Showing posts with label Todd VanDerWerff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Todd VanDerWerff. Show all posts

Sunday, March 24, 2019

Sounding Board, Part 4

Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman



In this post, I offer a few tips on plotting, many of which are implied, if not directly stated in Monsters of the Week: The Complete Critical Companion to the X-Files by Zach Handlen and Todd VanDerWerff.

 Role Playing


To generate plots, the writers of The X-Files sometimes have a character adopt the role of another literary figure. For example,
VanDerWerff notes that "The X-Files seems heavily influenced by the doubting apostle Thomas," (114) especially in regard to Scully, the series's skeptic who is, paradoxically, also a practicing Catholic.


In addition, in the "731" episode, Handlen explains, Mulder plays a Don-Quixote-like figure who must accept that the "answers" he finds on his "quest" differ from those he'd expected to learn. There are no aliens; his sister, therefore, was not abducted by extraterrestrial beings. Instead, "the government has been kidnapping and running tests on humans and hiding it under the cover of 'alien abductions'" (114-115).

By adopting roles played by earlier characters of other stories, which roles are thematically appropriate to the plight of their own characters, The X-Files writers not only enrich the series's storytelling through allusions, but they also acquire vehicles for advancing their narrative's own plot in a meaningful way.

"Assume" Makes an . . . .


Among the many other plot-generating devices employed by The X-Files writers is that of having a character (often Mulder) make wrong assumptions, which then produce "bad decisions," which, in turn, tend to result in potentially fatal situations (117). For example, Handlen reminds his readers, in the episode "War of the Coprophages," although Mulder and other characters believe "a bunch of bugs from outer space" have come "to earth to mess with our minds," skeptical Scully is right again; the insects "are only cockroaches," just as she'd supposed (116-118). Thanks to the false assumption of the citizens of Miller's Grove, where the roaches land (and to Mulder, of course), quite a bit of the episode's plot is generated, demonstrating the truth of the idea that false assumptions can be effective plot generators.

Either-or Premise

As VanDerWerff notes, The X-Files plays with two alternative explanations as to the causes of the series's strange events: (1) "The government did bad things, and now it's trying to keep them covered up" (Scully's point of view) and (2) "yes, aliens . . . have been visiting our world and, yes, they intend to colonize it" (Mulder's perspective) (124). This either-or premise maintains the series's fantastic character ("fantastic" in Tzvetan Todorov's sense of the word), its mystery, and its suspense, while offering a dual approach to plotting.

Memory Sucks


One way of advancing the plot while examining the human condition is to offer a definition of what it means to be a human being and then, after eliminating this identifying quality, character, or state, explore whether the character from whom the essence of humanity has been stripped is still a person, still a human being. If, VanDerWerff asks, "we are our memories," and those "memories are sucked out," do we still exist as human beings or, as X-Files writer Darin Morgan puts it, "If someone has the ability to manipulate your memory--all your memory--then, what are you, if, say, your happiest memory or your most depressing memory are [sic] all fiction?" (133-135). 

Of course, other writers might posit other characteristics or abilities as essential to human existence as such: intelligence, compassion, the ability to effect cause, religious belief, etc. However, the story would still follow the same avenue: by eliminating this characteristic or ability (or whatever else is considered essential to human existence), it would explore whether the character who lost it remains human at all, and if not, why not. By exploring what it means to be human, writers can generate plots. This approach is most suited, perhaps, to stories of fantasy, but it could inform almost any genre.

We Are What We Choose to Be

Another way to investigate the human condition is to ask not what makes people human, but whether a person is who he or she is because of the way that he or she chooses to live or because of how other people treat him or her.


The "Small Potatoes" episode of The X-Files tests this question, VanDerWerff suggests, by having a shape-shifter become other people--but he always reverts back to his own identity, resigned to being himself. He is who he is because he has adopted the persona (that of a "loser"), based on everyone else's view of him, rather than asserting his own identity through the choices he makes (193-195).

This way of developing plots has the benefit of allowing writers to investigate such heady matters as those which are more ordinarily examined within the sphere of philosophy or psychology,  thereby enriching the more mundane affairs of the typical X-Files story.

In an interesting footnote, as it were, to this question, Handlen suggests that, in fiction, autonomy is represented as an effect of doing; in doing, a character forces others to react to what he or she has done. Mulder, he says, is a doer; therefore, he is autonomous. Scully, on the other hand, more often follows a path set for her by Mulder or someone else; she is more likely to be reactive than active, and she is, therefore, only partially autonomous (224).

NEXT: More of the same! 


