuts her hair, which is seen as a sign of someone who has recently broken up with a boyfriend? Because of these things, ‘Your Name’ draws upon a symbolism that will ring deeper with a viewer who understands these elements than one who doesn’t. For me, this is a reason why ‘Your Name’ struck a chord with Chinese viewers as well, who share a lot of culture with Japan - though they’d never admit to it. While this may all come across a little bit elitist, claiming that certain movies cannot be enjoyed without a proper understanding of where they came from, that is not what I stand by. Quite the opposite: it is a sign of the strength of ‘Your Name’ that those universal themes of destiny, star-crossed lovers, teenage angst, and the juxtaposition of old and new form the beating heart of the story, and will have an impact on anybody regardless of their upbringing. But it is fascinating nonetheless that cultural differences can alter your view on what you see, just as much as personal experiences can. ‘Your Name’ is a fantastic movie no matter what. But the addition of understanding the symbolic elements hewn into the fabric of the movie makes it a much richer experience, and then you see just why this movie has had such an effect on the Japanese population. Parody. Lampoon. Satire. Poking fun. Whatever you call it, we all like to see the good name of a brand or genre pointed and laughed it, even if we're a fan of the straight genre itself.
And yet while we all love a good parody, it's probably the type of movie with the worst good-movie to bad-movie ratio. For every Naked Gun or Airplane you have half a dozen Scary Movies (excepting the first one). We all know a bad parody when we see one, and yet what separates these from the good parodies? Is it just a case of 'not being funny' or is there something more going on here? To dig deeper, we a prime example of the parody genre. And what better than Deadpool? Now before you jump down my throat and remind me that no, Deadpool isn't a parody movie, that's it's a proper superhero move and Deadpool is just self-aware, yes I totally get where you're coming from, but if you look at the definition of a parody - that it is 'a humorous or satirical imitation of a serious piece of literature or writing' - then we find that yes, Deadpool falls well within those parameters. And let's be honest here Deadpool fans, I think we all know how Deadpool would feel about pedantic definitions! Besides, Deadpool has all the hallmarks of a good parody. Of course it's funny, but why is it funny? A great deal of the humor wouldn't have been half as effective if Deadpool had been released ten or even five years ago. It needed that (pardon the pun) deep pool of existing Superhero genre movies to draw upon, as well as enough source material of the tropes and cliches of that genre that, by sheer mass of the number of Marvel and D.C. Movies out these days, are already beginning to smell stale, making them ripe for mockery. Deadpool's remark about how there were so few X-Men in the movie because the studio couldn't afford it wouldn't have worked as a joke if it had been released in 2006, when the Marvel Expanded Universe was but a twinkle in Stan Lee's eye. This is also true of the original Scary Movie, which came out when the 90s teen slasher-horror movies like Scream were at their peak. Same with Naked Gun in answer to the buddy cop shows of the 80s. But what makes these moves work? What sets them apart from bad parodies like, say, Epic Movie? A parody's ultimate goal is to make you laugh, right? Well...yes and no. I'd argue that while a bad parody just aims for laughs, a good parody not only makes you laugh but also think. Good parodies are smart. Bad parodies feel kitschy and cheap, not because of lack of budget but because it seems to aim lower than the movie it is attempting to make fun of. Gags that work less like tweezers as it picks apart the genre and more like a mallet filled with cream pies. Put it this way: a parody is like observational humor. It points out the mundane tropes of the everyday, with a slight twist for humorous effect. A good comedian will offer a fresh slant on the observation, maybe subvert it so you don't know where it's going, or point out a tiny little observation that you think is so niche you swore it was only you who thought that way until you hear a stadium of 50,000 other people roar at the same joke. A bad comedian just regurgitates that everyday trope, spun nothing more than adding a funny voice or over-the top gestures. And it's on an observation we all know and heard a hundred better jokes about it before. And when that bad comedian gets a poor response he'll repeat the joke again, louder and with more exaggeration. Parody movies work that way, and the very best of them don't just make you laugh, but surprise you, and make you think "that's a good point, I've never noticed that!" In that sense the good parody outwits the thing it is trying to mock, pointing out the not-so-obvious tropes as much as the obvious. I mean, how many of us ever considered the concept of the 'superhero landing' before Deadpool mentioned it? But most of all, Deadpool works because it tells a proper story. This is at the heart of all successful parodies. Think about it: all the weak parody movies out there eschew the plot for just riffing on the tropes, while the vague ghost of a plot sulks around the edges. Having a solid structure of a story in a parody allows the humor to bounce off of something