The Wire (Episode 17, Season 2)

I reference the particular episode because it’s highly probable that I will discuss the “the greatest television series ever made” many more times.

The quotation above is important because The Wire is made for television, not for the screen. Therefore, considerations such as serialization, screen size and aspect ratio, and time, are effective constraints for the show’s “makers”—and there are many, as the show features several different directors, as well as guest writers like novelists Richard Price and Dennis Lehane. Further, The Wire doesn’t always work against the traditional constraints of television, but in fact, embraces some of them.

Being the amorous fan that I am, I’ve long wanted to write about The Wire and a particular formal structure I find in television sitcoms, but have not quite had the lexical inventiveness to do so. I find enabling language in (my professor) Marc Scroggin’s biographical study of Louis Zukofsky, who may be contrary to widely-held opinion “the last modernist” (The Poem of a Life: A Biography of Louis Zukofsky, 2007).

Scroggins examines the early sections of Zukofksky’s long poem “A”:

"In a musical fugue, a short melody, the subject or theme, is stated in a single instrument voice, then taken up or imitated by other voices, New motifs—countersubjects—may be introduced in counterpoints to the subject and reappear throughout the fugue much like the subject. Strictly speaking, the fugue is not a form but a formal principle, a method for generating music through the contrapuntal juxtaposition of melodic motifs. Instead of melodic motifs, Zukofsky counterpoints poetic “themes” or ideas."

So, what does this look like in The Wire? In Episode 17, we see several “contrapuntal juxtapositions.” For one, Keema, an officer recently recovered from a gunshot wound now working in the office (as her girlfriend desires) has the opportunity to get back on the beat as her former boss, Cedric Daniels, who also is in the office, and effectively out of line to rise through the ranks of the “brass,” consenting, like Keema, to the desires of his politically ambitious wife, will head a new detail. Both choose the streets against the wishes of their partners. The theme of choosing between career and home is repeated. Indeed, McNulty, arguably the show’s protagonist, is separated from his wife because of his megalomaniacal dedication to his job (Infamously, in Season 1, McNulty has his pre-adolescent sons follow a known drug dealer through the fish market). As the series progresses, Keema (in law school) and Daniels (with a law degree in hand) handle their situations differently, often commiserating on their predicaments.

Season 2, I tell JMill all the time, is a bit of an aberration in that it focuses on East Baltimore and “the docks,” that is the industry of the Port of Baltimore. Here we find a countersubject to the corner boys in the low and high rises of West Baltimore. Nico, the nephew of union leader Frank Sabotka, is frustrated by not getting enough work on the docks. His cousin, Zig, Sobatka’s son, suggests they sling blow, to which Nico retorts, “I ain’t slanging dope on the corner like some project nigga.” Eventually, Zig and Nico do turn to disseminating narcotics. We find two groups of people, those living in the projects in West Baltimore and those used to relying on the harbor in East Baltimore, who think (as do we, the viewers) they are extremely different from those on the other side of town, resorting to the same alternative. Thus, this strategy of “contrapuntal juxtaposition” sheds light on desperate and seemingly disparate situations. From Nico, desperation is dramatized in terms of a (more or less contemporary) traditional family unit (he needs money to get a place for his girlfriend and their daughter), and therefore avoids the assumption of ruthless criminality that often accompanies the inner-city drug trade. From the “Barksdale crew,” the narcotics conduit of West Baltimore, we learn the ingenuity necessary to successfully thwart Baltimore law enforcement. From both, we can easily identify systemic politics perpetuating poverty and violence.

Why am I so sure this technique is characteristic of television? Think about the Seinfeld episode where Jerry and George decide to both get married. Jerry never proposes, George does. The theme of engagement in dramatized in two different situations. Or, the recent South Park episode where everyone wants facebook friends—Stan is the exception, not wanting to “get sucked into facebook.” I think “time” is the culprit in the sitcom. In less than a half-hour, the episode must dramatize as many variations of the same predicament as possible. Notice, there is usually an opposition—George does, Jerry doesn’t; Stan doesn’t, others do.

Here, The Wire deviates from the sitcom. Recall that Keema and Daniels share the same predicament, as do Nico and the average corner boy, but both handle the situation similarly. Keema and Daniels are back on the beat. Nico, as most up and comers do, hits the street lured by the money. Quite simply, The Wire has more time to make a refined use of contrapuntal juxtapositions. There are differences between Keema (homosexual, unmarried, and caring for a child) and Daniels (heterosexual, married and childless). Sitcoms cover as much as possible in a short amount of time. The Wire carries its narrative across episodes and seasons (Keema and Daniels wrestle with their predicaments to different ends all the way to the series finale). This more refined and subtle handling is why The Wire is so admired.

So, what is the lineage of the fugal mode from modernist poetry to television sitcom? I have no idea, and I’m sure there is a book about it, and I’m sure that lineage includes novels and films somewhere in between. Also, what is the value of the fugal mode at this point, considering its old age, cooption by popular culture, and formulaic properties? My answer is that at this point contrapuntal juxtapositions are essentially “narrative grammar” (Roland Barthe’s term). And, it’s important to remember, its generative capability. Therefore, when the fiction is cornered, a contrapuntal juxtaposition may provide mobility and escape

Crazy Heart (2010)

…Okay, country music fans: here is the film that you haven’t heard about and the film that you hadn’t been dying for, but is certainly worth your nine bucks...but now you know that because you probably watched the Academy Awards.

…One issue that deserves attention is the “the happy ending.”

