Why Screenwriters Get No Respect, and How They Can Get It

Listening to this interview with Akiva Goldsman on The Business rekindled my interest in the status of screenwriters. We all know that screenwriters are treated like shit in Hollywood. They're typically not well known and not well paid. I've always thought of the screenwriters as the primary authors of films. Yes, I know that directors and cinematographers shape the look of the film, that producers' tastes are the only reason the screenplay gets made into a film, and that movie stars bring certain cultural cache that affects the interpretations of the audience and helps films get made. I've come to value all the input of every creative person who works in the industry. I firmly believe that every one of them has some impact on how a film is received, and that if even one of those elements is out of place, a film that could've been great would turn out to be awful. But still, the appeal of Hollywood films is less about lighting, acting, and even subject matter. Its about a well-told story. Its still my contention that everything else can only either augment or detract from the core emotions and ideas that are in the screenplay. As they say: the story's the thing.

Then why aren't writers more well known and paid more $? It has something to do with how many there are of them and how quickly they can be shifted from picture to picture. Goldsman points out that everyone piece of the cinematic division of labor pretty much stays put during production. It would be unthinkable to go through 10 wardrobe people during a film, but completely normal to go through 10 writers.

A less extreme version of the infinite monkey theorum applies here, and while I'm not quite calling screenwriters 'monkeys,' I am saying that they're partially responsible for their low status in Hollywood. Part of the reason that everyone has a screenplay (and not everybody is a budding cinematographer) is b/c the tools of the trade - paper and pen - are pretty damn cheap. As digital production and distribution costs fall, maybe they'll be the kind of glut of talent in other realms of filmmaking, but still, it seems like writing will always have this edge.

How are screenwriters responsible for their lowly status? I think that they have a certain view of writing and are unwilling to depart from it.

My theory is that screenwriters are:

A) too married to their work. So when a producer asks them to change something in the script b/c it doesn't test well or b/c the producer has done many films like this and "knows the audience," the screenwriter refuses, and is summarily replaced. They don't think about the finished screenplay as something that can be radically altered after it has been completed, by them or by anyone else. The economics or production and distribution necessitates that work be seen this way. Producers can't know exactly how a film is going to play from looking at a treatment. Screenplays are like theories, and the process of bringing one to the screen involves various little experiments, each of which either confirm or deny the effectiveness of the film. If its denied, you don't just give up. You retain some elements and introduce new ones. You revise. Sure, the producer is a false proxy for the audience, but still, he's more detached and experienced than most screenwriters.

B) too into the idea that storytelling is an art and not a craft, and that the spirit that moves one to write and the place where the ideas come from cannot be pinned down. Either you got it or you don't. It comes from the soul, and the worst thing you could possibly do is to compare writing to a science (like I just did).

The theory I offer here is a self-serving one (but that doesn't make it wrong). I want to teach visual storytelling, therefore I'd love it if writers looked at screenwriting as more of a teachable craft and less of a "you got it or you don't" kind of art.

Maybe that's true, and maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree. But there seems to be some evidence to the contrary. If you look at the most successful screenwriters, a good number of them have read screenplay manuals (which are imperfect for reasons I'll explain), have gone to film school, or generally see writing as (at least partially) a teachable craft. If good writing really "came from the soul" and not the textbook, then wouldn't all successful writers not have read any screenplay manuals or taken one screenwriting class? I'll readily concede that plenty of great writers aren't taught but born, but the amalgam of taught/born writers suggests that there's something about writing you can teach. And I think part of the reason more great writers haven't been taught is b/c they're not teaching in the right way. Manuals provide a hard-and-fast formula, when really its an ever-mutating process that is (like pretty much every phenomena in the world) better known through a combination of ongoing experiments and classic books . So, if Hollywood continues to run this way (at least partially), how long can screenwriters keep preaching the gospel of the gut and scratching their heads at why they can't get any respect?

Also note that writing screenplays in the revisable, experimental mode isn't antithetical to creativity. Someone has to come up with the ideas to try, and the best screenwriters will still be the ones with the deepest wells of creativity, the "biggest guts."

If they did change the way they thought about screenwriting, then maybe the hierarchy would change a bit. Maybe a flexible writer would stay put on a film longer, or collaborate with a producer or studio longer. Its in the best interests of producers to collaborate with known entities. The business isn't out to screw writers. They just want them to be a bit more flexible.

Subscriptions, eh?

After reading this article in the New York Times magazine on Rick Rubin’s move to Columbia, I’m giving more consideration to the subscription-based model for the distribution of media. For the record, I can think of at least 3 ways how we might consume abundant media (I’m assuming that all media texts will be abundant in the coming era):

1. Ad-driven – this assumes that spot advertisements (or any kind of ads outside of search-based ads) actually work. After reading this book my Michael Schudson and speaking with my friend who works for a new media marketing firm in San Francisco, I feel increasingly confident in claiming that the kind of push advertising that consumers don’t seek out but is foisted upon them (as opposed to ads based on a google search for a consumer good) never worked very well. I have to admit that I’m thoroughly disappointed to see YouTube going down this road.
   
2. Micro-payments – This is how Itunes works. I had an idea about a new "nickelodeon" where you would pay 5 cents to see a short film that was made on a low budget. So as we’ve seen music adjust from album-oriented sales (which dictate what gets made), we’ll see a change from 2-hour movies and half-hour or hour episodes to shorter, more serialized online videos. If they are serials, then in a sense, it will be like a subscription, though it will be one with rather unfair terms that will ultimately hurt the show’s lasting value – viewers will be strung along as long as the network can string them along for. With an ideal subscription network, viewers are loyal to the aesthetic of the network, and therefore aren’t liable to jump ship when one particular narrative ends. In that case, the narrative doesn’t have to get dragged on and become watered down.
3. Subscription – I used to be against the idea of more media going this way, just for personal reasons. I hate bills, I hate being locked into something. There’s something about he subscription-based way of consuming media that makes it more habitual and less critical or reflective, and therefore you’re more liable to end up with shittier, shallower media. But after reading Rubin’s prediction, I thought a bit more about subscription media. Suddenly, I realized that the two brand name ways of disseminating and producing media that I praise the most are subscription-based: HBO and Netflix. I still think that the way people consume music and the way they consume narrative media is and always has been radically different, so I’m not sure that any restriction on when a person can listen to a certain piece of music would work.
   

Whether micro-payments or subscriptions are the way to go, for music or video, depends on how the media is consumed. If its a serial narrative (or a series of serial narratives) then a subscription would make sense because consumption is so habitual. But with something like music, you want to listen to it many times over, but you might put it away for a few years and then rediscover it. I feel like this happens more with music than it does with video.

Already, I think we're seeing a tiered system develop in music: there's music that people are OK paying for (maybe music that's in greater demand, had a higher budget to produce, or is, by critical accounts, damn good) and then there's music that people don't expect to pay for (poppy, temporary hits). There hasn't been much of a price hierarchy in music before: the pop album cost roughly the same amount as the rap, classical, indie rock albums. But it would be interesting to see that change in the future. Maybe there will be a bottom-feeder genre of music that is free but that contain product placement in their lyrics, or are ad jingles.

Is Kid Nation as Bad of an Idea as it Sounds?

On the face of it, Kid Nation sounds a lot like the last season of Survivor (the one in which participants were separated according their race): designed to court controversy. Its basically Lord of the Flies as a reality show - kids, left to their own devices, competing, forming alliances, and getting injured. Considering the knee-jerk, "well, I never" reaction that this show is sure to provoke, I thought I'd consider what the likely risks and rewards of such a show really are.