first hand, giving the joke a foundation so it is clear exactly what it is lampooning. This is why Deadpool very deliberately tells a rather basic origin story: if it tried to do something overly complex or original then the material wouldn't be there for the parodying of the superhero genre. Having a thin plot or no plot at all would make it the film equivalent of a blooper reel: funny, but weightless and quickly growing tiresome. Successful parodies like Deadpool may look effortless in execution and freewheeling in attitude but make no mistake, more thought goes into them than the movies they poke fun at. And that's something all creators of parody and satire should heed lest they become the butt of the joke. Way back about last Christmastime, I highlighted how reading was a unique medium in that it’s the only form of entertainment you can enjoy that you can’t really multitask with. People watch TV while eating, commute while catching up on podcasts, or tap away on their smartphones while answering the call of nature. And most forms of entertainment can be enjoyed communally: in fact it can enhance the experience. Watching a Stand-Up Comedy DVD alone is one thing, but with friends it’s a hoot. But reading is very much a solitary experience that can’t be in tandem with anything or anyone else. You curl up in a chair with your novel and away you go. The pages provide the complete package of the experience.
The creation of the art is similar to its output. Music can be played in a band of others to a crowd. Movies are crafted by huge teams of people. But writing is, again, a solitary experience. And again, you can’t really do anything else while you’re writing. It demands your complete attention and brainpower, and if you get distracted it will show in your less-than-committal words. Quite a daunting fact if you consider just how long it takes to write and edit a novel. That’s a lot of quiet time. Either writing attracts the privacy-obsessed eccentrics of the world or it turns you into one. I’ll leave you to decide which one I am. It doesn’t need to be silent, though. Listening to music while writing is an option, and it’s one that many folks find helps to get the creative juices going, to create a mood that can help tease the story out and inspire you to the higher heights of writing while riding the wave of the orchestral swells. What type of music one should listen to depends on what you are writing, though it should always be non-distracting, so anything with distinct vocals is a big no-no. Even if you’ve made a playlist with 80s Pop classics that you’ve heard a thousand times and it’s all white noise at this point, if you can hear the words then it is picking at your brain to be recognised and to be made into sentences and meaning, and that means a subconscious drain on the brain. There are exceptions, though: artists like Enya work wonders for those looking for something more mystical or ponderous. Beware ambient music, though. Oh, I love Chillout and the Café Del Mar series as much as anyone, but the problem is that your writing’s default tone will be tense and tight – the very essence that keeps a reader on the hook and turning those pages. Calming smooth jazz music will fizzle away any attempts you have on trying to crank up that tension. I dare you to try and write a car chase or an epic showdown while listening to elevator music. It will kill your writing unless you’re deliberately writing a relaxed scene or a casual blog post like this. Movie soundtracks are a great place to start, especially if the movie is similar in style and mood to your writing project. Sweeping high fantasy is just begging to be written to the sounds of The Lord of the Rings or Gladiator, while moody Sci-Fi dystopias work with Daft Punk’s Tron: Legacy soundtrack or The Matrix Revolutions. Just be careful of the two pitfalls of the soundtrack approach, though: it may evoke the movie you love too much, and it may end up colouring your writing too much to the point that it becomes something akin to a send-up of that movie as opposed to something to merely inspire you. Also, because soundtracks are built around a movie, the music will likewise have it’s highs and lows that match up with the story, and your favourite soaring strings that you use for the victorious moments will be as frustratingly fleeting as the low moody pieces you use when your character is in the doldrums, so constantly skipping back and forth to find the matching mood can be more hassle than it’s worth. Your best bet is to construct a playlist of tunes with a constant tone throughout. YouTube makes this very easy, and there are loads of artists and channels out there who do all the hard work for you by making videos that are literally ‘3 hours of dark emotional music’. Adrian von Ziegler is especially good at this: go and check him out if you haven’t already. Regardless, I do recommend that you listen to the music at least once before you commit to writing fodder. Not only will it help you screen it to see if it’s appropriate to your needs, it will be less distracting the second time around. And that’s the main quality of the music you should look for when selecting what to write with: remember that the writing is the main thing here. The music is only there to help you enhance your writing and tease out your finer qualities. Don’t get too hung up on creating the perfect playlist, of skipping back and forth to find the perfect track for the perfect moment in the narrative. Tellingly, when you’re in the flow and the words pour from your fingers onto the page, you’ll probably end up shutting the music off anyway because it’s distracting! Showcase: My Neighbour Totoro