Saturday, March 23, 2019

Plotting Board, Part 3

Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman



In this post, I offer a few tips on plotting, many of which are implied, if not directly stated in Monsters of the Week: The Complete Critical Companion to the X-Files by Zach Handlen and Todd VanDerWerff.

The MOTW Formula Redux

In a previous post, we identified the Monster of the Week (MOTW) formula as one of the two basic plot generators The X-Files writers use. Handlen also fills us in on a variation of the MOTW formula. In this alternative approach, he explains, "A mysterious crime or phenomenon occurs; our heroes are assigned (or stumble upon) the case; they face increasing danger as they try to understand and defeat the threat before it's too late; and finally the crime that started it all is resolved (though there may be one last shot of the monster still lurkjing in wait for the next opportunity to strike)" (216).

Spinning the Past

One way to use historical events to plot stories is to put a "spin" on them that, presenting the actual events from a different perspective and in a different context than they are traditionally seen, makes these events seem fresh. The X-Files filtered "some of the awful actions the United States had taken during the Cold War through the prism of alien technology theories to give them a new spin." VanDerWerff points out (96). The series suggested that "alien/human hybrids" could have been engineered "by Nazi doctors who'd tested the capabilities of the human body in the Holocaust. A giant warehouse containing tissue samples and medical information from everyone who received a smallpox vaccination" is eminently possible, VanDerWerff contends, "assuming the federal authorities chose to collect such samples and data. Likewise, a UFO stored in a secret mountain facility is a possibility, as is the deployment of CIA operatives "to clean up a problem involving U. S. citizens" (98-99).

Narrative Transcendence

The X-Files frequently misses the mark, the authors of Monsters of the Week suggest (and often say outright), and one area in which they err is in not milking the sources from which some of the series' plots or story ideas arise. An example, Handler suggests, is the episode "The List," in which "a prisoner is executed but swears he'll come back from the dead to avenge himself on five people who have wronged him. Mulder and Scully . . . try to stop him. They fail" (104).


 Episodes like this fail, the writers claim, because they fail to transcend their origins by taking "advantage of a trope without digging into its origins or underlying mechanisms," says Handlen (105). Such a failure prevents writers from enriching their stories by infusing their narratives with the stories' historical, philosophical, theological, cultural, psychological, or scientific underpinnings, making a potentially powerful tale much weaker than it needs (or should) be. 

As examples of how a writer can enrich his or her fiction by adopting the author's suggestion, check out Joyce Carol Oates's takes on Edward Hopper's paintings in In Sunlight or in Shadow: Stories Inspired by the paintings of Edward Hopper and Alive in Shape and Color: 17 paintings by Great Artists and the Stories They Inspired, both anthologies edited by Lawrence  Block.

Teamwork

A team of writers (imagined or real) can bring a variety of "voices" (special interests, skills, styles, perceptions) to a story: "[Chris] Carter is there for the big picture stuff and any detour into mysticism. [Frank] Spotnitz will become Carter's right-hand man for the alien conpsiracy plot . . . [Howard] Gordon . . . will be the one most dedicated to crafting the . . . scary MOTW episodes . . . . [Vince] Gilligan . . . is capable of writing a tense monster tale or a goofy comedic episode" (VanDerWerff, 106). 
 
Questioning the Reader 

 A story or serfies should pose specific questions for the reader (or viewer). The questions should be related through the relationships of important  characters, by characters' participation in a common situation, or by some other appropriate means: According to VanDerWerff, "The three central questions of The X-Files--'What happened to Mulder's sister?' and 'What do the aliens want?' and 'What happened to Scully?'--were so personal and pressing to our characters that they always pushed harder for answers in mythology episodes than they might when investigating a stand-alone case" (113). 

NEXT: More of the same!


Friday, March 22, 2019

Plotting Board, Part 2

Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman

In this post, I offer a few tips on plotting, many of which are implied, if not directly stated in Monsters of the Week: The Complete Critical Companion to the X-Files by Zach Handlen and Todd VanDerWerff.

The MOTW Formula

In our previous post, we mention The X-Files's use of the Monster of the Week (MOTW) as a plot generator to provide variety which would prevent the series from rehashing these series' mythological elements and becoming boring an “repetitive” as a result. But we didn't explain the formula the show's writers used. (There has to be some incentive to return for more posts, after all.) So here it is (the formula, not the incentive):


The MOTW episodes follow the same formula: “There's a monster; Mulder and Scully chase the monster; people die; the monster is caught or killed; and the status quo is restored . . . or is it?”