The NYTimes article seems to dwell on the worse-case scenarios outlined in the participant consent contract. So, why would a parent allow their child to risk life and limb for a shot at $25,000 and possible semi-fame? First off, I think that critics of the show's ethics will likely exaggerate the risk to the children involved. Though I haven't seen the show, I'd guess that the actual risk of bodily harm to the participants is very low, but is made to look much higher than it actually is. This is the case with most reality shows. The producers play up the danger element and play down the fact that their are highly trained medics just off camera. It wouldn't be to the producer/network's advantage to have a participant seriously hurt, even if they weren't at financial risk b/c of the air-tight contract. Really, they're all about trying to make situations seem far riskier than they really are, and they're quite good at that.

But why risk any chance of harm to your children? I think its less about the monetary reward and more about the changing nature of celebrity and what it means to be on national television. Setting aside the questionable motivations of the stage-parent for a moment, we can safely say that many more Americans can realistically aspire to be recognizable to people they do not know personally (my basic definition of fame/celebrity) thanks to YouTube and reality TV.

Celebrity before reality TV and YouTube was a rare commodity that was synonymous with a dramatic increase in one's monetary and social capital. There was always a downside - your public identity would be predetermined. Before you met new people, they'd already have a fixed (often inaccurate) idea of who you were. The ability to shift our perceived identities according to context is something we do unconsciously all the time in order to communicate with others. To be deprived of that ability is likely to make a celebrity feel isolated. Of course, this was a small price to pay for all the money and adoration that old-school celebs received.

After almost a decade of popular network reality TV, it seems apparent that the notoriety achieved by the contestants comes with a different set of trade-offs. Advertisers and producers still recognize the value of minor celebrities - familiarity to an audience garners attention (and perhaps affection) for their product, but its unclear how much that audience familiarity really boosts sales or viewership (I'm guessing that a cameo by Gervais from Survivor doesn't result in the ratings boost that a cameo by Bill Murray would). Also, more and more reality shows are niche marketed, so that a person's inability to function as a mutable public persona would only be limited to a segment of the public.

If nothing else, we can say that the duration and extent of fame seems to have shrunk both the upside and downside of fame, though I'd suspect that people would still recognize you long after your value as a spokesperson or promoter diminished. There are good parts about being on TV and bad parts, and its difficult for either the critic or the proponent to say which outweighs the other until we come up with some sort of unbiased longitudinal study of celebreality. Until then, you can't fall back on the old "they knew what they were getting into when they signed the contract" defense. If no one really knows the long term effects of semi-fame on one's mental health, then the "informed" in "informed consent" doesn't really mean anything.

...
10/13/07
Upon further reflection, I've decided that the new fame (reality TV, online fame) is a much worse deal than old fashioned fame for this reason: the rewards, the positive reputation and the money that comes with it do not last very long, but the inability to be anything other than what you were at the moment that fame struck is just as long as before. In other words, the perks are fewer but the downside is just as big.

Art vs. Commerce, Resolved

While wandering around the Art Institute of Chicago, I started thinking more about the difference between "classic" art that lasts hundreds of years and commercial "art" that is replaceable and disposable, at least in terms of the way it is created, received by the general public, and its role in the economy. Some of the art in that museum had been appreciated by billions of people, and had generated hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue over the years. What accounted for that? Was it a cadre of critics who deemed the work "classic," or did those critics and curators recognize some intrinsic appeal that is not limited by time or culture?

I'm pretty sure that the determining factor between art and commerce is longevity or lasting value and universality. Longevity and universality can be achieved two ways: remaining in sync with the aesthetic and cultural values of society over time and space OR by using one's station in life to acquire the markers of "classic" status, if not the substance.

The relevation that I had while staring at "The Feast of Herod and the Beheading of Saint John the Baptist" was this: certain kinds of art critics are no different than advertising: they're both using their accrued capital (either social, in the case of critics, or monetary, in the case of ads) to artificially boost the value (the longevity and universality) of a work.

If you'll allow me the opportunity to completely "dork out," I've worked up this chart that better explains what I'm talking about.



I think this might be related to thoughts I've had on the debate over the wisdom of crowds vs. the wisdom of experts. You could replace "experts" with "critics." In order to determine the relative value of crowds vs. critics, we must first determine which critics simply use their station in life to subject the masses to their opinions and which critics predict the popularity of a work over cultures and time. Then, you could compare the thoughts of the predictor critics to those of the masses (i.e. crowds, the public, first weekend box office, democracy). My guess is that they'd fare pretty well, b/c as wise as crowds are, they can't see beyond their own micro-culture and they tend not to base their collective decisions on thorough research of previous successes and failures the way an informed critic could.

Of course, predicting the future success of a work is pretty difficult (though not impossible). As I was driving back from O'Hare today, I heard Marky Mark Wahlberg's "Good Vibrations," which, thanks to Wahlberg's rising status as producer of a successful show and his Oscar nominated turn in The Departed, probably gets more airplay than Brian Wilson's "Good Vibrations." I guess critics can analyze the intrinsic values of some work and say that, "all things being equal," its likely or unlikely to withstand the test of time. But some of those "things" are the careers of the artists and the subsequent assignment of kitsch value. But that's a subject for another blog.

Terrorism and Contagious Media

There was a truly provocative blog post on the NYTimes' Freakonomics by Stephen Levitt. The blog entry solicited ideas on which terrorist attack would wreak the most havoc. Predictably, the article prompted both scathing rebukes and praise for its openness in roughly equal measure.

It got me to thinking about whether the scathing critiques had any merit. As I understand it, the worry of most of the naysayers was that either terrorists or unhinged people looking for ways to lash out at the world would get ideas from this blog and be more apt to try to carry those ideas out. It might be that they actually get a specific idea on how to cause the most fear, or it might be that just talking about terrorism in this manner puts it in the forefront of their minds and gets them to act out while not necessarily cribbing an actual idea from the website.

This is similar territory to that which I covered in my blog post-VA Tech. In both cases, we imagine an unhinged individual with nothing to live for who wants some sort of revenge on the rest of the world. He has this nebulous rage built up, but its unclear as to how it will be released. Maybe if he is presented with one set of stimuli (say, a lot of ultimate fighting videos and some death metal), he will train to become an ultimate fighter and beat the shit out of similarly frustrated young males. If he is presented with another set of stimuli (say, non-stop coverage of a mass murder or extensive, detailed speculation as to how to carry out a terrorist attack that would cause the most fear), then he might be more inclined to carry out such an act. A third set of stimuli might prompt him to merely kill himself, etc. With Virginia Tech, the worry seemed to be more emotional than logistic. The images of the gunman had a certain visceral power that offended people. In the case of today's NYTimes blog, its just words.

Many comments on the blog that fall into the pro-openness, pro-Levitt category take a "cat's out of the bag" approach to the potential harmfulness of information. This assumes that all nodes on the information network are equal. If a bit of information is on some obscure message board, then its liable to have the same effect on people's behavior as if it were on a higher-profile webpage. The linked nature of the internet means that if a bit of information is interesting, funny, or dangerous enough to warrant attention, it will get attention via digg, delicious, or the viral spread of blogs, vlogs, and emails.

Here's my problem with that reasoning as it applies here. What Levitt wrote isn't what might actually cause harm. He sketched out only one scenario. Its the aggregation of reader comments that could contain the terrorist scenarios that are superior to any that have been thought of before.

I've been waiting for the Wisdom of Crowds wiki-logic to hit the war on terror. By aggregating these scenarios, we seem to be doing the terrorists' work for them. It takes time, energy, and intellectual ability to think up plausible scenarios for terrorist attacks. One writer (e.g. Tom Clancy) could be pretty good at that, and a bunch of devoted terrorists could be just as good if not better, but a larger group of well-educated, creative people (if they worked collectively) would certainly be better at it than either Clancy or the terrorist. So I think you'd be mistaken to say that if we can come up with a bright idea for causing terror, it would've already been thought of. Even the most sophisticated think tank is probably no match for the collective wisdom of the NYTimes' readership (as I pat myself on the back).