This is a Showcase I’ve wanted to do for a long, long time, and in a moment you’ll see why. Because I hold an…shall we say unusual opinion when it comes to Totoro. Controversial, even. And I’ve really wrestled with how I can word it best, how I can convey my thoughts on this movie faithfully. Well, I can’t say for sure if I’m going to do myself or Totoro justice but it’s time to finally get this one off my chest. Life is in the small moments. We all like to think that the big moments in life matter: going to see your favourite band live, scaling a mountain, going to a wedding. And while these kind of milestones are incredible, amazing capsules in our timeline, they don’t really represent our life. If anything, they represent the anomalies of our life, which by and large is mundane, repetitive and riddled with stress and worry. But at the same time, I’m not saying that life when it is ‘normal’ is bad, no more than it is good. It is simply is. So when we find those precious little moments in everyday life where everything just seems to align and all is right and good in our world, it means just as much, if not more. I’m talking about watching raindrops race down a window pane. Reading a book by candlelight because of a rolling blackout. Reading a book with your pet cat curled up and purring in your lap. Cracking open a cold beer after a long and productive day. We treasure those moments just as much as our milestones, not because they’re as special – of course they’re not – but because they’re real, they happen within the fabric of everyday life, and it reminds us that yes, life can be good. And this is why I ADORE My Neighbour Totoro. Because watching it feels like a reel show of these little moments. I don’t watch My Neighbour Totoro for the story because, in my opinion, the story is weak. Hey, don’t look at me like that. Other critics out there have pointed out the lack of threat, conflict or plot twists in Totoro. I’d go even further and say that it also sidesteps other story staples such as a protagonist, clearly outlined character motivations, and end-goal, or heck, even a proper plot. Okay, that last one may seem like a bit of a push, but for the duration of Totoro, were are introduced to the family when they move in to their new house and we end it on a hospital visit – to see a mother who has been in hospital for the whole duration of the movie anyway. From beginning to end life just seems to…happen, rather than a prescribed plot. Now, I’m not being harsh here, I’m simply pointing things out. Put it this way: it is possible to encapsulate nearly any other story out there in two sentences. Only the most complex of tomes out there would require three. Seriously, pluck a couple of movies or books out of the air right now and try it out. Now, summarize Totoro in two sentences. It’s impossible, because you cannot reconcile the three points of the sick mother, the girls settling into their new home, and the big guy Totoro himself because they run so separate from one another. Only in the last act of the movie, when Mei goes missing, does something resembling a traditional, conflict-driven plot come into play. But none of that matters. Seriously, if anything a story would ruin what makes Totoro so great. Because My Neighbour Totoro’s strength is not in seizing the viewer’s attention with a high-stakes plot device, gripping characters and tension you could cut with a breadknife. No, it’s strength is in presenting those small moments in life. That lack of threat and conflict is what allows Totoro to present a slice of life, free of the kind of narrative devices you’d see in…well, a fantastical movie. In that way, my neighbour Totoro may be one of the most realistic portrayals of life every committed to t silver screen. And yes, I know that’s a strange thing to say of a movie about woodland spirits and a cat that doubles up as a bus. But it is more real in that there are so many more of those precious, quiet moments that make life valuable in this movie. It’s packed with them. Off the top of my head there’s the moment where Mei is simply sitting and staring at the bush where the mini-Totoro disappeared into, and for a good few seconds or so all is still save for a passing butterfly. Or how about when the father appears to hear Totoro at night, and for a little moment he just closes his eyes, smiles and listens? Or the satisfying sense of progress they make on cleaning the house? Or, most famously perhaps, those long, silent pauses while Satsuki and Totoro stand in the rain? This movie is packed with them, and it takes a brave movie studio to even allow one of these kind of moments at the risk of losing their audience who they believe have the attention spans of a fingernail. And yet every one of these moments are sweet, delightful moments of the movie that I can savour just as much as my own precious moments in life. And that is where the true value of Totoro lies. It doesn’t tell a story: it doesn’t have to. It is an ambient movie, one that you can simply let wash over you like a warm bath. It is all about the feeling, the atmosphere, the mood it creates. Moreover, Totoro is one of a kind. Sure there are relaxing movies out there, but can you think of any other movie out there that substitutes so much traditional storytelling for simply building a feel? Only other Ghibli movies come close. My Neighbour Totoro is one of my favourite movies, and although it wouldn’t qualify for any list of great storytelling, that is exactly why it is so wonderful. It is a masterclass of what the medium can do, of how an atmosphere and tone can be honed to perfection, and how a movie, like life, doesn’t need to be packed with milestones and high points to be validated. It can simply…be. I wonder if anyone out there appreciates the irony that one of the most frequent nuggets of advice dished out to writers is to avoid clichés (like the plague, if you will), to the point where this piece of advice is in of itself a cliché. After all, although we best know clichés as being pre-packaged phrases, they can also be ideas too.
