From Concept to Reality

With numerous techniques for creating a specific reaction, the writers of Buffy the Vampire Slayer have created a visionary example of how to produce a show that not only drives plot, but also provides subtle characterization through dialogue and technicalities. Every camera angle can change perception, every one-liner alter perception of a character, provide backstory, and Joss Whedon’s crew has mastered that art.

Even just the descriptions at the beginning of each scene provide a specific image for what should be there, a detailed recollection of what the directors and writers want the audience to see. “The front of the affluent Southern California school gleams darkly in the moonlight” (pg. 5). That singular sentence alone sets the stage for a number of things. Firstly, the horror story. Why else would it “gleam darkly in the moonlight”? What else would this do for them but set the tone for the entire rest of the show--particularly taking into consideration the fact that this is the pilot episode and therefore an introduction to the entire series. Secondly, the environment: the word “affluent” sets a particular image in people’s mind. This isn’t some run-down building in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma, this is a high-end Southern California high school--and beyond setting expectations of the environment, it sets an expectation for the characters. Southern California has a certain image, there are expectations of how people in that region of the country speak, for how they dress and act and present themselves, and while that may not seem significant or obvious in the opening scene, it’s fairly prevalent when you look at the script--sometimes, there are more than just monsters hiding in the shadows. Sometimes, there’s strategy.

It’s interesting, how the simplest of words can can alter the image that readers have in their mind. This is no different in writing a script than it is in writing a story, except that scripts are all about the visual. Take the introduction on page 14 for instance--shortly following Buffy’s encounter with Mr. Flutie (the school’s principal), she is described as “looking a bit depressed”. This would be no big deal, if it weren’t for the fact that that expression has to be executed by the actress portraying her. The play-by-play descriptions of scenes are some of the most important in the lighter scripts--in the ones without much detail, the places where detail is provided are extremely important. The significance of details is seen again on the bottom of page 15, where Cordelia Chase is described as “pretty, self assured. Killer outfit” (15). These aren’t details that just get thrown in for the sake of being there--details can make or break a character, and in this case--they make Cordelia, or at least what the audience initially comes to know of her. In film, first impressions are vital, and therefore introductions are too. In film, this goes beyond the personality of a person or description of a place--it includes the appearances. It includes every action and detail involved in their presentation. Anything out of place will alter the way that things are viewed--and not necessarily in the favor of the creator or writer.

The fact of the matter is that script writing really isn’t all that different from story writing, as far as I’ve seen--it’s still storytelling, with the same basic rules: keep the audience invested, know your characters, plot can’t drive plot (characters must, instead). Script writing is just a different format. Certain details are more prevalent or vital to the perception of the work. Certain concepts or images pop out more, depending on the way a scene is set or idea is cast. But looking at the two concepts as two parts of the same whole actually makes more sense than looking at them as two completely individual things. It was once said that “Directors are failed novelists and novelists are failed directors” and that quote? It seems like one of the most accurate descriptions of the two that I can find. They’re just two ways of telling the same story.

Cliche but Still Relevant (Never Thought I'd Find Myself Here)

The rage, the snap of anger and burning pain and tough-guy attitude, people understand. They can comprehend the chaos, can relate to it. People understand what has become known as the “Chaotic Good,” or even the “Chaotic Evil,” because they can wrap their minds around the assorted emotions that come with each side. Every villain has a backstory, every “big bad” has a purpose—even if it’s not as evident to begin with.

What audiences have a hard time understanding is the borderline-perfect character that still somehow has evident flaws; the one that holds true to their purpose, to their morals, without much visible emotion. A sort of neutral, lawful good.

And I get that—it’s hard to empathize with a seemingly emotionless character. It’s difficult to look at the borderline perfection of someone like Stefan Salvatore (from the CW’s hit TV series The Vampire Diaries) and cheer him on, especially when he’s standing against his love-wrecked, angry, and obviously faulted brother, Damon Salvatore—a fix him upper’s dream.

What people seem to miss, though, is the heart of Stefan’s character and his necessity for order and morality. Granted, without his raving addiction to human blood, it appears that the writers have “successfully cured him of anything interesting about his personality” (Damon, Season 1, Episode 21), but that’s the interesting part. Stefan, unlike most other characters, has two strictly unrelated sides to his portrayal—the good, moral, “uninteresting” Stefan and the blood-addicted, ripper-esque, terrifying Stefan. He’s probably the closest representation of a true addict in the entire series.

Viewers seem to cast this aside, however, as if his being a vampire makes his addiction any less valid. Yes, he’s a vampire. Yes, he’s addicted to human blood. Yes, it’s a fairly clichéd characteristic all things considered. But look at the other vampires that the show provides—Damon (who’s got more problems than LOST’s heroin-addict Charlie), Caroline Fell (with her personality issues heightened to the point of insanity), Katherine Pierce (a manipulative, maniacal seductress with more of a sense for self-preservation than for affection). Are any of them as helpless to resist their life source as Stefan? No.

And it’s this addiction, this helplessness, that makes Stefan Salvatore what he is: weak. He puts on a good show, pretends that he’s strong enough to resist his temptations, and does everything in his power to do so, but the fact of the matter is that he’s not what he says he is. He proves this over and over again by taking what is undoubtedly one of the worst routes for an addict to take.  He shuns human blood, completely cuts himself off, and denies himself even the smallest taste for decades. It just takes a drop to send him reeling again.