Then there's this paradox: the people who think the information is harmful and comment accordingly are, in some sense, aiding and abetting the harmful information by making it more visible. In the inexorable logic of online community popularity, if a comment has many comments, it is more likely to be considered "important," to be forwarded, to be read. The virus spreads.

If indeed this discussion is followed by a large scale terrorist attack (or a few of them), we shouldn't assume that it caused it/them, nor should we fall back on the well worn truth that terrorism is extremely uncommon and therefore is nothing to worry about. Personally, I have never been hit by a car even once in my life. Does this mean that I shouldn't look both ways before crossing a street? We have lived in a world where Tom Clancy and other writers have dreamed up scenarios for terrorism, and one where groups of terrorists have spent a lot of time and energy thinking up ways to disrupt societies, but I don't think we've ever had an instance of a large number of creative, intelligent people brainstorming about ways to cause mass fear. In the sense that this is unprecedented, I think its impossible to definitively say whether or not this kind of openness is necessarily good.

But it could be good. The quicker we can think of potential problems, the quicker we can plan solutions. Dubner and Levitt have always been convinced that people are worried about the wrong things (handguns instead of swimming pools, for instance). There are those who believe that the threat of terrorism is way overblown and think that Levitt's exercise proves that by showing the disparity between possible scenarios (lots) and actual events (very, very few), we prove this. But I would say that we might learn what kinds of terrorism would be worth prepping for by discussing in this way. If we talk about it openly, we might discover that we should spend the money we're spending on airline safety on protecting the food and water supply or developing a well-known, well practiced quarantine protocol. Dubner and Levitt are all about correcting conventional wisdom when its out of whack, and this would seem to be an instance where they're needed.

You could also argue that by familiarizing us with possible doomsday scenarios, the article and the discussion makes eventual hysteria less likely. And really, that's what would cause a society to collapse: not the attack, but the ensuing hysteria. If we can convince potential attackers that we'll bounce right back from an attack (either b/c of our preparedness, our short attention span, or both), they'll be less likely to attack in the first place.

Hmm. Short attention spans...

So maybe its good that our attention spans have been whittled away by advertisements. This way, we can't stay scared for very long.

Mad Men - an HBO show by any other name?

While watching the series premier of Mad Men on AMC, I was straining to see the similarities between this show and the show its creator- Matthew Weiner - used to write for, The Sopranos. Usually, writer/producers leave the stifling confines of network TV for the liberating ad-free world of HBO (the 3 Davids are all former network scribes). So, what happens when they go the other way, and what influence is more powerful in determining the flavor of a show - the network brand or a staff writer? This is sort of a flawed question, b/c Weiner isn't David Chase, but still, I think you could look at Mad Men and ask whether it was an HBO-type show just by seeing how much it resembled the show Weiner used to write for.

AMC (and F/X, which has a few critically acclaimed shows like Rescue Me and The Shield) aren't network TV, but still, they have ads. Therefore, shows on those networks are broken up, interrupted by distracting advertising, and can't allow much in the way of swearing, nudity, violence, etc. Perhaps they're less likely to stand by a ratings challenged show, though its worth noting that even HBO has its limits in that regard. What I identify with HBO shows goes beyond profanity and violence. Its dramas (I'm thinking primarily of The Sopranos and The Wire, though I'm going to check out Deadwood and 6 Feet Under to see if it applies to them) seem to be:

• more serialized - the stories unfold over many episodes, and not much is wrapped up in each ep
  
• more dense in terms of plotlines and information doled out by the narration
• less redundant in terms of that information
  
• slower-paced - more scenes that work to develop character and don't advance the plot
  

I've surmised that these qualities are direct results of not having the interruption of ads. According to this theory, no show on an ad-driven network (like Man Men) could possess these qualities and maintain enough of an audience to survive for a few seasons. The ads take a viewer's attention away from the narrative, and if the show is too complex, then the viewer will become lost. Mind you, complex shows like The Sopranos or The Wire can be shown on ad-driven networks in syndication and have a significant audience b/c they've already built up an audience on distraction-free HBO. But to start out on the distraction-heavy medium of ad-TV and gain an audience while maintaining narrative complexity of this nature - impossible!

There's also a certain moral position on class in America that some HBO shows share (again, I'm thinking of The Sopranos, The Wire, maybe Deadwood): there is not one hierarchy but many, some on the right side of the law, others on the wrong side, though there seems to be very little meaningful difference between the two. Protagonists pursue success on their own terms, trying to climb the ladder and beat the other guy while vaguely aware that the whole point of their existence - to climb that ladder - may be utterly bereft of meaning.

I can't think of any network shows that address themes of class, power, and culture in that way. Though I can't say for sure, I've heard that ad-driven cable net shows like The Shield, Rescue Me, and Battlestar Gallactica do. As far as Mad Men goes, so far it seems to resemble the HBO thematic preoccupations. One of the main characters - Don Draper - is at or near the top of the game, but seems to slip into reveries every now and then, perhaps having doubts about the life he's living (but, unlike Tony Soprano, he can't blame it on not getting in on the ground floor). There's also the detached wit of those HBO shows, the way they occasionally cue us to laugh at the whole backwards culture, so seldom seen on network TV and even the aforementioned ad-driven cable net shows, which are more geared towards getting us to identify with the protagonist. Again, Man Men seems to be mocking the culture as much as it presents it as hip and appealing.

One way Weiner could maintain a certain integrity while working on advertising-driven TV: by having his show be about advertising. Its a bit too early to tell, but it seems to take a somewhat cynical approach towards advertising in general. The show would seem to offer more opportunities for product placement than any scripted show in TV history. But what does it mean for a brand to be featured in a show that's message is: ads are lies created to manipulate the masses into buying things they had no previous intention of buying, to convince them, as the protagonist so eloquently put it, that everything is OK? So, there's two questions: does a brand (like Lucky Strike, which was featured in the first ep and, not coincidentally, just stopped selling products in North America last year) suffer from being featured in the show; does a brand suffer from being featured in the interstitial ads during the show?

The answer to question two is most likely no, but perhaps sales wouldn't be boosted as much as if the product were featured in a more ad/product-friendly show.

In the end, I hope that this show, along with the other show created by an HBO ex-pat - Damages) embody some of the characteristics of The Sopranos. Given the lasting popularity of that show, in syndication and on DVD, maybe TV execs of all stripes will get the message that there's an audience for that type of show. Even if its inevitably watered-down, that distinct mix of narrative complexity, detached wit, and class consciousness that HBO pioneered in the beginning of this decade would be a welcome change from what we've seen so far.

The Coming Era of Visual Storytelling: Building to Last

I've been kicking around the idea of applying meme-tracking to the study of the proliferation of certain stylistic and narrative elements in movies, TV shows, and online video. Also, I'd like to track the popularity of individual texts.

The first step would be to log which movies, shows, videos had certain elements (non-linear plotting, infidelity, a female protagonist, dense information within scenes, intricately woven subplots) or were of a certain genre. The second step would be to track the popularity of a text or an element within texts over the course of many years. Step 3 would involve making some falsifiable hypotheses that would be supported or debunked by the data.

Let's go ahead and skip to step 3. Some films have stuck around. Others haven't. Now that we've started to make more and more films and TV shows available on DVD (and soon online), I think its worth asking why it is this way. Perhaps critics cause films and TV shows to stick around by drawing the public's attention to them, or perhaps some inherent quality of the texts caused them to stick around and the critics merely recognize these characteristics. Of course, the elements themselves might not matter as much as the frequency with which they change. We might be able to see more clearly the degree of variety and familiarity that is demanded by the public.