When you think about clichés this way, it becomes something a minefield. So not only does the aspiring author or screenwriter need to step around phrases like “launched to her feet” or “Jumping down his throat”, but also tired archetypes as well. Wise old mentors, orphaned heroes, snarky sidekick…the list goes on. But clichés have not always been, well, clichés. Once upon a time, they were new ideas that presented something original to the table. The phrase ‘jumping down his throat’ is overused these days but there would’ve been a time when it was fresh and brilliant. So brilliant, on fact, that everybody else piled on the bandwagon and consigned it to the cliché pile. Even now we are inventing new clichés: the idea of movie trailers using the famous inception-style ‘BWAAA!’ music is very recent, and while vampire romance didn’t start with twilight it certainly catalysed the saturation of the market that has smeared the concept with cliché. I think cliché are the result of a great paradox in the human psyche. We’re naturally inclined to be inspired by success, and even want to break off a piece of it and use it for ourselves, sometimes for a sweet-natured homage or for a more cynical copy-paste job. And yet we’re also turned off by things that are too successful or ubiquitous: how many of us gain a sense of grim pleasure from seeing a high-profile celebrity be brought down a peg or two? Or to see an all-conquering sports team laid low by a plucky underdog? Terms like schadenfreude and tall-poppy syndrome exist for a reason. The sweet spot between breakout idea and overused cliché is narrow. But are clichés really that bad? I have read a few examples of novels that make a concerted effort to be anti- cliché, to avoid all the tropes in the book. And while the intention is good and some clever ideas came from it, ironically the spectre of cliché looms larger over these creations than any other: for example, while Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind is a fantastic book, there are simply too many times where the author takes a moment to set the stage for a ‘see? I bet you were expecting a clichéd thing to happen here!’ moment. A big deal is made out of the idea that Kvothe thnks one of the insane professors at the University might be a genius hiding his intellect, until a singular moment reveals that, nope, he really is just insane. Now you might be thinking that’s quite a clever idea, but nothing came from this discovery of the professor’s true nature, in terms of plot development. It served only to prove it’s own point: that the audience were expecting a cliché. And this happens over and over through the book. It’s like your prankster friend who keeps trying to jump scare you: the first time might be effective and funny, but it quickly becomes tiresome and grates with the audience who feel they’re just being toyed with. Rothfuss gets away with it because the core of the story is still strong, but he does push his luck. Game of Thrones is the way to go when it comes to anti-cliché. That series not only subverts expectations, but it does it in ways that may sense to the plot, fits the characters and fits into the narrative rather than trying to prove a point. The death of a certain character towards the end of the first book/series is shocking, but George RR Martin isn’t simply playing for shock value, but because it makes sense to the story he wants to tell. And lets not get too hateful of clichés here: clichés didn’t become as widespread as they are today by accident: they achieved saturation for a reason. They could’ve been a very effective simile, or a clever twist in the tale. So no matter how overused a cliché becomes, the kernel of the idea or turn of phrase remains a good one. So as a writer, one shouldn’t be scared of clichés – they are worn and tired, like an old pair of shoes, but like an old pair of shoes they also fit in snugly and don’t distract. If you find yourself trying to avoid a cliché and trying to write a clever workaround, don’t: it’s more hassle than its worth, and chances are that you’ll only produce something jarring. Breaking out of clichés and going against the grain should come naturally and fit into the story. Readers want an experience, not an experiment. Clever new ideas are appreciated, but clichés shouldn’t be as feared as they are. Good storytelling comes first, going against the grain comes second. I quite enjoyed Man of Steel. It didn't do anything groundbreaking, sure, and towards the end it did slip into generic blockbuster climax territory, but overall I think they did a good job of making Supes more vulnerable, conflicted and human while simultaneously making him more alien.
