A Pride of Brothers

This week we have a guest post from Peggy Jaeger, a fellow author at the Wild Rose Press.  She’s got a new romance series going, “A Pride of Brothers.”  Since the name of the first book’s hero is Rick, she’s obviously setting off on the right foot.

In today’s post, she talks about moving into writing for a new subgenre.  Over to you, Peggy!

A Pride of Brothers:  Rick

For most of my fiction writing career (all 5 years if it!) I’ve written contemporary romance novels and RomComs, or romantic comedies.  Since these are my favorite romance books to read, it stands to reason they’d be my favorite to write.

A Pride of Brothers: Rick, coverThe publication of my newest book, though, A Pride of Brothers:  Rick, is a bit of a departure for me, writing-structure-wise.  With this book and the two others planned for the series, I’m delving into the romantic suspense lite genre. I’ll explain the “lite” portion in a bit, but first . . .

Writing romance isn’t easy, but there are some tried and true rules you must follow to have a book classified as a romance in any of the subgenres.

  1. You must have a central love interest in the story. It can be between a man and a woman, two men, a woman and a shape-shifting dragon . . . you get the idea.  As long as there is a central love story within the book, you have a qualified romance.
  2. You must have a happily ever after (HEA) ending, or at least a final happy for now (HFN) one. The obvious definition of the first is the classic, And they lived happily ever after, where a marriage and an emotional commitment is solidified at the end of the book.  This used to mean marriage and only marriage.  Nowadays, a romance can have a happy for now ending and still be qualified as a romantic read as long as the people involved in the central love story are committed to one another.  The hope of a lifetime commitment is there, written as a promise, but not explicitly divulged on the page.  Get the difference?
  3. Taboo subjects you must never include as the central theme in a romance are rape, incest, child abuse, sexual abuse—really, abuse of any kind—cruelty, and bestiality.

If you follow these rules you can write a romance.

Pride of Brothers, graphic with quote

The structure of writing a romantic suspense is a bit different.

Yes, you must still have a love interest within the plot, and yes, it still needs to have an HEA or a HFN ending.  Rule number 3 applies to every book, so I don’t need to reiterate it here.

The difference in this subgenre that is apparent, though, is in the name: romantic suspense.

The definition of this subgenre varies a bit, but basically it is any romance novel in which suspense, mystery or thriller elements constitute an integral part of the plot, or one that features a prominent mystery, suspense or thriller story line.

When I was a teenager in the ‘80s this type of book was called a WOMAN IN JEOPARDY story because the plot centered around a woman who had some kind of danger in her life like an abusive ex-beau, or a stalker.  The implication of the tag line was that a woman needed a man to help her out of the bad situation (the “jeopardy”), and in so doing, they’d fall in love.

Nowadays, that sexist and archaic description is gone, replaced with “Romantic Suspense,” and it’s not only the gals who need help with a problem any longer.  There are plenty of bad-ass female bounty hunters, cops, etc., out there who help the hero with an issue.

Welcome to the 21st century, folks.

So, I promised an explanation of the term romantic suspense lite with regards to my writing.

I didn’t set out to write a romantic suspense when I came up with the story line for the first Pride of Brothers book.  I wanted to tell a frenemies-to-lovers story about two strong and opposite personalities who wound up falling in love.  That’s the romance aspect of the tale.  I had to make them foils, and the plot needed to revolve around something where one of them would need to help the other out of a situation.

What I came up with was a story about a lawyer who fights for disenfranchised women and their children, and a man who was the definition of disenfranchised as a child.  When the husband of a client threatens the lawyer and then subsequently tries to murder his wife and kidnap his son, the hero vows to protect the heroine from danger.  She isn’t convinced she is in danger, but a series of events unfolds that proves she is.  That’s the suspense part.  It’s the hero’s job to keep her safe, even though she can do that on her own.

The reason I dub it a lite romantic suspense is that more than 60% of the tale is the evolving romance between the two protagonists, with about 40% steeped in the actual thriller/suspense part of it.  There is a forced proximity aspect to the storyline, which is a classic romsusp factor, along with knife fights, guns, and kidnapping—all elements you don’t find in your everyday regular small town romance novel.

I am hopeful I’ve done the subgenre proud with the release of this book. It was an absolute blast to write and I can only hope it is enjoyable to readers as well.

Look for book two, A PRIDE OF BROTHERS: DYLAN early in 2021.

Until next time ~ Peg

A Pride of Brothers:  Rick at
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Hallmark and the Small Business

Running a bit behind here.  It’s been a busy couple of weeks.  But at least I’m getting this out in time for Christmas . . .

Countless Christmases

Countdown to Christmas logoI believe this is my fourth year of following the Hallmark channels’ gallery of Christmas romance movies (“Countdown to Christmas”).  Not that it’s humanly possible to see them all.  I believe Hallmark is introducing twenty-three new films this year; and that doesn’t take into account the similar plenitude of programs from the nine previous years of “Countdown.”  In this torrent of trysts, it would be easy for the more traditional fare to get lost entirely, from White Christmas to Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol (the truly canonical video version of that story, I’m convinced).

And Hallmark is only the bellwether of an entire subgenre.  Netflix has its own array of seasonal video, so similar to the Hallmarks that you’d mistake one for the other if the branding were absent.  Subscribe to Amazon Prime instead of Netflix?  You can still find plenty of holiday fare, whether traditional flicks or newer Amazon productions.

The trend may be reaching some kind of limit.  The plots are starting to recur faster and faster.  Of course, that repetition makes these movies ripe for satire.  My children pointed me to a Christmas movie script allegedly written by a computer (“Someone Made a Bot Watch 1,000 Hours of Hallmark Christmas Movies and Write a Script”; here’s the original tweet from Keaton Patti).  I doubt this was really a bot at work; it’s too funny.

In any case, it turns out these plot generators are spawning as fast as the movies themselves.  For example, just at the top of my search results I found samples from WrongHands, E! Online, and The Odyssey Online.  Lots of articles remark on the phenomenon.  For example, here’s NPR’s snark-fest on the 2019 Christmas romance crop, Hallmark and otherwise.

Among other things, this mass of Christmas cheer does make the field a useful laboratory for looking at some tropes and storytelling points.  One could probably do a statistically valid survey with this large a universe of data.  Here, I’m just going to focus on one favorite trope:  the small business (or, as NPR labels it, the “adorable small business”).

Small Businesses Are Adorable

The Christmas Ornament coverSmall businesses, especially family businesses, frequently play a role in genre romance movies.  For example, in A Christmas Melody (2015), the heroine has just lost her clothing boutique and spends time in a cozy local coffee shop.  We also go from one small business to another in The Christmas Ornament (2013), where the heroine has been trying to keep her late husband’s bike shop open, but discovers her real passion is baking cookies (courtesy of a new romantic interest who has a Christmas tree shop).  The female lead in The Christmas Secret  (2014) has just been fired from her job, but gets a new one in a local bakery.  (There are a lot of bakers in these tales.  Christmas is cookie season.)