Innovative Investigation

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An innovation in the investigation of a mystery is to have the detective solve it as a result of a shift in his or her thinking. This approach is as old as detective fiction, having been used, for example, both by Edgar Allan Poe and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as well as such over-the-top police procedurals as Hawaii 5-O. (I use it myself in my historical murder mystery, Death in the Old Dominion, which is set in colonial Williamsburg).


The X-Files takes this approach in “The Erlenmyer Flask,” as VanDerWerff explains: “At every turn of the episode, Mulder and Scully are confronted with what seems to be a brick wall, until they twist their thinking in a new direction and discover the solution waiting just around the corner” (47).


Often, an intuition or the chance discovery of a clue or the understanding that a clue can be interpreted more than one way (as in Alfred Hitchcock's The Man Who Knew Too Much, in which what is assumed to be the name of a person is finally understood to refer to a building.) However, this turn of thought can also occur as the result of a deliberate review of the evidence (as in several of Doyle's short stories, including “The Adventure of the Speckled Band”).

Upsetting the Apple-Cart

In many television series, to keep things fresh, the last episode of a season upsets the apple-cart, as it were, by introducing several significant changes to the status quo. These changes can involve characters, the principal setting, the show's basic situation, or other elements, as “major changes” are made, some of which are “easily” reversible, while others “reverberate for years to come.” 

As VanDerWerff points out, at the end of The X-Files's first season, “the death of Deep Throat,” Mulder's revelation “that the X-Files has been closed down,” and Mulder's and Scully's being split up as they are “assigned to different divisions” certainly upset the apple-cart (47-48).


On Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the apple-cart is upset by Buffy's death at the end of season one, by Buffy's dispatching Angel's soul to hell and leaving Sunnydale at the end of season two, by Faith's escape after Buffy stabs her during a rooftop fight and by Buffy's graduation from high school at the end of season three.
Art Imitates Life
Another way to generate new directions in the plot of a novel is to imagine that the book is a television series in which actors portray the characters and that something unexpected happens to an actor, which requires a new, if temporary, change in the plot's routine. For example, as VanDerWerff recounts, during the filming season two of The X-Files, Gillian Anderson (Scully) became pregnant; as a consequence, Scully “had to recede from the narrative” (52). To accomplish this requirement, she is abducted.

Similar situations can occur in your own novel, if you imagine your characters are enacted by flesh-and-blood personnel rather than described in words on paper. Such an approach may open many possibilities that might not occur to a novelist otherwise.

MORE next post!



Paranormal vs. Supernatural: What’s the Diff?

Copyright 2009 by Gary L. Pullman

Sometimes, in demonstrating how to brainstorm about an essay topic, selecting horror movies, I ask students to name the titles of as many such movies as spring to mind (seldom a difficult feat for them, as the genre remains quite popular among young adults). Then, I ask them to identify the monster, or threat--the antagonist, to use the proper terminology--that appears in each of the films they have named. Again, this is usually a quick and easy task. Finally, I ask them to group the films’ adversaries into one of three possible categories: natural, paranormal, or supernatural. This is where the fun begins.

It’s a simple enough matter, usually, to identify the threats which fall under the “natural” label, especially after I supply my students with the scientific definition of “nature”: everything that exists as either matter or energy (which are, of course, the same thing, in different forms--in other words, the universe itself. The supernatural is anything which falls outside, or is beyond, the universe: God, angels, demons, and the like, if they exist. Mad scientists, mutant cannibals (and just plain cannibals), serial killers, and such are examples of natural threats. So far, so simple.

What about borderline creatures, though? Are vampires, werewolves, and zombies, for example, natural or supernatural? And what about Freddy Krueger? In fact, what does the word “paranormal” mean, anyway? If the universe is nature and anything outside or beyond the universe is supernatural, where does the paranormal fit into the scheme of things?

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word “paranormal,” formed of the prefix “para,” meaning alongside, and “normal,” meaning “conforming to common standards, usual,” was coined in 1920. The American Heritage Dictionary defines “paranormal” to mean “beyond the range of normal experience or scientific explanation.” In other words, the paranormal is not supernatural--it is not outside or beyond the universe; it is natural, but, at the present, at least, inexplicable, which is to say that science cannot yet explain its nature. The same dictionary offers, as examples of paranormal phenomena, telepathy and “a medium’s paranormal powers.”

Wikipedia offers a few other examples of such phenomena or of paranormal sciences, including the percentages of the American population which, according to a Gallup poll, believes in each phenomenon, shown here in parentheses: psychic or spiritual healing (54), extrasensory perception (ESP) (50), ghosts (42), demons (41), extraterrestrials (33), clairvoyance and prophecy (32), communication with the dead (28), astrology (28), witchcraft (26), reincarnation (25), and channeling (15); 36 percent believe in telepathy.