So I sat down to Batman vs Superman with fair expectation of a continuation of that story and that quality. Decent storytelling, epic set pieces, summer flick fodder. Was I satisfied? Well...it's a tale of two halves, truth be told, but overall I was disappointed. Now, as always I am going to focus on the story here, which is just well because I feel that this is where Batman vs Superman hinged between success and failure. And for the first hour or so, I was quite happy. Decent pacing, motivations are are a little muddy but at least efforts are made to put them there, and the overall tone, while grim, matches well with the biblical allusions and references to high art to give a sense of gravitas. Not a well-earned gravitas, but a form of it nonetheless. Batman's motivations are clearer than Superman's, helped in part by Ben Affleck's excellent performance, his first, as the Dark Knight. He certainly comes across as more likable than Bale's iteration while maintaining that all important brooding mood, making him more accessible and sympathetic in the audience's eyes. He's not short of problems in the first half though: the dream/hallucination sequences are hamfisted, and it's really tiresome to see his origin story YET AGAIN. I get that Snyder wanted to approach this movie as if it were the first, but if that's the case then it only makes Batman utterly bewildering, as we jump some 40 years into the future after the death of his parents to see him leaping around a seedy city in a bat suit. But still, Batman comes off better than Superman. It's frustrating to say that, because this is by all accounts a sequel to Man of Steel so the ball should be in Superman's court when it comes to his own mindset and motivations. Man of Steel even left Batman vs Superman with a solid foundation to build upon. And yet his motivations for taking umbridge with Batman are muddied at best, hypocritical at worst. So Superman doesn't like the way he operates. Two things about that: first, Superman must painfully aware that that's EXACTLY how a lot of people feel about him. Surely he's heard the phrase 'live and let live'? And secondly, Supes' main concern is dealing with the truly evil and helping the little people deal with said evil, with the occasional natural disaster thrown in for good measure. There's a metric ton of those things happening around the world every second. Surely Batman would be a very low priority, then? In that scene alone where Superman basically issues Batman a cease and desist order, he could've been off stopping a robbery, a murder, or suicide. Pedantic, sure, but the main point stands: Batman is the least of Superman's worries. Even Snyder seems to realize this, and ends up checkmating Superman into a forced fight with Batman via Lex's plan, which cheapens the fight between them as it doesn't feel meaningful. Heck, even Lex's speech to Superman before the fight reinforces the feeling that this is a staged, convoluted bout. But all of that would be forgivable. All of that build up, while rough around the edges, was serviceable and certainly gave the titular battle a sizable fanfare. But the battle still doesn't feel earned, because in terms of the franchise and the DC universe it doesn't feel like they put in fair time and effort for it. Think about it: here we have a rebooted Batman that is a completely new actor to the role. Superman, too, is only one movie deep into his own story. True, these characters have been around for decades, so Batman vs Superman gets a kind of surrogate weight to the battle, but it feels like an echo, a 'what-if?' fantasy rather than feeling real and relevant. That's why Marvel's Civil War works: it's the same characters, the same relationships, the same universe we've seen developing over the past few years, and the conflict really does feel like it's come about naturally. Every punch thrown feels weighty, every verbal assault cuts deep. It's the exact same reason why the duel between Brianne and the Hound in Game of Thrones works: you've seen what makes both characters tick, walked miles together with them, you know what drives them, and you know exactly what led them up to this point. Batman vs Superman barely registers above the cheap thrill of a fan-made Death Battle on YouTube. But worst of all is the moment we all know, and we all mock, and for good reason: the reason why the fight ends. Superman and Batman have mothers with the same