Sometimes the issue is the temptation to “sell out.”  For example, in Let It Snow (2013), the female lead is an executive assigned to overhaul a newly acquired family business, Snow Valley Lodge, into a modernized hipster paradise.  She sees the error of her ways, of course.

The trope isn’t confined to Christmas, or to Hallmark.  For instance, Coffee Shop (2014) gives us a shop that’s an important gathering place in the community, but financially troubled; her former boyfriend wants to bail her out by selling the property to a mall developer.

The sellout motif reaches a sort of reductio ad absurdum in this year’s Hallmark feature Merry and Bright.  Our heroine Cate is doing a good job of running her grandmother’s candy cane company, but candy canes aren’t as big a deal as they used to be.  The romantic interest, a “corporate recovery consultant,” proposes gaining a venture capitalist’s support by expanding the business into other Christmasy candy—chocolates and such.  That’s such a logical idea that it seemed this story would avoid the trope.  But no:  as she’s poised to sign the contract, Cate stops and declares that her grandmother founded a candy cane business, nothing else, and Cate’s determined to stick with it.

I sat there open-mouthed (since I had no chocolates to eat, alas) at the notion that manufacturing candy canes was virtuous, but expanding into chocolates was some kind of betrayal.  The resolution, in which Cate succeeds by interesting an investor in candy canes with new and innovative flavors, failed to convince me that her scruples made any kind of sense.

A Houston Press article from last year snarks up the trope:  “Oh, and every little book store or bakery or community theater can be turned into a resounding success with a little love.”

Variations

On the other hand, we do see some aversions of the trope.  A couple of examples from this year’s batch:

In Picture a Perfect Christmas, our heroine is a photographer who travels all around the world for her work.  She arrives in a small town for the holidays to look after her aging grandmother, and falls for a local guy.  But it’s kind of a relief to find that neither of them has to give up their careers, or found a small business.  It appears she can go right on globe-trotting and picture-taking; she’s just going to come home periodically to a new base of operations.  In fact, the guy and his semi-adopted nephew are going to join her on her next shoot, in Switzerland, a very sensible plan.  It’s kind of refreshing.

Tree bagging from Christmas Under the Stars

Christmas Under the Stars

The male main character in Christmas Under the Stars is fired abruptly (at Christmas!) from his soulless investment banking job, and ends up working in a little local Christmas tree lot that’s going to be razed for development.  He and the female main character save the lot from the bulldozer, as well as solving everyone’s other problems.  But the hero doesn’t become a career Christmas tree salesman; he goes back into finance—only this time it’s in a non-soulless company that specializes in ethical investing.  So an endearing and Christmasy local business is involved, but it isn’t the ultimate destination of either of the main characters.

The Purpose of a Business

What is it that these cute home-town businesses are supposed to have that makes them so adorable?

We have a widespread sense that a small operation is more likely to have integrity than a larger enterprise:  less likely to sell out, more dedicated to its original mission.  We tend to feel that a small business will have less discontinuity between its ostensible purposes—making coffee, selling books, offering Christmas trees—and the way it treats people in practice, along with the necessary purpose of making money.

The Incredibles (2004) shows a comically exaggerated version of this divide.  Bob Parr works for an insurance company, which is theoretically established to help its customers in times of difficulty.  Instead, the institution is so dedicated to denying customer claims that Bob practically has to use guerilla tactics to get a claim honored.  For someone with the heart of a superhero—a “helping profession” if there ever was one—this stultifying job is a pecular kind of hell.

To be sure, a business aims to make money, or it won’t last long.  But those who begin it, or join it, generally do so because they aspire to make an excellent product, or provide a useful service.  Not many lines of business are pure scams.  The trouble is that as the operation gets bigger and older, it seems often to develop a single-minded devotion to making more and more money, even at the expense of the excellence of the product or service.  A small enterprise, by contrast, where the owner may come into daily contact with the persons being served, is less likely to be seduced by that particular temptation.  It’s easier to keep focus on a product that pleases and benefits people—like cookies.

It's A Wonderful Life housewarming sceneAn older Christmas movie, It’s A Wonderful Life (1946), lives on that contrast.  The quirky and adorable Bailey Building and Loan helps people acquire their own homes, though it’s not as profitable as Mr. Potter’s cruel cost-cutting firm.

This idealization of small firms is easy for the cynic to sneer at.  Big business is the way of the world, sloppy sentiment aside.  But storytellers are tapping into a genuine issue here.

The Stumbling-Blocks of Largeness

We’re generally told that bigness allows for economies of scale that reduce prices and improve services.  To take an example at random, this article by Ken Doctor (12/6/19) states as obvious (even in a critique of mergers) that “McDonald’s can make burgers a lot more efficiently than mom-and-pop joints in every town can.”  But this truism needs closer examination.

First, not enough attention is paid to diseconomies of scale.  For example, mergers can result in ill-assorted pieces that don’t really work together, offsetting gains that might be achieved by volume discounts.  I’m acquainted with one large company, for example, that is still producing separate reports and maintaining separate books for a subsidiary it absorbed at least ten years ago.

A more direct issue with largeness is that as an organization grows, it seem to require more and more generalized policies and inflexible rules.  A firm of twenty-five people can make room for individualized exceptions; an organization of ten thousand, not so much.  The principle seems to hold true in any kind or organization, whether it’s a private business, a nonprofit, a government, or even a church.  Universal rules aren’t all bad; they can be a necessary bulwark against personal discrimination.  But as the system grows, we have more and more the sense of dealing with mindless machinery, rather than on a person-to-person basis.

Google Dragonfly graphicIt seems a company often starts with enthusiasm about a cool product; but as it grows, the bean-counters take over, and that original spark recedes in favor of merely finding ways to pump up the quarterly reports.  Google, for example, may (sadly) be in the process of making this transition.  The company started out with the innocent motto “Don’t be evil”; it’s now  in trouble for helping China with its totalitarian surveillance state via “Project Dragonfly” (though it seems to have backed away from that project as of July).  It may be significant that Google’s founders have just departed—perhaps signaling the end of that original enthusiasm for making things better.

Mergers and Their Discontents

In addition, as a business gets bigger, it tends to crowd out competitors; and an exclusive concentration on increased profits without a corresponding attention to fairness and decency gives rise to a deliberate drive for monopoly, or oligopoly (market power exercised by a few firms rather than only one).