I don't think we can really say at this point whether either of these are true because until relatively recently, films and then TV shows were seen as a transient medium. Their economic and cultural value were temporary. They had expiration dates. Just within the past few years, with the expanding inexpensive and accessible libraries of motion picture texts on DVD (soon to be online), we're getting our first glimpse of what texts are still valued by the general public well after their release. To some degree, this happened with books, but even there, some amount of capital was required to take the book into a 2nd, 3rd, 4th printing.

And here we get to the "so what" of it: people (especially vendors and owners of texts) never really cared about what separated a classic text from a temporarily successful text because it didn't matter, economically speaking. If a film, TV show, or book were popular within the first year of its release, then it would get syndicated, or re-released, or go to a second printing. All texts (except maybe oral legends) cost money to keep going, and the best way to get that money was to make it popular right away. Any text's initial popularity is a reflection of its immediate relevancy as well the strength of the promotional campaign behind it, NOT qualities which might make it of value to people living in a different culture (either on another continent or in another era). Stories weren't built to last because it wasn't in the producer/distributor/ owner's best interest.

We trundled along, mixing advertising (time-sensitive messages that are intended to distract) with storytelling, for the better part of a century. Given the available technology and the high cost of storage and distribution, this made economic sense. But now things change. With the dramatic fall in storage and distribution cost, it is significantly cheaper to keep an old title selling than to produce a new one. For the first time in the history of commercial storytelling, the economic emphasis should be on creating a lasting product.

In terms of examining culture, its always been important to ask what makes classic stories so enduring and universal. Culture (particularly storytelling) has been yoked to commerce for so long that the only studies of storytelling that were read widely and mattered to those outside the academy were ones that pertained to stories that produced profit. Now, the study of the classic story can get that outside momentum behind it.

So, what makes a classic story? Joseph Campbell's pretty much got this covered, but to speak about it in more practical and exact terms, I'd love to examine the films and TV shows that have been produced so far.

A few testable hypotheses:

1. So-called "body genres" (porn, horror, and melodrama) are somewhat similar in narrative structure (simple, unvarying), and popularity arc (steep drop off after a brief period of time).
2. Films and TV shows that are unified and complex (in terms of the threads of the narrative) are likely to have a less steep drop off in their popularity arc than films and TV shows with simpler narratives. In terms of commerce, these stories have a longer "shelf life" than others assuming the appeal of all other things - the timeliness/timelessness of the themes and content, the acting style, and other elements that may go in and out of fashion - is equal.
   
3. Certain critics, over the years, have been more adept at picking movies that did poorly initially but sold well later and continue to sell well decades since its initial release than others. There's a problem of causality here - did the critic's praise result in higher ticket sales, or was the inherent superiority of the story responsible, and the critic's and public's reaction merely an inevitable result of those qualities?
   

My hope is that we can get past the rather defensive stance that all genres, subject matters, and styles are equal. When theorists use this term (or imply that it is the case by rescuing oft-overlook and maligned genres like the aforementioned body genres), its a value judgment - a soap is no worse or less important than a highly rated, critically acclaimed prime time show like Seinfeld; a forgotten B film from the 50's is no less important than a Hitchcock film. OK, fine. Though they can be considered equal, different types of films, shows, and videos are not the same in terms of their style and content (rather obviously, since that is what is typically used to tell them apart) as well as (less obviously) their "patterns of popularity": how quickly they fade from the public's consciousness, how often they return to it.

Then there are those movies, TV shows, and especially songs that weren't all that popular to begin with, then sank under the radar for years, maybe decades, only to resurface later. When you dig one of these long forgotten texts up, you feel this proprietary need to defend it. It feels rare. But maybe we can set this personal passion aside and look at things with some distance. Of course, the existing history of visual storytelling is tainted for the reasons I mentioned (lasting popularity relied on initial popularity in a way it doesn't have to anymore), but if we correct for things like differences in advertising budget and pay special attention to the texts and characteristics that weren't so popular initially but stuck around and grew in stature over the years, then we might begin to understand the qualities that make a visual story a classic.

You Tube - Public Television

The more I follow the circuitous pathways from comments to YouTubers' profiles to their favorite videos to that persons' posted videos, the more I'm sure that YouTube is not about being entertained or enlightened in the traditional sense but about finding people who are similar to you. YouTube is unlike so many other online video sites b/c its primarily used as a social networking tool.

People seek out media that espouses viewpoints consonant with their own all the time, but when it comes to film, TV, and music, they've had pretty limited choices. I don't think you could find this video of kids blowing stuff up on any other medium. The closest thing might be Maximum Exposure on TV, which features the obligatory "don't try this at home, kids" voice, but mostly makes a mockery of attempts to temper the audience's delight in watching carnage.

So there are people on YouTube watching other people get hurt, or blow shit up, and then there are people watching "9/11 is an inside job" docs. There are people watching ironic mashups, and there are people making earnest fan tribute videos to soap opera characters. In short, there is nothing remotely resembling a cultural, moral, or aesthetic consensus on YouTube (other than a universal bias towards youth). Unlike TV, this is not a storytelling medium (even reality shows, which favor lifestyle and culture over story, possess narratives). Its enough to simply signify who you are by posting of montage of you and your friends blowing stuff up.

When someone says "I hate your video," what they really seem to be saying is "I hate you," or at least "I mock your value system." Again, I think what separates YouTube from traditional media is the extent to which our preferences and production of media represents ourselves. I can share this person's love of Slayer and Slipknot, but I think that blowing shit up is a dangerous, annoying attempt to assert one's diminishing authority in the face of a modernized world in which the person in question can't fit in or compete. I'm relatively sure that said person would think I was a stuck-up prick for thinking so. But that's the variety of opinions that we're dealing with online.

Certainly, YouTubers still have some overlapping interests. One Tuber may seem to be exclusively interested in Cameros and explosions, but his preference for a comedy sketch might put him in the same audience as someone who hates Cameros and is indifferent towards explosions. It would appear that diversity of lifestyle and value system within a fan group is less prevalent on YouTube than it is w/ other media, but the linked nature and the search function (and what people choose for tags, and the fact that the middle frame of each video represents it) connect diverse viewers in ways that cable TV - with its certain channels for certain interests - doesn't.

Something tells me that diversity of one's media diet depended on two things:

• A paternalistic media oligarchy that deemed certain types of diversity of values reflected in our media to be necessary for civic health (the high-minded ideals behind public TV programming)
• Imperfect search technology that gives us some of what we're looking for, but also some things that we weren't looking for.
  

We can even search for people, but those people have some values we agree with, and others we don't (just as in real life), and that's good. But what happens when no one is there to impose diversity? What happens when the search technology gets so good that no one has to be confronted by values they don't agree with? I can't shake this nebulous fear that we'll all hate each other a little bit more in the future.

Free Thoughts on Violence

I listened to two interviews with the directors of Hostel II and Captivity recently, which made me think a bit more about "torture porn" and the public debate over the effects of violent media. I'd always dismissed extreme horror from afar, but these guys seem pretty intelligent and sensible. Unfortunately, I can't say the same thing about the audience. So, though its a dead-horse subject, I thought I'd wildly speculate about the effects of violent media, just for kicks.

One thing that bugs me about the debate is the exclusive concentration on ratings. This implies that negative effects can only happen to people who are 17 or younger. I'll accept the fact that the younger you are, the more susceptible to media messages you are, but that doesn't mean that everyone over 17 is not influenced by what they see in movies, on TV, and on the internet. My feeling is that kids are deprived of violent and sexual media (or at least it is discouraged by parents) and then when they go away to college, they binge on it. It has the appeal of the forbidden fruit, and they feel as though they have to find out what they've been missing (and there's a natural draw to it, at least for males).