name. So I'll run the scene back past you just to refresh your memory: Batman has Superman pinned, Kryptonite spear raised, ready to drive it into the weakened Supes and kill him. At the very moment, Superman utters 'Martha'. Batman is thrown for a loop, demanding to know why he said it. Lois Lane walks in, and explains that Martha is the name of Superman's mother. The same name as Batman's mother. Batman falters, yells, throws the spear away. The battle is over. He and Superman are now on the same side. Even just saying like that makes it sound laughable, like some slapped together fan fiction. It's even more jarring on the screen. Remember that up until this point Batman's motivations were fairly relatable: that he viewed Superman as a threat. Remember his speech to Alfred? That if there was even a one percent chance of Superman turning that he should be eliminated? Pretty solid motivation for the Dark Knight. So why does Superman sharing a mother's name cancel that out? Batman has always been sensitive about his parent's death, sure, but not to the point that it'll switch his view of Superman from The Greatest Threat To Mankind to My New Best Buddy. The sudden about turn is so sudden, so laughable, so unbelievable, that everything after that point feels significantly worse for it. I mean, BvS succumbs to the typical blockbuster climax of course, but it feels even worse than usual because the protagonist force of Batman and Superman is an empty husk. They even threw in a gratuitous Wonder Woman and a tiresome CGI monster just to make sure any potential this movie has is utterly buried. Remember that timeless pan shot around The Avengers as they stand back to back in the middle of New York? You couldn't help but smile. When you get the 'money shot' of Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman standing shoulder to shoulder before a fire, I could only roll my eyes. So what should've been done differently? Well, frankly there should've been at least one solo Batman movie with Affleck and one more solo Supes movie before this project to give their character development some space to breathe as well as making the set up of the Justice League feel more organic, but let's just assume that we've got just the running time of BvS to do this. First, you've got to make Batman appear truly, mentally unhinged. Show examples of him becoming distraught at the mere mention of his parents. Batman should lash out at someone who didn't really deserve it, overstep his line as a protector of Gotham. Not only does this give Superman more of a reason to after him but it makes the Martha moment just a little bit more believable. Second, the way Batman is about to kill Superman should parallel the murder of his parents, except now he is in the position of being the killer. His mother should be killed first so his father's final word is 'Martha' before he too is killed (yes, I know he does say this, but he mutters it: it's got a be a yell, something powerful that sears itself on Bruce's mind). This gives Batman's refusal to go through with killing Supes another reason. Third, they CANNOT be best buddies. They should be at an uneasy truce at best. All the reasons for hating each other haven't suddenly disappeared after that fight. They recognize a greater evil when they see it, but these two should have unfinished business. Furtive glances at one another. Not helping each other get up when they fall. What you shouldn't do is have, say, Batman single-handedly rescue Superman's mother (as great as that set-piece was) and say "I'm a friend of your son." This wouldn't fix BvS but it would to some way to addressing some of the problems. There's so much potential in BvS, and sometimes it shines. But it collapses under its own weight of Universe-Building for DC and fumbling the key moment so spectacularly you could swear it was done on purpose. It's a grim world, this world of the Justice League, but then again there is very little to be cheerful about. |
Off the ShelfHere I share my ideas, musings and advice on the writing process. I also analyse some of my own writing for examples to show how I work. ShowcaseHere I will show off of some of my favorite good and great stories, gushing lovingly over why I adore them and why you should too. I will also show you the other side of the spectrum: bad examples of stories and what we can learn from them.
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