As fewer and larger firms amass market power, the lack of competition results in higher prices, as well as worse customer service.  If the combination actually reduces costs, none of the benefits actually flow through to the customer.  In my field (telecommunications), I can think of no examples where a merger actually resulted in lower prices for consumers.  And it’s hard to think of any where customer service improved as a result; normally, customer service gets worse.  For an example from another field, the airlines, consider this aggrieved customer’s horror story.

A less obvious disadvantage is that mergers can result in a loss of institutional memory.  A merger frequently seeks to cut costs by dropping redundant staff.  Aside from the minor difficulty of people’s losing their jobs (which seems a common anxiety at Christmastime, right back to Scrooge’s threat to Cratchit about “losing your situation”), this means the people who knew the history may be gone.  More than once I’ve run into a company that can’t find records of what its own pre-merger components did in the past.

You might say that the legal version of the Hallmark preference for smallness is antitrust law, which is designed to keep large entities from abusing their market power in some of the ways mentioned above.  Some contemporary examples of how the antitrust laws are not currently being enforced can be found in a recent article (12/19/19) by Steven Pearlstein.

Bigness is not necessarily bad.  But problems such as these are the characteristic flaws of the large organization, against which one must constantly be on guard.  In the way that a particular profession may have its “occupational hazards”—say, the temptation of lawyers to fall into a barren legalism—an entity may, simply by its scale, be vulnerable to typical failure modes.  The sentimental attachment to small entities is not simply nostalgia; there’s something to it.

The Appeal of the Small Business

We know some of the disadvantages of the small business:  for instance, the local shops in the Hallmark romances are frequently on the verge of failing—reflecting, along with the narrative demand of drama, their more limited resources and hence vulnerability to problems, such as a business downturn.  But what are the advantages such stories play on?

The Christmas List posterFamiliarity.  The direct contact between businesspeople and customers allows for personal relationships.  We see it with George Bailey, making kind-hearted adjustments in payment schedules to help individual customers (a practice for which the hard-charging Potter rakes him over the coals).  An older Christmas romance, The Christmas List (1997), apparently not from Hallmark but fitting the mold, features a perfume saleswoman who know how to figure out the perfect scent for a customer—an unusual sort of personal connection, but a helpful one for the buyer.  If I recall correctly, the proprietor in Coffee Shop had a similar talent for determining the perfect drink for someone.  You can’t give that kind of personal attention when you’re a faceless cog in a call center working from a fixed script.

To be sure, it’s possible to have this sort of personal relationship in a large organization.  A number of the pharmacists at my local CVS, where I show up every couple of weeks for prescriptions, actually know my name.  But on the whole, the further away management is from the actual customers, the easier it is for them to regard customers solely in terms of ARPU—“average revenue per unit.”

Community.  Thus, there’s a certain warmth and welcome—classic Christmas themes—to the bar “where everybody knows your name.”  The local shop can actually engender a close-knit community (the current term seems to be “found family”) capable of mutual support and reassurance.  That was a theme in Coffee Shop; it was also at work in another recent non-Christmas romantic comedy, The Bookish Life of Nina Hill (Abbi Waxman, 2019).

Tales of the Long Bow coverConcreteness.  While the intellect has its joys, there’s a particular satisfaction in making something with our hands:  a tangible product whose excellence can seen and felt by anyone.  The types of small businesses featured in the Christmas romances—bakeries, bookshops, farms—do this a lot.  By contrast, a large business often seems to end up dealing in abstractions.  Chapter Five of G.K. Chesterton’s Tales of the Long Bow (1924) contrasts the small farmer who actually raises pigs with the wheeler-dealer who merely trades in them.  You can read the passage here, though you really need the whole book to fully appreciate the force of Chesterton’s point.

One of the key developments in Pretty Woman (1990) is Edward’s transformation from a soulless transactional businessman to someone who can put his assets and expertise behind what is, in effect, a family business.  Initially, his method is to swoop in, acquire a company, split it up and sell off the pieces at a profit—like a stolen car at a “chop shop,” as Vivian pungently observes (see under “Not So Different” at the TV Tropes entry).  But he gets to know the father-and-son owners of the current target and their pride in building ships for the Navy.  And as Vivian softens his heart, Edward changes his mind:  he’s going to support them in building ships for a good cause.  He’s going to make something, not just move money around.

Putting ourselves into our work.  Along with the pride in building something concrete goes the sense that we’re contributing to the good in the world.  The work both expresses oneself and leaves something tangible behind.  Small-town construction company owner Jamie Houghton, in Christmas List (Hallmark 2016, not to be confused with “The Christmas List” above), at 1:47, speaks of “…creating something that means something to you—leaving a bit of yourself in the world.”  The satisfaction of this kind of work is something the Hallmarks are trying to bring back to our attention.  You can put yourself into work for a large organization, too, if the organization allows that much individuality; but it’s harder, for the reasons noted above.

These virtues are so out of fashion that they have an antique feel to us today.  That in itself makes them especially useful for a Christmas story.  As Hallmark incessantly tells us, Christmas looks backward—to traditions, to memories, to childhood.  Ultimately, of course, it looks back two thousand years to the original Christmas.

Small Businesses Help the Plot Thicken

Because of the features we’ve discussed above, the heroine’s bakery or bookshop can serve as a linchpin for the plot.  A financial crisis or other threat to the business, or a decision about how what road it’ll take in the future, gives the characters something to be concerned about.  How each person responds shows their real character.  The heroine’s unsatisfactory current or ex-boyfriend, for example, shows his true colors by endorsing the sellout   He has completely failed to understand the heroine, and thus disqualified himself.  Or the true romantic interest may take off in a similar big-business direction, leading to tension or a temporary rupture between the main characters; but he can change his mind and thus prove he’s really on her wavelength after all.

You've Got Mail, bookshop scene

You’ve Got Mail

There’s an interesting semi-aversion (outside the Hallmark orbit) in You’ve Got Mail (1998).  It’s Tom Hanks’ large bookstore that threatens Meg Ryan’s lovable community bookshop, “The Shop Around the Corner.”  In the end she loses the bookshop; the economic forces at hand are too great.  But as she wanders through Hanks’ larger establishment, she seems to come to terms with it, in a way.  The big-box store can also be a place where children encounter beloved books and people can congregate.  Maybe if the story had taken place at Christmastime, the ending would have been different . . .

Smallness and Christmas

It’s not exactly a new departure, even in economic circles, to observe that “small is beautiful.”  And, as we’ve seen, there are some significant reasons to value smallness and be careful about unlimited growth, even in economic circles.  But it makes sense that this motif keeps turning up in stories that appeal to our homelier sentiments too.

It’s also fitting that the trope comes up so frequently in Christmas stories.  Christmas, in itself, represents the triumph of the small over the large.  One poor couple, without even a home or an inn to have their baby, are ranged against Herod and all his soldiers, and behind them, the Roman Empire.  Yet the child has outlasted them all.  In the Christmas story we see the divine and universal focused down to an intensely personal scene.  Every other small personal triumph can find a home there—even a romance.