Is it that hard to believe that watching a ton of extremely violent media might make an adult more apt to be violent? Chuck Klosterman had a good point in the terrific doc Metal: A Headbanger's Journey about media effects. He knows that the lyrics to Ozzy Osborne's Suicide Solution is about boozing, but accepts the fact that maybe someone might misinterpret the lyrics and think its primarily about killing yourself. That's all I'm saying here: its not a huge leap to think that someone might not get the subtle subtext of a movie like Hostel II (which, according to Eli Roth, is about young Americans' lamentable lack of worldliness in the post-9/11 world).

Let's say one 22 year old watches Hostel II (fine, Hostel PART II) once, watches about 2 or 3 extremely violent movies and plays 40-50 hours of extremely violent videogames every year, while another 22 year-old watches Hostel II 5 times, watches 20 or 30 extremely violent movies and plays roughly 400 hours of violent videogames per year. If these individuals were 17 or under, we could blame the parents of the second one. But they're not. They're adults, and they can do whatever they want. Does that mean that the second individual cannot be swayed by what he watches and plays? That seems to be the common wisdom, which is complete bullshit (I think).

My understanding of the existing research on media violence is that only those who are prone to violent behavior and/or have behavioral problems are likely to be negatively effected by violent media. So clearly, its less about an individual text and more about the context in which it is seen, the context in the viewer's life. I'd speculate that if a person who is prone to violence could be made to act violently, it wouldn't be by an individual movie or game but through an unvaried "media diet": nothing but torture porn, 1st-person shooters, and Faces of Death. If you had two anti-social 30 year-olds, and one of them watched nothing but torture porn for a year, and the other watched one or two per year and instead just listened to a lot of metal and lifted weights to get out his aggression, it seems possible that the second person might not only be less apt to be violent, but be less apt to be an anti-social person.

That's another thing: I doubt that watching or playing a ton of violent media will make you more apt to torture or kill someone, but it might make you a shittier person in general. It might have the same effects as heavy porn use. Neither is going to make you go rape or kill someone, but you'll be less apt to go out and try to make deep, lasting bonds with people. Like drugs or booze, excessively sexy and/or violent media (or rather excessive use of such media) makes a person happy; its tricks your mind into thinking that you're doing something good by releasing endorphins, when in actuality, you're just fucking with the chemicals in your brain without really changing your life circumstances.

Maybe anti-sociability is the real threat, not Columbine or Virginia Tech-like disasters which, sad as they are, are still extremely uncommon. Consider the following detriments to being anti-social:

• Politically, you're easy to control. By listening to the new Rage Against the Machine album, anti-social adults think they're sticking it to the man, when in fact they're just listening to music. Not that RATM is excessively violent or sexual (certainly not excessively sexual), but only that the adult whose desires are sated by media is less apt to interact with the world at large, less apt to learn about something from someone else or debate a point and more apt to regurgitate whatever the rock star said. Sure, sometimes media can be a catalyst for action, but from what I've seen, its just as often used as a substitute for action.
  

• Economically, you're destined to spend most of your life on a lower rung of the ladder. To achieve success in any line of work, it helps to be able to connect with other people, and if all you can talk about is the Burning Crusade, you're not gonna make it very far, whether you want to start an organic farm or work for Goldman Sachs.
  

• Healthwise, you're more likely to be a burden to the system. In the long run, anti-social people are more apt to be angry and depressed, and angry and depressed people are more apt to require treatment (which funnels R&D $ and time away from cancer research, etc).

If you're going to treat the concept of media effects seriously, I think you've got to get past two ideas: only children are susceptible to media's influence; seeing or playing an individual text once is likely to have a substantial effect. It seems like there's going to be more and more violent and sexual (and sexually violent) media out there, whether we like it or not. Perhaps this will mean that we have to stop thinking about individual texts (because if you ban or regulate one, someone else will just make a similar one to replace it) and start thinking about regulating media diets the way we are starting to regulate tobacco or booze use, for instance. Maybe you could tax the shit out of all sexually violent videos to deter people from using it. You can't just rely on parents to dictate their offspring's media diet for the rest of their lives. At some point, adults will need to realize that media they freely choose could make them as anti-social (and as much of a burden to the system) as an alcoholic.

The industry, academia, and the world at large seems to tacitly accept the fact that a 16 year-old who watches extremely violent and or sexually violent material will be negatively effected by it, but I can't imagine that they would ever be willing to accept the possibility that a 22 or 32 year-old can be negatively effected by violent media as well. 'Sup wit dat?

When thinking about how to regulate violent media, I like to compare the negative social impact of violent media to that of drugs and booze. We've decided that people are too easily fooled into thinking that the pleasure of doing heroin outweighs the negative effects on them and, since they cannot help but be a part of society, on society as a whole. We've also decided that that's not the case with booze, or cigarettes for that matter. Sure, people can drink themselves to death, but its harder to really fuck up your life with booze than w/ heroin, so one is legal (but heavily regulated) and the other isn't. Where does violent media fit in to all this?

I'd say its more like booze, for now. Maybe, you get a few cases of it possibly influencing someone who wouldn't have been as violent as they turned out to be to become more violent, but society is hardly falling apart. But this could change if people inundate unregulated online video sites with homemade torture porn (and if people think that Eli Roth is the problem, they should wait until the internet does to the horror genre what it did to porn - make it more extreme, cheaper, and more accessible). And maybe the measure of how bad things are getting has less to do with how many massacres we have and more to do with how socially, politically, and economically active a violent/sexual media-sated generation turns out to be.

Network Narratives

Understanding and enjoying network narratives (such as Babel, 21 Grams, and several Altman films) depends not on how complex or how out-of-order the plotting is, but rather on when the information that will lead the viewer to piece together a coherent linear story is doled out.

While watching 21 Grams, I assumed that the reveal (the part that lets us know how everything fits together) would be at the end. Instead, it comes gradually around 30-40 minutes in, and without much fanfare.

Generally, we're told how the pieces all fit when the narration reveals a crucial cause-effect relationship between certain scenes. Until we get that crucial linking scene, we treat the film as a puzzle. We can't become fully immersed in the film because we're too busy trying to figure it all out. That's generally how I felt about Babel. It kept me at a distance, and the payoff wasn't worth the trouble.

By revealing this crucial piece of the puzzle earlier than some network narratives, 21 Grams is less of a puzzle or a stunt and more of a clever way of getting us not to choose sides, a way of making more than one character sympathetic, which under normal, linear plotting circumstances, may be impossible.

After the moment we learn how the puzzle fits together, we're concerned with when certain characters will find out information that we know but they don't know (Naomi Watts finds out that Sean Penn's character has her dead husband's heart at 1:28 or so) and what chain of events will lead to the the events we see throughout the film - like a mystery - (Sean Penn getting shot in the chest after hunting down Benicio Del Toro), and also what will happen to the characters in the end, which is what we're generally concerned with when we watch any movie.

That said, this movie revels a bit too much in its poignancy for me, and 21 Grams has to be the most misleading title for a movie I've heard in awhile. It sounds drug-related.

Ronald Jenkees, a Real Character

The Sports Guy has drawn my attention to the latest freak vlogger: Ronald Jenkees. Beebee890, DaxFlame, and Ronald Jenkees are not quite taking over YouTube, but they represent a decent-sized niche within the YouTube ecosphere. DaxFlame is #32 on all-time most subscribed list, and Jenkees is #50 on all-time most subscribed musicians.

Mainstream press and/or Digg picks up on these guys, and that gets them their initial boom in subscribers. The Sports Guy and Digg brought attention to Ronald, and G4 did something on DaxFlame (to which he angrily responded). All it takes is one member of the mainstream media to reference one of them, and then they become discussion topics. Their freak appeal takes it from there.