There’s more to characters than their surface personality, and while the “chaotic” or “bad” ones make audiences want  to learn their story, it’s the “lawful,” “boring,” and “moral” ones that seem to need it more. If the writers have done their jobs properly, then no protagonist is simply moral or a “hard ass” without a reason, no antagonist is “bad” without cause.

Next time, look for it. 

The Top Reason I'm Watching Lost: It's An AP Lit Nightmare, and It's Glorious

As I am in the process of starting JJ Abram's infamous project LOST (thank you Mr. Fortunato, Mom and friends, and the entire rest of the world) I figured it might be best to blog about it. So let's just kick this off with one of my favorite (as of Episode 3) blatantly obvious character and symbol.

John Locke (aptly named, as my mother oh so constantly reassures me) is, for starters, quiet. And I’m not talking we just crashed on a deserted island holy crap shocked sort of quiet; no, this is full-on morally ambiguous, potentially a massive villain quiet. He speaks to absolutely no one for a full episode—and, by the passage of time as we know it, a full day. His plane has crashed, there are (at minimum) dozens dead, and he could be stranded on this island for the rest of his life, and yet John is not fazed.

In part one of the phenomenon’s pilot, the island is drenched in an unexpected torrential downpour and the other survivors—still desperately hoping for rescue—seek refuge under the wreckage. Not John—of course not, right?—no, instead, the ever silent, eye-scarred, bald man plants himself in the middle of the beach sand and waits—rain washing over him. Is it a cleansing? Maybe, but I sort of doubt it. Cleansings don’t typically involve beach sand sticky with blood and fresh tears. They don’t involve a borderline maniacal smile and calm acceptance. No, cleansings are typically all grit and pain and fighting—a walk through the rain, yes, but one that leaves them more worn for the wear despite rejuvenation. But if not a cleansing, what is it? A descent into darkness? (No, that title falls to ex-rocker Charlie. But he’s another blog on his own.) To be completely honest, I’m not entirely sure what the rain means, except that John Locke is not at all what we expect—and he’ll stay that way until the end.

Moving onward to part two of the pilot, though, we see something even more interesting in the (undoubtedly extensive) novel that is John Locke—his first choice of companions is a 10 year old boy named Walter. It’s safe to say that Walter has daddy issues, complete with a lost dog and multiple spats that end in preadolescent rage-quits, which leaves him an open, easy target for another male role model. If we can even call John that. And it all starts with backgammon: “two players, one is light and one is dark” (Episode 2). And in that moment, with John providing both knowledge (starting with pointing out that backgammon is highly superior to checkers) and a secret, we see what is the first, though undoubtedly not the last, loss of innocence.

But of course we have yet to find out what the secret is.

So what, though? Why did JJ Abrams spend so much of his time putting details into this one character? Why waste hours on deciding how the camera pans over the rainy beach and the exact placement of John’s scar? The best and only answer I have as a newfound viewer is this: John Locke’s roll in LOST  is far from small, direct, or easily followed—and Abrams just wanted to give us a little heads up. How considerate of him.

From "YOLO" to "I Know"

Picture your stereotypical never-grew-up high school jock. You know the type--in their late twenties and still partying like it's high school; the kind of guy who has way too much money and too many girls, the kind that seems too unruly to even attempt managing and leaves his friends to do damage control. Terence King is all of this and more.

A prominent character in USA's Necessary Roughness, TK is exactly what you'd expect of a man who has too much talent and not enough discipline--a mess. More than that, though, he's an example of a “Joker.” Jung's archetype is specific--a character that lives with a no-care attitude and has no problem playing jokes to keep the mood airy; someone who says YOLO (or the slightly classier “Carpe Diem”) as an excuse for every stupid thing they do. Again, all of these traits are evident in our go-to irrational character. But what else is there to TK? What makes him matter?

He learns; and with him, so does the audience. Terence, for all his attitude issues, for all his pride and irrationality and moments of pure stupidity, starts to see past himself. He picks up on the importance of other people, of his actions, and of his past. He starts down the slow path to self-awareness. That’s not to say that TK is perfect; he stumbles sometimes, makes some stupid choices and ruins his own opportunities, but that’s what makes it real. Jokers aren't perfect and no one changes overnight--especially in a show that centers around therapy.

Again, though, we are drawn to the "So what?" Besides being an age-old cliché, why should we care about him? Yeah, sure, we learn life lessons, but we could do /that/ listening to a country music station for a few hours (ignoring the drinking songs, of course). Why does TK matter?

The answer is simple—his character provides hope. In the dozens of cases that the show has filtered through, a smattering of successes and failures and even, in the most recent season, suicides, TK makes the steady trek towards growing into himself. And in growing into himself, he grows out of the Joker mentality. The show’s creators aren’t just providing another “you can do anything you work towards” cliché or dreams-come-true Disney moment, even in his growing up, Terence faces trouble, but in the process of that, he also provides a goal. A dream for the viewers—TK as a better person, as someone who makes the right decision not because it benefits him, but because he knows he should.

It’s an easy thing to say, but quite difficult to do; no one is perfect or good or rational all the time; no one is enough to be the ultimate “after” story. But the fact that we keep trying—a fact represented in Terence King, as well as other characters throughout the show—proves that we want to achieve something greater. We believe that we can be better, so we try.

On the trek from Joker to “Rational,” Necessary Roughness has made a resonating point through their never-grown-up jock: we may not be able to do anything we set our minds to, but we can do something if we want it bad enough.