At Christmastime, prizing the small may be a cliché – but it’s no accident.

Unevenly Matched

Unbalanced

We’ve looked at a couple of ways a romantic story can go wrong:  for example, an unsympathetic romantic interest, or too much deception.  Here’s another failure mode:  the two characters don’t seem to be evenly matched.  They’re not on the same level.  We may accept the romance, but we feel a little unsatisfied, because one of the lovers isn’t quite up to the other’s weight, so to speak.  We may feel the one doesn’t quite deserve the other; but it’s not so much a matter of goodness as of stature.

An Array of Mismatches

We can spot the kind of thing I’m thinking of in a wide variety of genres.

The Grand Sophy, coverOne of my favorite Georgette Heyer Regencies is The Grand Sophy (1950).  Our heroine, Sophia Stanton-Lacy, has grown up following her diplomat father around the world.  She’s tall, high-spirited, and outgoing; doesn’t worry about the conventions but is very elegant; always good-humored; and quite capable of taking over a household full of tangled relationships and straightening things out in her own inimitable way—a classic master contriver.  The title is an accurate description:  Sophy is a magnificent and delightful character.

Her cousin Charles Rivenhall, though a relatively young man, had to take charge of his hapless relatives and, as Wikipedia puts it, “has assumed since a young age the role of the adult in the household.”  As a result, he’s autocratic and rather harsh.  Having decided to settle down, Sophy sets her sights on him—and we kind of wonder why.  Charles is a dominant, if not domineering character, to be sure; he can literally stand up to Sophy, although she’s perpetually outmaneuvering him.  But he’s not nearly as engaging and interesting a character as she is.  The weakest part of the book, to my mind, is that Charles seems rather dull compared to the colorful, ebullient Sophy.

Dolly and Horace, from Hello Dolly!Sophy’s carefree campaign to corral Charles reminds me a bit of how Dolly Levi scoops up Horace Vandergelder in Hello, Dolly! (1964)—and there’s another example.  Dolly is also rather magnificent—charming and clever, if devious.  But what does she see in stuffy Horace?  He has his points, of course.  He’s not a bad guy, at heart.  But he seems rather too tame for Dolly—unless perhaps the point is that she needs a stabilizing force at this time of her life.

Wonder Woman and Steve TrevorThe “too tame” problem is a possibility whenever we get an especially strong-willed and noteworthy heroine.  (And it often seems to be the heroes that are an inadequate match for the heroines—perhaps because a match between an overpowering man and a weak woman would tend to collapse into a stereotype and forfeit our interest.)  Take Wonder Woman.  She’s a hard act to follow, and a hard match to make.  Her 2017 movie barely steers clear of the pitfall.  Romantic interest Steve Trevor isn’t her equal in terms of power, but he is a soldier; he has courage, initiative, and independence.  Still, he’s not really in her league, and while their brief love affair has an important softening and motivating role in the story, it’s almost a relief that he dies heroically, removing himself from contention.  I believe the comics sometimes pair Diana up with Superman, which seems almost too pat; we get a match not just of equally powerful persons, but of equally iconic figures.

At the opposite end from the comic books, we have the classics.  Some readers of Little Women, I believe, are disappointed when the lively Jo ends up with undistinguished middle-aged Professor Bhaer, particularly after having been teased with the more dashing Laurie throughout.  He’s a nice guy, and he makes an important difference in Jo’s career, but he’s not exactly a romantic hero—which is in some degree the whole point.  Or take The Merchant of Venice (ca. 1596-99).  Portia is a wonderful character, but by comparison, her husband Bassanio seems a bit ineffectual and drab.

Further Variations

Heyer actually makes the uneven match a plot element in her novel Bath Tangle (1955).  (Incidentally, the title refers to the town of Bath; a more literal reading would suggest a degree of raciness entirely foreign to Heyer.)  The willful and quick-tempered Serena Carlow (the incongruity of “Serena” with her personality is no doubt intentional) has recently jilted the rough and domineering Lord Ivo Rotherham, and instead become engaged to the more moderate and kindly Major Hector Kirkby.  But it becomes apparent that Serena is rather too much for Hector to handle.  He gradually falls for Serena’s younger and sweeter widowed stepmother Fanny, who reciprocates his sentiments but is aghast at the thought of betraying her dear Serena.  The story shows very effectively that the caustic Serena and Ivo are a proper fit for each other, tempestuous though their relationship may be; while the milder Hector and Fanny work much better as a couple.

The Snow Queen coverHave we been giving science fiction short shrift?  Consider Joan Vinge’s Hugo-winning novel The Snow Queen (1980).  In an adult SF version of the Hans Christian Andersen tale, Arienrhod, Queen of the planet Tiamat, has extended her life using local resources and offworld technology throughout the planet’s generations-long winter period; but as Tiamat moves toward high summer, the black hole gateway used for interstellar travel will be disrupted.  As a way of perpetuating her rule in some sense, Arienrhod clones herself, giving up young Moon to be raised among the Summer clans to become the Summer Queen.  Moon grows up kinder and gentler than her clone-mother.  But she is also determined and dedicated, as becomes evident when she is accidentally transported offworld, interrupting her childhood romance with the boy Sparks (they correspond to Gerda and Kay in the Andersen fairy tale).  In Moon’s absence, Sparks becomes Arienrhod’s hardened, debased enforcer “Starbuck.”  When they are reunited, Moon’s sheer goodness causes Sparks to return to his true self and renounce the Winter Queen.  It’s a great story—but Moon is so genuinely heroic and loving that Sparks, with his long, sordid fall into corruption, doesn’t seem to deserve her; his conversion is a little too convenient.

Little Dorrit, from book's frontispiece

Little Dorrit

This “deserving” issue comes up a lot with the more saintly heroines; for instance, in Dickens, who was fond of such characters.  Maybe it’s just that I’m hopelessly in love with the titular heroine of Little Dorrit (1857), but I don’t think her romantic interest Arthur Clennam is good enough for her; he’s a little too weak-willed and hapless.  Similiarly, the character we remember from A Tale of Two Cities (1859) is the lovely grief-stricken Lucie Manette, not the somewhat stiff Charles Darnay.  On the other hand, Dickens plays and then averts the uneven-match trope in David Copperfield (1850):  David’s first wife, the ethereal and rather air-headed Dora, dies tragically and is replaced by the much more steady and substantial Agnes, David’s childhood friend.