So, is he socially awkward, mentally challenged, or neither? What do we mean by mentally challenged (or retarded, disabled, etc)? Perhaps we've been able to get away with two vastly different views of these different people. There's the PC "noble savage" view, which says that anyone who appears to be "different" is worthy of praise (regardless of whether the behavior can be attributed to social awkwardness or a physiological condition), and the grade-school playground view, which says that anyone different must be ridiculed. These knee-jerk reactions have been able to coexist because the two groups don't have to come into contact with one another because those freaks that spark the debate between the two camps aren't in the public eye that much. Until now.

But Ronald Jenkees is more than just another William Hung. His keyboard and beat-making skilz rival that of any shitty post-krunk hiphop producer. There's talk of him being some sort of savant. He claims that he is not, but how would he know if he were a savant? Who is the authority on this - the individual in question? A doctor? Movies about savants (e.g. Rainman)? Us? I'm also reminded of the unhappy story of another "different" musical genius: Daniel Johnston. Once fans recognize an artist as a savant or a genius, the bar gets set unrealistically high. An unstable person gets introduced to the wrong people, and disaster ensues.

Before we assume that Ronald is acting, its worth considering the possibility that "different" people like Ronald have been waiting in the wings, not good-looking or "normal" enough to be in the public eye before YouTube. They could've had a blog and/or a MySpace page, but that just wouldn't have conveyed how different they were - only video could do that.

To the debates over whether or not he is acting like a dork/mentally challenged person, we should add the question as to whether or not he wrote the damn good songs he performs. Maybe they're pre-recorded loops he got from someone else, though the visuals seem to provide the needed proof that he can play the keyboard.

Somehow, their freakishness works to their advantage, drawing attention to them and making them impervious to criticism (provided you don't get busted for acting). How can anyone rag on you if you can always hide behind being different? You could try to be cool, you could try to be your normal semi-cool self, or you could exaggerate your inner dork to the point where you're clearly different (not retarded, just different). If you do this, any social misstep you might make can be attributed to your different-ness, which is considered a positive attribute (kind of like the self-effacing jujitsu Eminem uses on his first couple of albums).

There may be people as talented as Ronald Jenkees out there, but who would notice them if they're just another Steve Vai wannabe from Berklee School of Music, some quiet man-of-mystery (which reads as holier-than-thou) with a ponytail, no fashion sense, and zero charisma? If that were you, then wouldn't you have an easier time getting attention and sympathy if you exaggerated your dorky characteristics (in effect "passing" as a dork)? Just like people who pass as black, gay, etc, there is enough of an element of truth to the claim that the passer could not be outed as a total fraud.

So, what happens next? What does stardom (or the new semi-stardom that online fame creates) do to a person? What makes it seem as though DaxFlame is an act is that he seems utterly oblivious towards his newfound semi-fame. There's something about the kind of fame that's achieved by vloggers on YouTube that feels hermetically sealed, cut off for the most part from real life like all social acts online. For this reason, vlogging and YouTube in general still feels like a proving ground for would-be stars (albeit a different breed of would-be stars). Ever since Brookers got signed by Carson Daly, that's the way that most people think about it. Ronald Jenkees is interesting only if he's going to put out an album or work with established rap stars.

On The Lot: No Accounting for Taste

Though it comes across as more awkward than compelling, On The Lot continues to offer an intriguing view of audience fragmentation and demographic appeal. It occurs to me that the show is as much a study of whether or not the viewers of the show prefer a certain genre or a certain aesthetic rather than a competition to see who is the most talented.

This stands in stark contrast to American Idol, in which genre isn't as much of a variable, and the variations in style between singers are limited. One could say that Chris Daughtry and Taylor Hicks had very distinct styles and that they chose songs from very different genres (Nickleback-esque "rock" vs. Doobie Bros Blue Eyed soul). Still, I never got the feeling that contestants won or lost based on the appeal of their chosen genre or stylistic influences. I do, however, get that feeling with On The Lot.

You have one contestant, Jason Epperson, who makes films with a certain down market appeal - a rather obvious physical comedy that may or may not have been making fun of 'tards and a drug story cum heavy-handed Christian allegory. Then you have Jess Brillhart - an NYU film school grad whose first two films have an arty bend to them. Are we to believe that the audience will be adept at comparing apples to oranges, determining which filmmaker is better at their given nitch?

Even when all contestants are assigned a particular genre for a given week (e.g. horror or comedy), their writing choices betray their cultural perspective (urban, Southern, feminist, sci-fi dork, sappy romantic, arty weirdo) in a way that AI contestants' song or style choices do not. I get the sense that the range of AI contestants' cultural appeal is limited to white/non-white and gender demographic distinctions (and maybe pop rock vs. R&B vs. country, though the audience seems to lean heavily towards adult contempo R&B). In the end, I feel as though On the Lot viewers are more apt to vote according to their cultural perspective than AI viewers. So far, AI has had a fairly diverse group of winners (white man, white woman, black woman, black man if you count Ruben, country, R&B, pop rock). People keep watching because the record shows that their group (or the representative of their race/gender/taste) has a legitimate shot at winning. If you're group isn't represented in the winner's circle (or at least later rounds), there's not much point in participating - an example of voter disenfranchisement if there ever was one.

Still, I like to think that many of the AI voters vote based on one undefinable characteristic: chops. If you're black/white/country/R&B/man/woman, it doesn't really matter as long as you can carry a tune. I just can't imagine that the audience for On the Lot cares more about these filmmakers' abilities to tell comprehensible stories from a unique perspective more than they care about which filmmakers' cultural backgrounds and sensibilities jibe with their own. It would be interesting if a few of the filmmakers began to understand this and started to adapt their work to the tastes of the voting public.

As it happened, I think the filmmaker with the narrowest cultural appeal (arty Jess) made the worst film this week, while down-market Jason's effort was passable. I'd like to say that Jason's success will prove my theory of demographics over style and substance, but I'm not sure its that clear cut. Just have to keep watching.

Who Thinks Ambiguity Sucks?

The finale of The Sopranos has sparked familiar discussion over the merits of open-ended narratives, but perhaps on an unprecedented scale. Its the IMDB debate over Mulholland Drive writ large, with familiar defenses (its consistent with the rest of the author's work; though it has no definable narrative meaning, it has allegorical/thematic meaning - that Tony's life will always be full of threats and dread) and derisions (ambiguity and vagueness is a sign of laziness or contempt on the part of the author). Both camps seem intensely aware of one another, thanks to the internet, and assume that divining the intention of the author is akin to knowing the true meaning of the episode. I'm beginning to think that if Last Year at Marienbad were released today, there would be a time-travel theory about it and Robbe-Grillet would be called a self-indulgent asshole.

Oddly, sports guys and morning DJs were analyzing the conclusion as much as media critics were. Debates of this fervor and scale only really happen with texts that attract split audiences: jocks and nerds, melodrama addicts and sci-fi freaks (see Lost). European art film ambiguity doesn't ruffle feathers, but TV, with its relatively broad appeal, cannot help but do so. Michael Wilbon of ESPN's PTI claimed that the ambiguity was Chase's way of not following his vision, of trying to be all things to all people. Scott Tobias of The Onion AV Club thought that the ambiguous ending was evidence that Chase had maintained his unique vision, refusing to bow to audience or studio executive pressure. Even the meaning/worth of discrete attributes of the conclusion are debatable.