As can be seen from this list, which includes demons, ghosts, and witches along with psychics and extraterrestrials, there is a confusion as to which phenomena and which individuals belong to the paranormal and which belong to the supernatural categories. This confusion, I believe, results from the scientism of our age, which makes it fashionable for people who fancy themselves intelligent and educated to dismiss whatever cannot be explained scientifically or, if such phenomena cannot be entirely rejected, to classify them as as-yet inexplicable natural phenomena. That way, the existence of a supernatural realm need not be admitted or even entertained. Scientists tend to be materialists, believing that the real consists only of the twofold unity of matter and energy, not dualists who believe that there is both the material (matter and energy) and the spiritual, or supernatural. If so, everything that was once regarded as having been supernatural will be regarded (if it cannot be dismissed) as paranormal and, maybe, if and when it is explained by science, as natural. Indeed, Sigmund Freud sought to explain even God as but a natural--and in Freud’s opinion, an obsolete--phenomenon.

Meanwhile, among skeptics, there is an ongoing campaign to eliminate the paranormal by explaining them as products of ignorance, misunderstanding, or deceit. Ridicule is also a tactic that skeptics sometimes employ in this campaign. For example, The Skeptics’ Dictionary contends that the perception of some “events” as being of a paranormal nature may be attributed to “ignorance or magical thinking.” The dictionary is equally suspicious of each individual phenomenon or “paranormal science” as well. Concerning psychics’ alleged ability to discern future events, for example, The Skeptic’s Dictionary quotes Jay Leno (“How come you never see a headline like 'Psychic Wins Lottery'?”), following with a number of similar observations:

Psychics don't rely on psychics to warn them of impending disasters. Psychics don't predict their own deaths or diseases. They go to the dentist like the rest of us. They're as surprised and disturbed as the rest of us when they have to call a plumber or an electrician to fix some defect at home. Their planes are delayed without their being able to anticipate the delays. If they want to know something about Abraham Lincoln, they go to the library; they don't try to talk to Abe's spirit. In short, psychics live by the known laws of nature except when they are playing the psychic game with people.
In An Encyclopedia of Claims, Frauds, and Hoaxes of the Occult and Supernatural, James Randi, a magician who exercises a skeptical attitude toward all things alleged to be paranormal or supernatural, takes issue with the notion of such phenomena as well, often employing the same arguments and rhetorical strategies as The Skeptic’s Dictionary.

In short, the difference between the paranormal and the supernatural lies in whether one is a materialist, believing in only the existence of matter and energy, or a dualist, believing in the existence of both matter and energy and spirit. If one maintains a belief in the reality of the spiritual, he or she will classify such entities as angels, demons, ghosts, gods, vampires, and other threats of a spiritual nature as supernatural, rather than paranormal, phenomena. He or she may also include witches (because, although they are human, they are empowered by the devil, who is himself a supernatural entity) and other natural threats that are energized, so to speak, by a power that transcends nature and is, as such, outside or beyond the universe. Otherwise, one is likely to reject the supernatural as a category altogether, identifying every inexplicable phenomenon as paranormal, whether it is dark matter or a teenage werewolf. Indeed, some scientists dedicate at least part of their time to debunking allegedly paranormal phenomena, explaining what natural conditions or processes may explain them, as the author of The Serpent and the Rainbow explains the creation of zombies by voodoo priests.

Based upon my recent reading of Tzvetan Todorov's The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to the Fantastic, I add the following addendum to this essay.

According to Todorov:

The fantastic. . . lasts only as long as a certain hesitation [in deciding] whether or not what they [the reader and the protagonist] perceive derives from "reality" as it exists in the common opinion. . . . If he [the reader] decides that the laws of reality remain intact and permit an explanation of the phenomena described, we can say that the work belongs to the another genre [than the fantastic]: the uncanny. If, on the contrary, he decides that new laws of nature must be entertained to account for the phenomena, we enter the genre of the marvelous (The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, 41).
Todorov further differentiates these two categories by characterizing the uncanny as “the supernatural explained” and the marvelous as “the supernatural accepted” (41-42).

Interestingly, the prejudice against even the possibility of the supernatural’s existence which is implicit in the designation of natural versus paranormal phenomena, which excludes any consideration of the supernatural, suggests that there are no marvelous phenomena; instead, there can be only the uncanny. Consequently, for those who subscribe to this view, the fantastic itself no longer exists in this scheme, for the fantastic depends, as Todorov points out, upon the tension of indecision concerning to which category an incident belongs, the natural or the supernatural. The paranormal is understood, by those who posit it, in lieu of the supernatural, as the natural as yet unexplained.