I recall hearing that the ending of The Hunger Games (2008-2010) was disappointing, but when I reached the conclusion, I thought it wasn’t actually so bad.  It developed that my informant was on “Team Gale,” favoring the more dashing of Katniss’s romantic interests, rather than “Team Peeta,” who were rooting for the more plodding and retiring guy who actually wins out in the end.  Personally, I was content to have Peeta succeed; but I can see why some readers might find him too dull for the formidable Katniss.

The Seasoning of Pepper

In this connection, it’s interesting to look at the evolution of Virginia “Pepper” Potts, Tony Stark’s perpetual romantic interest from Iron Man.  Originally Pepper was Tony’s secretary—one of a number of cases in 1960s Marvel comics, somewhat disturbing in retrospect, where superheroes had crushes on their employees (see Don Blake and Jane Foster, Matt Murdock and Karen Page).  As a redhead, Pepper was of course supposed to be fiery, but as a standard-issue would-be girlfriend, she was actually a bit bland.

Pepper Potts and Tony StarkIn the Iron Man movies, however, responding to the tastes of a different era, Pepper has a much larger role.  She replaces Tony as CEO of Stark Industries while the latter is gallivanting around the universe (and arguably does a better job at actually running the company).  In Iron Man 3 (2013), she temporarily wields a superpower herself; and in Avengers:  Endgame (2019), she fights in the final battle in a powered armor suit of her own.

As with a lot of the routine girlfriends of 1960s superheroes, Pepper might originally have been considered too minor a character to be on Iron Man’s level.  But her character has grown over the years—not so much in the sense of character development, as in being given larger and more significant roles by later writers—to a point where we’re quite willing to see them as equals in Endgame, where their marriage seems fully balanced.

The Well-Matched

In contrast to the unevenly matched couples noted above, a lot of classic romances show their main characters to be well-matched.  The ever-popular Pride and Prejudice (1813), for instance, is especially satisfying because we do feel that Elizabeth and Darcy are made for each other—if they can only be brought to realize it.  Their families differ in wealth and status, but the couple themselves seem to be on a par in terms of intelligence, determination, and decency, not to mention stiff-necked standoffishness.

Or take an example quite different in tone, Wuthering Heights (1847).  No matter how much we may dislike both characters (I certainly do), you can’t deny they’re well-suited:  one is mad and the other’s crazy.  Across the pond, Gone With the Wind (1936) suffers a similar problem with difficult main characters, but the romances work (even when they tragically fail):  everyone but Scarlett can see that she belongs with the roguish Rhett, not the mild-mannered Ashley, who is a much better fit with the angelic Melanie, who could have walked right out of Dickens.  Even in Anne of Green Gables, which is not exactly a classic romance, we do feel that mischievous but affectionate Gilbert Blythe can hold his ground, as a character, even by the side of the extravagantly lively Anne.

Miles and Ekaterin

I’m particularly fascinated by the way Lois McMaster Bujold handles her signature character, Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, and his eventual mate Ekaterin Vorsoisson.

You have to know Miles to appreciate why he’s such a difficult man to match.  He hails from an aristocratic family on the planet Barrayar, which has recently thrown off conquering invaders and is still organized along military lines.  Miles desperately wants to become a soldier, but he’s not physically fitted for the role, due to a bioweapon attack on his parents while he was in utero that left him undersized, with brittle bones that will break under any serious strain.

As a result, he has to use brains, not brawn.  And what a brain it is!  Miles has a positive genius for getting himself into completely untenable situations, and then having to frantically improvise his way out.  He always finds the unexpected third way out of a dilemma; at least one other SF character makes it a practice, in a tough spot, to ask herself “What would Miles Vorkosigan do?” He’s hyperactive, honorable, very persuasive, and devious.  In his first excursion he ends up leading a mercenary army, without ever quite intending to.  To call him a dominant personality would be a laughable understatement.

Miles in Love coverSo how do you find this extraordinary character a mate?  We might be inclined to develop an equally forceful and flamboyant female to equal him.  And Miles does, over the course of various stories in the series, carry on sincere if temporary affairs with several military officers (Brothers In Arms), warrior women (“Labyrinth”), and at least one brilliant scientist (Mirror Dance).  But none of these proves sufficient.  Miles is quite ready to settle down—if he can find a woman who’s prepared to take on his complex and Barrayaran heritage.

When he meets Ekaterin in the novel Komarr (1998), she’s struggling to make an unhappy marriage work and take care of her young son.  In personality, Ekaterin is practically Miles’ polar opposite:  she’s quiet and reserved, although she shows more brightness as they begin to interact.  She’s made a conventional Barrayaran marriage and is skittish about causing a disturbance.  Yet the action-adventure climax (which conveniently leaves her a widow) shows she can act decisively and even brilliantly, little as she may think of herself that way.  And, being a member of the same Vor class as Miles, she gets his sense of honor and responsibility.

But is she up to his weight?  Against all appearances, she is.  Her depth matches his “forward momentum.”  Her good sense and willingness to act beyond her comfort zone in a crisis is both a foil and a counterpart to Miles’ conventional loyalties and unconventional tactics (I don’t think he has a comfort zone).  Bujold manages to show us a woman whose strength shows in radically different ways, but whose well-concealed firmness of character puts her on Miles’ plane.  We can have the classic pairing of opposites, and still make them equal opposites.  The result is one of the best SF romances I’ve seen.

The example of Miles and Ekaterin points us to the question underlying the examples above:  In what way is it necessary for a couple to be well-matched, to prevent the pairing from seeming unbalanced to the reader?

An Internal Reason:  Force of Character

A Civil Campaign, coverIt’s clear the lovers can be unequal in many ways without generating the uneven-match problem—and that’s a good thing, since those differences are a primary source of dramatic tension and romantic interest.  (And humor, where the differences trigger comic incongruity; the sequel to Komarr, A Civil Campaign, which carries on Miles’ and Ekaterin’s courtship, is one of the great SF romantic comedies and an all-time favorite of mine.)

The pair can represent rags and riches, as in the traditional Cinderella story or Disney’s Aladdin; they don’t need to be matched in wealth.  Nor is it social status; on the contrary, differences in social status are frequently emphasized, as a proof of just how strong the characters’ love is.  See, for example, Titanic, or Han and Leia (“You think a princess and a guy like me . . . ?”).  Both Star Wars characters are sufficiently distinctive and forceful personalities that their social standing doesn’t matter.

Clearly, we’re not talking about equality in physical prowess.  That works (the Wonder Woman-Superman example above), but we’re equally content with a pairing of brains and brawn, or brawn and beauty, or the like.

Nor is it a matter (in fiction) of similar moral character.  The girl (or guy) in love with the bad boy (or girl) is a classic trope—often ending with the better character redeeming the worse.  To be sure, in the end the couple has to come out at least on the same moral plane of lasting devotion to each other.