Lost in some of the debate over the merit of the final scene are the extensions of thematic concerns of the series in the last episode. Among the small details: TVs in the background of the episode providing an incongruous or enervating distraction (Little Miss Sunshine on TV in Sil's hospital room; AJ watching a politician dance mashup with his model girlfriend; the clip from The Twilight Zone episode entitled "The Hack" in the back of the Bing; the TVs in the loony bin with Junior). This is in keeping with Jeffrey Goldberg's assessment of Chase's motives as "anti-television." Its an argument I'm sympathetic to, especially when it comes to TVs in public places which essentially control public emotion (an effect that the security forces designing and running American airports are surely familiar with). The fact that many viewers think that a guy walking into a bathroom is a sign of impending doom is a sign of how deeply influenced we all are by mob stories, on the big or small screen. AJ's decision (caving to his parents' wills) to go into movies instead of the Army is another way of saying that we use media as an opiate more than catalyst for action.

I also liked how AJ got shamed out of being smart again. Before, it was "Nitch." This time, its "Yeets." Can you really blame him for taking the easy way out - helping to churn out forgettable shitty Hollywood movies - instead of getting smart when people laugh at his attempts to learn? Another knock at a society Chase seems to have stopped hiding his contempt for. The episode, after all, is titled "Made in America."

I made some remark at the conclusion of a class I taught on TV & Post TV about the arbitrariness of endings of serial narratives. The only true end to any story (to paraphrase Jonathan Franzen and countless others, I'm sure) is death. If characters ride off into the sunset, if they get married, there will always be something after that. The last 30 seconds of The Graduate offer a rare authorial acknowledgment of this fact (its rather telling that Hollywood simply couldn't accept this rare instance of brilliant open-endedness, and somehow churned out a semi-sequel 35 years later). There's the "Waiting for Godot" ending, sitting in an unchanging room, waiting forever. I suppose David Chase could've locked up Tony in a prison cell and remained consistent with the plot of the show, but it might've seemed too moral, and certainly too reminiscent of Seinfeld's much-hated conclusion. So, you can either snuff out the lead consciousness of the show, or you can acknowledge the fact that things just keep going, after our view on them ceases to exist. At the conclusion of the British Office, Tim mentions this - after the audience leaves, the characters' lives go on, one failure after another victory until death. The Sopranos gave us both options - death or simply the end of our view on their lives. As I see it, there really aren't any other options.

Lastly, its kinda funny that a sudden cut to black (often mislabled as a fade to black) will, for the time being, be read as a humorous reference to The Sopranos. In fact, any loss of picture due to technical difficulties may cause me to think back to this episode.

The Sopranos Final Moments

Its been said that David Chase didn't want to send a typical mob-story message with the conclusion of The Sopranos. If Tony was triumphant, that would essentially say that crime pays. If Tony died or was thrown in jail, that would say what most Hays code era mob stories said: crime doesn't pay. How, then, can you end The Sopranos (or any story, for that matter) without sending a message?

The Sopranos always distanced us from the main characters to some extent. We sympathized with them, but we also analyzed them and laughed at them. It was never about getting sucked into a narrative where you were more emotionally involved than you were intellectually involved. The immersion in the diegetic world you felt was a secondary pleasure. At most, its a hybrid between family drama and aloof satire. Though its been said that messages aren't David Chase's style, I'd argue that he still likes to use the show to comment (albeit in subtle and often ambiguous ways) on life, rather than as a way to get viewers emotionally involved in the lives of fictional characters. The show was, of course, marketed and talked about like any other show. We were supposed to care whether or not Tony died, and I suppose a lot of viewers did (the ones who are probably extremely pissed off after the conclusion of the series). But personally, I never got that involved in the story. The show was never really about the war between the two families. There weren't that many cliffhangers. So the ending of the show doesn't really piss me off. I'm still not sure that I like it, though.

At the very least, I admired it because it left me with a unique feeling, which is pretty hard to do after several millennia of storytelling. I imagine that a lot of people would write off the ending as lazy ambiguity, ending a show in medias res because he couldn't think of any satisfying way to end it - the ultimate cop out or, worse, a prank. Maybe, but I think that's oversimplifying. In the last scene, there's a very conscious build-up of tension through cross cutting between Tony & Carmela, Meadow (safely?) outside the restaurant, and the shady dude who walked in with AJ. Clearly, we are meant to think that this shady dude will abruptly spoil the familial idyll at the diner table. The family is finally getting along for once, and now it will be shattered. I knew this trope, and yet my heart was still beating a mile a minute at the end.

There's some dramatic irony at the conclusion: the characters think they're fine, but because of what the narration shows us, and because we're well versed in tension building exercises that have littered Hollywood since the days of D.W. Griffith, we're convinced that they're not fine at all. That's the tension at the end: between the lives the characters know and what we know of their world. True ambiguity would've given us and the characters competing cues as to what was about to happen. If it had been a "choose-you-own-adventure" or a "viewer-supplies-the-ending," like many are mistaking it for, it would've presented us with competing cues of at least 2 possible (and equally likely) outcomes. While one could argue that it was equally possible that what Tony was looking at in the final frame was either is killer or Meadow, its telling that one of those possibilities is extremely mundane. If you're 50% sure that a person coming through a door, any door, at any time, is coming to kill you, then that's not the same as when a character is in a temporary state of mortal danger (always the case with choose-your-own-adventures) and he/she may or may not make it out alive.

Instead of wondering whether he'll be fine or whether he'll die, we're nearly certain that he's going to die. The final emotion is one of dread and unrealized fear, not curiousity. The final violent act is unseen, and perhaps is all the more powerful because of that. Then again, maybe he's fucking with us and I'm overanalyzing. I've found that most people err on the side of "the writer is fucking w/ us" simply because they're afraid of being made to look like fools. At the same time, there are those blind acolytes who will find meaning in anything, regardless of whether the author intended it, or whether other people find that meaning. Another possibility that isn't considered by many: maybe he's doing both. Maybe he's telling the closure-junkies raised on serial TV to go fuck themselves, and he's leaving those willing to look deeper with a unique ending that was as unpredictable as the show always was. As with David Lynch films and TV shows, the ambiguity reveals cultural differences, what we find acceptable in our art, or if we believe that TV is a place for art.

Speaking of Lynch, I kept thinking back to the most provocative conclusion of a story I'd ever seen, one that sparked my interest in the possibilities of TV, film, pop culture, and art: Twin Peaks. Its worth noting that David Chase claims to be a big fan of that series, and that Lynch catches plenty of shit for not concluding his stories in a classical, unambiguous manner. The Twin Peaks ending more obviously evoked feelings of dread, but the more I think about the conclusion of The Sopranos, the more I see parallels between the two endings. They're both deeply unsettling, partly because we're aware of some horrible thing that the characters are not aware of.

I think this will come out on subsequent viewings. There was so much build-up, so much general hype and momentum that it was hard, even for the distanced viewer, not to get caught up in expecting what they were about to see. As time passes, perhaps the feeling of being cheated will, too.

Footnote: I actually mis-remembered the last shot. I thought I saw Meadow coming through the door, when in fact I only saw Tony's reaction. There is not shot of Meadow entering. Such is the power of great editing. Also, Bill on Time magazine's article's comments caught a significant bit of editing I noticed but quickly forgot about: we see a shot of Tony glancing into the diner followed by an impossible POV shot of Tony sitting at a table. A witness to his own death?

Anti-Heroes and the Therapists who Love Them

After reading the analysis of last night's episode of The Sopranos on Slate, I buy what Jeff Goldberg said: that like Dr. Melfi, the viewers tricked themselves into believing that they were doing something good by analyzing this person that they knew was evil. But now, at the end, finally we wake up and realize that we need to stop, that if we’re going to be good, reasonable people, we can’t enable this person any longer.