And now, back to a fate worse than death: grading students’ papers.

My Cup of Blood

Anyone who becomes an aficionado of anything tends, eventually, to develop criteria for elements or features of the person, place, or thing of whom or which he or she has become enamored. Horror fiction--admittedly not everyone’s cuppa blood--is no different (okay, maybe it’s a little different): it, too, appeals to different fans, each for reasons of his or her own. Of course, in general, book reviews, the flyleaves of novels, and movie trailers suggest what many, maybe even most, readers of a particular type of fiction enjoy, but, right here, right now, I’m talking more specifically--one might say, even more eccentrically. In other words, I’m talking what I happen to like, without assuming (assuming makes an “ass” of “u” and “me”) that you also like the same. It’s entirely possible that you will; on the other hand, it’s entirely likely that you won’t.

Anyway, this is what I happen to like in horror fiction:

Small-town settings in which I get to know the townspeople, both the good, the bad, and the ugly. For this reason alone, I’m a sucker for most of Stephen King’s novels. Most of them, from 'Salem's Lot to Under the Dome, are set in small towns that are peopled by the good, the bad, and the ugly. Part of the appeal here, granted, is the sense of community that such settings entail.

Isolated settings, such as caves, desert wastelands, islands, mountaintops, space, swamps, where characters are cut off from civilization and culture and must survive and thrive or die on their own, without assistance, by their wits and other personal resources. Many are the examples of such novels and screenplays, but Alien, The Shining, The Descent, Desperation, and The Island of Dr. Moreau, are some of the ones that come readily to mind.

Total institutions as settings. Camps, hospitals, military installations, nursing homes, prisons, resorts, spaceships, and other worlds unto themselves are examples of such settings, and Sleepaway Camp, Coma, The Green Mile, and Aliens are some of the novels or films that take place in such settings.

Anecdotal scenes--in other words, short scenes that showcase a character--usually, an unusual, even eccentric, character. Both Dean Koontz and the dynamic duo, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, excel at this, so I keep reading their series (although Koontz’s canine companions frequently--indeed, almost always--annoy, as does his relentless optimism).

Atmosphere, mood, and tone. Here, King is king, but so is Bentley Little. In the use of description to terrorize and horrify, both are masters of the craft.

A bit of erotica (okay, okay, sex--are you satisfied?), often of the unusual variety. Sex sells, and, yes, sex whets my reader’s appetite. Bentley Little is the go-to guy for this spicy ingredient, although Koontz has done a bit of seasoning with this spice, too, in such novels as Lightning and Demon Seed (and, some say, Hung).

Believable characters. Stephen King, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, and Dan Simmons are great at creating characters that stick to readers’ ribs.

Innovation. Bram Stoker demonstrates it, especially in his short story “Dracula’s Guest,” as does H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Shirley Jackson, and a host of other, mostly classical, horror novelists and short story writers. For an example, check out my post on Stoker’s story, which is a real stoker, to be sure. Stephen King shows innovation, too, in ‘Salem’s Lot, The Shining, It, and other novels. One might even argue that Dean Koontz’s something-for-everyone, cross-genre writing is innovative; he seems to have been one of the first, if not the first, to pen such tales.

Technique. Check out Frank Peretti’s use of maps and his allusions to the senses in Monster; my post on this very topic is worth a look, if I do say so myself, which, of course, I do. Opening chapters that accomplish a multitude of narrative purposes (not usually all at once, but successively) are attractive, too, and Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child are as good as anyone, and better than many, at this art.

A connective universe--a mythos, if you will, such as both H. P. Lovecraft and Stephen King, and, to a lesser extent, Dean Koontz, Bentley Little, and even Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child have created through the use of recurring settings, characters, themes, and other elements of fiction.

A lack of pretentiousness. Dean Koontz has it, as do Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Bentley Little, and (to some extent, although he has become condescending and self-indulgent of late, Stephen King); unfortunately, both Dan Simmons and Robert McCammon have become too self-important in their later works, Simmons almost to the point of becoming unreadable. Come on, people, you’re writing about monsters--you should be humble.

Longevity. Writers who have been around for a while usually get better, Stephen King, Dan Simmons, and Robert McCammon excepted.

Pacing. Neither too fast nor too slow. Dean Koontz is good, maybe the best, here, of contemporary horror writers.


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