But in terms of what we see as making a well-matched romance work internally, within the story, the key dimension seems to be mostly force of character.  The couple has to be able to stand up to one another; neither is entirely dominant.

Hence the obedient Cinderella is matched with a low-key (sometimes to the point of blandness) prince.  A highly assertive Serena or Scarlett O’Hara gets paired with an equally forceful male.  Ekaterin may be less visible than the flamboyant Miles, but she’s not dominated by him.

Phantom of the Opera, movie posterIt’s not simply a matter of equal aggressiveness:  the less assertive of the two may morally overawe the other, so to speak, as in the traditional archetype of the knight and the lady.  Undefeatable or angelic innocence can itself be a sort of power or force of character.  One thinks of Christine Daae in The Phantom of the Opera (at least in the operatic movie version, the one with which I’m familiar), a “hero of compassion,” willing to sacrifice herself and genuinely love the Phantom in order to save her true beloved.

An External Reason:  Distinctive Character

Force of character is an internal reason for considering a couple evenly matched:  a personality characteristic that would be visible to the people in the story themselves.  But I think there’s also an external reason—the author’s or reader’s reason.

What makes a pairing seem well-balanced from the outside is, I think, at least partly a matter of how distinctive the character is.  We’re dissatisfied when a fully developed, well-rounded character is matched up with a mere cardboard cutout or stereotype.  Steve Trevor, or Professor Bhaer, is not quite as fully realized a character as Diana or Jo, whom we’ve seen grow up from childhood, knowing their thoughts and feelings.

This is a narrative reason, so to speak—what makes a good story, as distinct from what makes a good relationship.  And yet the two are closely linked.  I’m not sure you can make a good romantic story (in the sense of one where the romance satisfies us) out of a bad romantic relationship; although one can always, through incompetent storytelling, make a bad story out of good relationship.  A really successful romantic story requires both.

A romance is essentially a meeting of equal-but-differents.  And if it isn’t, it isn’t a real romance.

That Thing You Do!

I recently acquired a new disc of the movie That Thing You Do! (1996), since my copy had gone missing.  The new copy turned out to include an extended edition, with considerable new material (148 minutes, vs. 108 for the theatrical version).  The new version lent additional interest to rewatching a favorite story.

Why It Works So Well

That Thing You Do posterI would say That Thing You Do! (“TTYD”) is an archetypal story about a band—it’s the title photo for the TV Tropes topic Music Stories—except it isn’t quite typical, which is one of the movie’s virtues.

TTYD is basically the story of a “one-hit wonder,” a band that has a single major success with a song but never scores again.  That theme is lampshaded by the fact that the band itself is (eventually) named the “Wonders.”  In the summer of 1964, a college-age rock-and-roll group recruits Guy Patterson to sit in on drums for a college talent show, since their original drummer has broken his arm.  The group briefly rehearses their song, an original by guitarist Jimmy Mattingly, the eponymous “That Thing You Do.”  When they perform the song at the talent show, the audience loves it.  The Wonders proceed to get better gigs; make a recording of the number, which begins to get radio airplay; and are noticed by a promoter, setting them on the road to short-lived stardom.

Part of the fun is simply to absorb the ‘60s music culture, which is lovingly re-created—not the high lives of major stars, but the everyday business of performing.  Tom Hanks, who eventually takes over as their manager, guides them through the nitty-gritty of publicity gimmicks (he hands Guy a pair of dark glasses to make him distinctive) tours, beach movies, screaming fans, and the like.  The amiable cynicism and pragmatism of Hanks’ character grounds the story and makes sure it never spins off into the kind of melodrama all too characteristic of the Music Stories genre.

The Wonders at Talent show performing That Thing You DoTo me, the most enjoyable part of the movie is where we see a song coming together—a moment I always find exciting.  At the talent show, Guy, who hasn’t played in public in a while, is nervous and starts the song faster than they’d played it at rehearsal.  Jimmy, miffed at having his creation tampered with, frantically tries to tell him to slow it down.  But the faster beat works:  kids in the audience start to dance, and the band itself realizes that the song is going over better than in Jimmy’s original mournful, draggy form.  While Jimmy is still fuming at the end—“It’s a ballad!”—they can’t deny the livelier version is a rousing success.

Music and Lyrics, Alex and Sophie with notebookI always love seeing something like this:  a musical piece when it finally gells, when the fusion of the musicians’ talents works to make the underlying soul of the song shine through.  Music and Lyrics (2007), for example, works the same kind of magic, though spread out over a longer period than a single performance.  It’s rare when we get a chance to see the creative process actually at work, right there in front of us.  It’s one thing to see the final end product performed, but to be in on the formation of what becomes a first-rate work is both inspiring and exciting—even when it’s half-accidental and serendipitous, as here; or maybe because that spark jumps forth unpredictably.

Faye and bassist dash into storeThis sense of creative vitality is reinforced by the general high spirits of the characters—that effervescent sense of something new and wonderful.  When their song first gets played on the local radio station, the band members and Faye, Jimmy’s girlfriend, go madly dashing around the town, alerting each other that they’re on the air, dancing around the appliance store where Guy works and turning up the radio full blast.  While the effervescence wanes over the course of the story as the business of music becomes more mundane, we never quite forget that boundless enthusiasm with which the group started out.

Not Your Average Music Story

The typical movie about a band or other performing group tends to follow the same pattern as a certain type of sports story.  (That is, for imaginary bands:  biopics about real groups don’t necessarily track that pattern, bring constrained by history.)  A group of young underdogs gets together, challenges the stuck-up ruling clique, engages in something like a “battle of the bands,” and emerges with a satisfying victory.

Bandslam posterDifferent shows may ring different changes on that model, but there tends to be some competitive moment that brings the story to a well-defined climax.  Take, for example, Pitch Perfect 1 and 2 (2012 and 2015—I haven’t seen the third installment), featuring a motley a cappella group.  School of Rock (2003), with Jack Black and a mob of precocious grade-schoolers, ends with a Battle of the Bands competition.  The obscure but surprisingly good Bandslam (2009) is named for a band competition the scrappy underdogs are determined to win.  (In that film we also get a sense of a song coming together for the first time, at about 1:10.)  If we move to dance rather than singing, there’s the competition at the end of Shall We Dance (2004).  A cheerleading competition caps off Bring It On (2000).  Et cetera . . .

But TTYD is not that kind of story.  The only real competition involved is the talent show at the very beginning.  Rather than moving to a victorious climax, TTYD traces the whole arc of a one-hit wonder band, from humble origins, to a degree of national celebrity, to disintegration under the pull of the band members’ conflicting interests.  At the end of TTYD, the Wonders actually break up, with one joining the military, another running off for a Vegas marriage, Jimmy quitting in a huff due to “creative differences,” and the band in breach of contract (though Tom Hanks’ character placidly informs Guy that “nobody’s going to jail”).  A band that ends in a breakup doesn’t exactly follow the trope.