There’s also something interesting going on in terms of the ambiguity of viewer identification with characters on The Sopranos. For me, Dr. Melfi has always been more sympathetic, if for no other reason than that she’s from a socio-economic class closer to my own than most of the other characters are. That’s probably true for a lot (but maybe not most) of the audience. We think of ourselves as superior to Tony, who isn’t terribly bright, but we think that he wants to be good. We feel his anger and his sorrow. We’re occasionally empathetic. But we also have known all along that he’s a murderer, that he’s a bad person.

In Scorsese on Scorsese, Marty talks about wanting to portray people normally thought of as bad or evil, particularly Jake Lamotta and Travis Bickle, as something more sympathetic, or perhaps more complex. This wouldn’t excuse their actions (or would it?), but would somehow be more realistic, and therefore preferable to the black-and-white unrealistic morality of traditional Hollywood. While describing the sympathy that viewers might feel for the main characters in Goodfellas, Scorsese talks about it in terms of growing up: “It raises a moral question, like a kid getting older and realizing what these people have done, but still having those first feelings for them as people.” At the conclusion of most of their narratives, Scorsese’s anti-heroes are either praised by a backwards society (Taxi Driver, King of Comedy), thus indicting society, or they’re leading undesirable, unglamorous lives (Goodfellas, Raging Bull), which, in a culture where glamour and fame are indistinguishable from respect, can only be considered a fate worse than death. None of the films really let the immoral protagonist (or the viewer who identifies with him) off the hook, but it doesn’t punish them the way the old Hays code would’ve demanded that they do. This moral gray area is defended on the grounds that it is more realistic than Hollywood’s depiction of evil.

Dr. Melfi hasn’t really played too prominently in the last few seasons of The Sopranos, so this second-to-last episode, in which Melfi recognizes that she’s been mollycoddling a murderer, seems like a bit of an unsatisfying cheat, an escape hatch for those of us who always felt uncomfortable with the prospect of a murderous protagonist. I’ve spent so much more time with Tony that I’m more inclined to identify with him, but when I take a step back, I clearly identify with Melfi more, feeling that, as Scorsese put it, its time to grow up and judge this person for his actions. What might’ve been praised by some as the realistic, gray-area depiction of evil is really just an attempt to excuse the voyeuristic pleasure of the therapist/viewer.

Because it has two points of viewer identification, the show can have it both ways. We can wash our hands of Tony and the show, giving up our vicarious addiction to the pleasures of acting selfishly, or we can believe, like Tony believes, that we're the last of a dying breed, and that there's a nobility in that.

Then there's the nascent terrorist AJ, but maybe it'll be better to write about that after the series concludes.

Is The Sopranos a Unified, Coherent Text?

As The Sopranos concludes next Sunday, I keep wondering whether it could be watched (or taught) in the same way that an epic novel could be read. The amount of time one would need to watch it roughly corresponds to the time it would take to read an epic novel - about a semesters' worth of watching, at a leisurely pace of 6 hours per week.

The most obvious thing working against any TV show aspiring to be be great, lasting art is the fact that they are written as they go along. Everyone loves to point out that Dickens wrote classics in serial format, and that some great works of literature and film were parts of a serial that was written as they went along, but generally, the most read, most cited, most resonant works tend to be conceived of at once, with an overarching plot, OR they have such a structure imposed on them afterwards.

Even if David Chase was more secure than most show runners, virtually guaranteed the right to end the show on his terms, there's still the issue of multiple writers and directors with separate visions. Naturally, these visions must pass muster with the show runner, but still there are more likely to be tangents that don't tie into the whole arc of the story. Of course, these tangents may develop the characters, or be thematically resonant with the rest of the show, but there seems to be the expectation on the part of critics and viewers that each episode and season provide a certain amount of plot points related to a story that carries through from the start of the show to the end.

The critical discourse on Slate often describes ways in which themes and actions that occur in the final season tie into themes and actions that happened in earlier seasons. The mere fact that the show achieved some unity despite being on television (which is assumed to work against authors' efforts to created a unified text) is worthy of praise; so much the better if those themes resonate with the culture and all cultures in general.

But is this kind of unity unlike what Terry Winter laments about network TV: "where everything is wrapped up in neat little bows"? On one end of the spectrum, we have "reality," where there are no conclusions until each of our consciousnesses are snuffed out, where there are infinite vantage points instead of the lone POV of the narration. On the other end, we have the half-hour sitcom, where no actions have lasting consequences, and we're offered a single point of view and many "neat and tidy" conclusions. Somewhere in the middle are the great works of narrative art. But I think that their inner unity or cohesion isn't praiseworthy because its more realistic than sitcoms and such (though that may be true), but more because of a long standing rule of aesthetic judgment: unity = quality.

The last episode didn't quite cohere with the rest of the show to the degree that other episodes in the final season did. It featured a lot of Tony "checking in" with various characters (e.g. Uncle Junior, Janice, Paulie) who were no longer causally connected with the major plotlines that were still in play - will Tony be indicted or murdered by Phil, etc. AJ's multiple reversals were consistent with his confused adolescent character, but still felt a little haphazard. The show did, however, maintain a thematic unity, commenting on American entertainment (particularly TV), depression, and corruption from the very beginning to the very end (though the observations about AJ's depression seemed to run out of steam in the last episode). As for the last scene, I think that it was more consistent with the rest of the show than many are likely to realize.

Of course, unity isn't everything. There are a million reasons why The Sopranos is a great show, or why any story that isn't particularly well unified can be just as affecting as any other.

Thanks a Lot

The first ep of Fox's new reality series On The Lot started off virtually indistinguishable from pilots of other competition reality shows - "confessional" interviews, meltdowns, triumphs, and tragedies. Things got a bit more interesting in the second episode. The format is true to the American/Pop Idol template, but its clear that there will be more controversial debates than the ones over song choice and pitchiness.

The first controversy: is this guy's film exploiting the mentally challenged? Hopefully the judges' comments (and the obvious discrepency between their perception and the will of the audience) will ignite the honest conversation we need to have about laughing at freaks (explored in depth in this earlier post). Its too simplistic to say that the Hollywood judges are too politically correct for the masses, but I can't help but wonder what the discrepancy between the judges' and the audience's opinions (not to mention that the judges harp on the fact that there aren't enough female directors in Hollywood, and the voting audience doesn't seem to care) says about who is really offended by anything on television.

Isn't there something vaguely paternalistic about the news media determining what is offensive and what isn't offensive? How many careers would've bit the dust over the past year if it had been put to a vote? The new visibility of the lives of the famous makes every little slip up a career-ender, but there are two things that might counter that: the ever-shrinking duration of the news cycle, and the democratizing effect on what is deemed offensive. There's an entire generation growing up thinking that they can get away with broadcasting racist rants online. We can keep them off TV, but when you can reach billions of people online, who needs TV? Is it any wonder that one of the most enduring TV comedies of the internet era is one of its most uniformly offensive? To quote Mr. Politically Correct himself (Kramer): "People, they want to watch freaks!"

Between the fact that the key demographic is an audience weened on YouTube video shorts that tend to be more sensational and offensive than anything on TV, and the fact that a vicious "vote for the worst" campaign could do serious damage in light of the low ratings, we might see films that give new meaning to the term "lowest common denominator." Would Spielberg have to give the Fred Durst of filmmaking a development deal at Dreamworks? Considering the fact that the real Fred Durst already has such a deal, it doesn't seem too far-fetched.

Somethings - television and music - seem ideally suited to the pseudo-democratic system that American Idol employs. Other endeavors - fashion and interior design - are not, and so we defer to a panel of experts. Where does film fit into this? On The Lot is taking place at a time where film, once a populist medium, is becoming a more and more elite medium, with internet taking the bottom rung on the ladder and TV moving up a notch. Filmmakers, like fashion designers, are the tastemakers. Its an expensive, top-down medium.

Speaking of beloved mentally challenged characters, this guy always seemed a little slow to me. And he's a professor!