Yet the story isn’t a downer either.  There are some strong secondary plotlines running through the movie.  One is Guy’s devotion to jazz music (an infallible sign of artistic integrity for a character in a film).  During the Wonders’ peak period of success, he gets a chance to meet, and then jam with, his idol, jazz pianist Del Paxton.  It’s clear that Guy, at least, is going to have the chance to pursue his dreams.  Indeed, the American Graffiti­-style epilogue tells us that each of the four original band members went on to a reasonably satisfactory career (though not necessarily in music).

Faye and Guy, from That Thing You DoMoreover, there’s a well-drawn romance that also runs throughout.  Faye is supposedly Jimmy’s girlfriend, but he’s too wrapped up in his musical ambitions to pay any real attention to her.  Meanwhile, Guy, whose former girl has dumped him for a handsome dentist, is the one who looks out for Faye, makes sure she’s included in the group’s travels, and takes care of her when she’s ill.  It’s positively endearing when they finally get together at the end—and the epilogue describes them as founding a music conservatory together.  The successful resolutions of these ancillary plots offsets the somewhat tragic arc of the main storyline and leaves us feeling good about the characters’ fates, despite the meteoric rise and fall of the group.

The Music

The songs we hear were written specifically for the movie—but you’d never know it.  The songwriters, who include Tom Hanks, Adam Schlesinger, Rick Elias, Scott Rogness, Mike Piccirillo, Gary Goetzman and Howard Shore, pull off an amazing simulation of early 1960 styles.  Even aside from the title piece, they give us dead-on compositions in the style of the Ray Conniff-type pop chorale (“Lovin’ You Lots and Lots”), the solo chanteuse (“My World is Over”), the girl group (“Hold My Hand, Hold My Heart”), the pseudo-Beatles crowd-pleaser (“Little Wild One”), and more.  To my mind, a successful imitation or pastiche of someone else’s style is a noteworthy artistic achievement; the music here lends an authentic-sounding ’60s air to the film.

The title song is an even more remarkable accomplishment.  In the first place, it sounds exactly right to have been a hit around 1964.  In the second place, it’s so good (IMHO) that it holds up even through the dozen or so times we necessarily hear it, in whole or in part, during the movie.  “That Thing You Do” is still on my playlists; it’s irresistibly catchy.

Chords for That Thing You Do (partial)How did Hanks and company pull that off?   For one thing, while the instrumentation and overall sound puts it squarely in the ’60s, the song is not the four-chord masterpiece one might expect.  The chord progressions are more sophisticated than those of the average rock-and-roll song of the period.  Even the brief instrumental introduction uses the chords I – IVm (E to A minor), which is hardly typical—at least if, like me, you have your roots firmly planted in the folk/rock tradition.  There’s more substance to the music than you’d think.

Then there’s the fact that the song never does tell us exactly what is “that thing you do”—what makes the girl so irresistible.  We know she does it, we know the singer can’t live without it, we know he can’t stand her doing it with “someone new”; but we don’t get anything specific.  It’s one of those fruitful ambiguities, where leaving something to the imagination is better than being too  definite.  The listener can picture their own charming trait or mannerism to fill in the gap.  The song keeps one guessing.

Finally, the curious contrast between the rather moody, discontented lyrics of a breakup song (“It’s a ballad!”) and the bright, up-tempo sound and dance beat creates another kind of tension that continues to make “That Thing You Do” more interesting than the unsophisticated setting would suggest.  That contrast, in a way, reflects the tone of the whole story.  There’s lots of enthusiasm, but it burns out; we do get a happy ending, but not the kind of easy victory as in the battle-of-the-bands stories.

Extended Cuts and Deleted Scenes

As the movie’s Wikipedia article indicates, the longer “extended” version fills out the story in several ways.  We get more of Guy’s backstory:  for instance, he’s old enough to have been in the Army, which may explain why he’s more mature than the other boys in the band.  We see more of his relationship with his original girlfriend Tina, and how that relationship unravels (freeing him to link up with Faye).  Other relationships are also followed up in more detail, as with the bass player and one of the girl-group “Chantrellines.”  At the end, it’s clear that Guy gets a new job as a radio DJ on the West Coast, which puts him in a better position (with a steady job) to marry Faye, and also puts him on track for a musical career.

The Wonders, Beatles-styleHowever, none of these elaborations of the basic storyline are really necessary.  The theatrical version of the movie does fine without them.  The extra time for these digressions does alter the pace of the story:  my impression on viewing the extended version was that the experience was slower and more leisurely than with the original, shorter version.  The shorter cut’s brisk pace seemed to better express the bewildering swiftness of the Wonders’ sudden success and equally sudden collapse.  In that respect, I’m inclined to think that in the future, I’ll stick to the original version.  Conciseness can be a virtue.

This parallels my usual reaction to the deleted scenes we often find in a DVD release.  When I go back and watch the deleted scenes, I can see what they add, and why the original plan for the story would have included them; yet in every case I can recall, I could also see the reason they were deleted—I agreed, in the end, that the extra scenes were better cut from the final product.

It may be that the theatrical version of a movie is generally preferable to the extended “director’s cut” (though I haven’t canvassed enough examples to draw that broad conclusion with any confidence).  The exception—naturally—is the extended editions of The Lord of the Rings movies, where the original source material is simply so huge that even three two-hour movies couldn’t do it justice.  I’ll always prefer to watch the longer version of LotR, and still lament that it’s too short.

But for TTYD, I’ll recommend the tighter theatrical version—not to mention the soundtrack album.

Tell Me What You’re Doing

Shakespearean Description

A few years ago my kids gave me a copy of The Jedi Doth Return—or, in full, William Shakespeare’s The Jedi Doth Return:  Star Wars Part the Sixth, by Ian Doescher (2014).  This little book is a retelling of the movie Return of the Jedi in the form of a Shakespeare play, with the entire text in iambic pentameter.

The Jedi Doth Return, cover

It’s great fun to see the swashbuckling space epic transformed into sixteenth-century poetry.  And the reading is surprisingly good as well, with some memorable phrases bringing out nuances not necessarily detectable in the movie; at least one passage was striking enough to make it onto my Quote of the Week page back in 2017.

But one thing in particular caught my attention, perhaps because of the contrast between SF subject matter and Shakespearean technique:  how frequently the characters describe in words what’s happening.  For example, in Act I, Scene 3 (p. 25), Leia sneaks into Jabba’s palace to rescue Han Solo:

In stealth I move throughout the palace dark,
That no one shall bear witness to my acts.
Now cross the court, with footsteps nimbly plac’d.
Ne’er did a matter of such weight depend
Upon a gentle footfall in the night.
Put out the light, and then relume his light—
Aye, now I spy my goal:  the frozen Han.
Thy work is finish’d, feet.  Now ’tis the hands
That shall a more profound task undertake.
Quick to the panel, press the needed code.
O swiftly fly, good hands, and free this man
From his most cold and undeservéd cell.
O true decryptionist, thy codes are quick!
The scheme hath work’d, the carbonite doth melt.

Han & Leia illustration from The Jedi Doth Return

She’s narrating what’s happening, in just the fashion of a true Shakespeare character (“What light through yonder window breaks?”).  Of course, if she were actually saying this aloud, she’d have roused the whole palace; but of course the Shakespearean convention of the inaudible (except to the audience) soliloquy is also in effect.

This self-description seems to be even more necessary in an action sequence.  When Luke peels off from Leia to pursue Imperial scouts in the landspeeder chase through the forest (Act III, Scene 1, p. 77), along with stage directions, we get a similar blow-by-blow account:

LEIA:  ‘Tis well. Be safe, and I shall see thee soon.
LUKE:  [aside]  O sister, all my thanks for tender words.

[Luke falls behind, alongside
Imperial Scouts 5 and 6.

Now shall this bike’s keen blaster find its mark!
I shoot, and one is dead; the other next.

[Luke shoots and kills Imperial Scout 6.

LEIA:  I shall fly high o’er this one’s bike, that he
May think that I have fled.  Then shall I from
Above make my attack.  Ha!  Now beside
His bike, surprise is my sure strategy.

[Imperial Scout 4 shoots at Leia.

Alas!  My bike is hit, and off I fall!

Reading this as a book, the narration helps me figure out what’s going on (and helps me visualize the appropriate scenes from the movie I know so well).  Of course, if I could see the play actually performed, some things would be clearer.  Still, a stage play can’t provide all the visual background we’d get in a movie.  I have no idea how they’d depict the land-speeder chase on stage—though I’d like to see them try!  Maybe it’s the shortage of visual imagery that requires the dialogue.

But it’s not quite that simple.

The Comic-Book Monologue

In an old-style comic book, we also see characters providing a lot of description.  The villain doesn’t just whip out his infernal device and fire it at the good guys; he’s also likely to announce something like, “Now, tremble before the power of my unstoppable Meson Beam, as it suppresses the strong nuclear force and disintegrates your very molecules!” Here’s an example from Fantastic Four #52, the first appearance of the Black Panther (1966):

3-panel action scene from Fantastic Four number 52

Sometimes a quantity of prose is expended on a mere landscape scene, as with this magnificent Kirbyesque high-tech jungle shot.

Fantastic Four enters Black Panther's high-tech jungle

Why all the verbiage?  The trouble is, the special effects alone doesn’t tell us much.  In primarily visual media, we don’t get internals or narrator comments.  A genius like Reed Richards may be able to figure out instantly what an exotic weapon is doing, but we poor readers can’t.  Even in a non-action scene, the implications of the Panther’s “jungle” might not be obvious without having someone to explain.

Of course, as the first panels above illustrate, wedging all this dialogue into an action sequence requires another convention, as arbitrary as the Shakespearean soliloquy:  “talking is a free action.”  We are simply to accept the notion that a character can deliver a lengthy speech while taking split-second actions.  The expository lecture is more plausible when cruising through a landscape, as in the second image.

Thor's instantaneous declaration, From Beyond This UniverseWhen my brother Matt and I were working on our great unfinished comic-book epic back in grade school, we faithfully replicated this convention, allowing a hero to get off an appropriately heroic declaration while a roof is falling on his head.  (Apologies for the black-and-white shot; I don’t have the full-color original ready to hand.)

 

Sailor Moon manga attack sceneNot all graphic novels use this convention.  It may not be as common in manga, for example, where there’s a lot more action without explanation—and where, as a consequence, I sometimes have trouble figuring out what’s going on.  This discrepancy may reflect a cultural difference; I didn’t grow up with Japanese comic culture and may be missing some clues.  Still, I think it’s harder to make out events  without the occasional verbal aside.  In the Sailor Moon manga and anime, for example, if there’s any dialogue at all that relates to a superpower, it’s likely to consist in calling out an attack name like “Moon Princess Halation,” which by itself communicates even less than “magnetic anti-polarity.”  I’ve encountered some similar problems reading contemporary American graphic novels like Monstress.

On-Screen Obscurity

Visual media have some advantages in being able to show directly what people are doing, depending on the medium.  However, the audience for a stage play is likely to be at some distance from the performers, which means that very small actions may be hard to make out.  If a character on stage is, say, picking a lock, there will probably have to be some setup to make clear what they’re going to do (especially if the locked door is invisible and not actually part of the stage set).  In a movie, on the other hand, the director is free to show the character crouching next to the door with her tools, then cut to a close-up shot of her hands working the tools in the lock, then back out to the door opening.  Comic books can do the same thing.

This assumes we already understand what picking a lock is.  The need for explanatory narration is accentuated in science fiction and fantasy stories, where the things that are happening may be extraordinary.  When the action is more mundane, we can get by with less explanation.  If the villain fires a pistol at the good guys, we don’t need to be told how a pistol works.  But if the action uses superhuman powers or advanced technology that we haven’t seen before, an explanation may still be necessary.

Consider Marvel Comics’ Scarlet Witch (Wanda Maximoff).  Her powers originally consisted rather vaguely in casting a “hex,” which caused things to go wrong (in unspecified ways) for the target of the hex.  Later retcons and expansions introduced a number of different power sets.  But in the Marvel Cineverse movie versions, her powers are hardly explained at all.  We may see her blasting Thanos, but we don’t actually understand (even in the lenient comic-book-movie sense of “understand”) what her powers are supposed to be.  For all practical purposes, she might as well be Sailor Moon.  (Now there’s an idea for a crossover . . .)

As always, there are good and bad ways to supply the necessary explanations.  As I’ve mentioned before, the original Star Wars is good at this:  Han can snap out the line “. . . while I make the calculations for the jump to lightspeed,” and that’s all we need to know.  On the other hand, there’s what Shamus Young describes as “Super Exposition” in a 7/6/17 blog post:  “The villains blabbed their plans for no reason. Heroes narrated their own actions to themselves, out loud, during a fight. Characters would stop and explain why something was good or bad right in the middle of it happening, because the writers didn’t set anything up ahead of time.”  Overdone, the practice falls into condescending overexplanation.

On the whole, the different media seem to require different types and levels of exposition.  In a purely verbal medium like a book, when we have only the words to work with, every action must be described.  On stage, at least some forms of presentation describe the action verbally as well.  And even in a movie, where we can see what’s happening in detail, we may still need to have the events analyzed.