What qualifies this ending as “happy?” For one, sixteen months after declaring himself sober, Bad Blake, is still sober. What would disqualify this ending from being “happy?” From Bad’s point of view, “his girl” (meaning ex-girlfriend whom he still loves) wears an engagement ring that Bad didn’t give her. Additionally, for the second time in his life, he has lost a son—his exgirlfriend’s four year old son, Buddy. (This is a nice touch, pointed out to me by JMill, as the last time Bad saw his own son, he was also four. And, JMill continues, the movie doesn’t beat us over the head with this subtle bit of fictional “magic”; rather, we’re informed at one time the age of his girl’s son and at another that Bad hasn’t seen his own son in twenty-four years and at another that his son is now twenty-eight.) Back to the happy side, his relationship with Tony Sweet, Bad’s former protégé who “sold out,” seems repaired; and, his agent, who hassles Bad all movie long, is now satisfied as Bad agrees to open for Sweet (The bad / sweet opposition seems too strong, now that I think about it). But then again, his girl who is not his girl is happy with him, and he seems, however perfunctorily, happy for her (to me, this is the heart of the movie, as Blake is a performer and entertainer and in the final scene he has to give a performance, of sorts). The end then introduces a brief encore of pleasantly predictable conflict as his ex invites Bad to talk with her son, Buddy. He politely declines. The camera swiftly zooms out and the remaining figures shrink in the Arizona landscape. Somehow, “it feels all good.” But when I think of Bad’s perspective, it seems things aren’t all good. The resonating effect, then, is one where he makes decisions to make others happy, as I imagine is the essence of the life of a performing artist. Bad’s own desires shrink in the background.

...another something to think about, a pattern I notice in my tastes for stories, is that stories are often a process of creation.

Here, I'm not talking about the process of an artist creating the story. I'm talking about a story which is an adventure into creation. Perhaps you've read The Known World by Edward P. Jones. The novel is coyly presented as a mural--a collection of stories and illustrations that are not in chronological order. The novel ends with the image of a mural depicting all of the stories and illustrations we've read. I also read recently an experimental novel by Raymond Federman, Double or Nothing , which uses the writing of a book as its principle conceit (though I discourage this, as it's a tired conceit in 2010). In Crazy Heart, Bad struggles to write new songs and much of the film focuses on his process of songwriting. The value of writing a fiction that is an "adventure into creation" is twofold. For one, it's the story's propeller, which often comes in the form of a protagonist's desires. Secondly, a character with a creative process is expected to be quirky, irrational, and/or passionate--the characteristics that lead to unique and memorable characters.

Avatar (2009)

As I'd like to accurately think myself a critic, I'm attempting to reserve my judgements of the films I "review." Here, then, I offer a single critique, which fiction writers might make use of.

An achievement of this film's storytelling is the invasion of the humans just after Jake Sully and Neytiri make Omaticayan love. We find here a simple principle, which you can use in your fiction: once something good happens, have something bad happen.

Avatar employs this simple principle in a sophisticated way. For one, the scenes I mention answer two major dramatic questions in close succession. The two questions are: Will Sully and Neytiri become lovers? Will the humans attack the Omaticayans? The reader / viewer feels gratified that the major questions are answered. Additionally, the reader / viewer experiences opposite emotions as the mood of the juxtaposed scenes changes suddenly. Finally, this simple principle works on a conceptual level as well. The union of Sully and Neytiri is a joining of the humans and Omaticayans. The next scene, when the humans attack, is the opposite. The union accomplished by "making love" is destroyed by "making war."

Sleepless in Seattle (1993)

...caught the last five minutes of this today

...that's like a disclaimer

So…at the end of this film Meg Ryan is on a date with her fiancé and they see on the Empire State Building red lights forming a heart. The fiancé says, “It’s a sign.” She agrees and ditches him for Tom Hanks.

So…after all the hugging and kissing the film concludes with a computer-generated image of the NYC skyline, the Empire State Building and its red heart. In fiction, we might call this shift in “tone” problematic. For ninety minutes, the screen has had a “realistic” tone, and then we get a computer-generated tone. SS illustrates the jarring effect a tonal shift can have.

…However, I’m one who doesn’t necessarily consider “jarring” a pejorative critique.

…However, sometimes jarring works and sometimes jarring doesn’t. To measure its success, we might ask: Is the fiction conscious of the sudden shift in tone? And, what is the lasting effect? In SS, we can’t answer these questions, as this computer-generated image is our last until the credits roll. SS changes its visual tone more out of convenience (how else than a computer can we make the image of a heart on the Empire State Building?) than for artistic effect.

…To all of which, you might reply: “It’s just a movie, Scott.”

…Fair enough.

Revolutionary Road (2008)

Perhaps your fiction has stalled…perhaps you want your audience to see something your character cannot… perhaps you want to emphasize what your character cannot see without “telling”…perhaps you want a moment where your character metaphorically looks into the proverbial mirror but you don’t want to use a mirror because that would be too damn obvious…

RR is a tragedy very much in the vein of Shakespeare.

A common technique of Shakespeare, which RR borrows, is the fool. In Shakespeare, the fool is often a vessel of knowledge whose contents are disregarded simply because of his appearance. In RR, John Givings, a patient in a mental institution, plays the role of the fool. RR, however, doesn’t use the fool without its own invention.

Throughout King Lear, the fool brings advice to Lear, and Lear continually fails to see.

Fool: …The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear;
The one in motley here,
The other found out there.

Lear: Dost thou call me a fool, boy?

Fool: All the other titles thou hast given away.

In RR, John Givings expresses to Frank and April Wheeler many sentiments with which they agree and which we’ve previously heard them express. Rather than speaking in puns and double-entendres as a Shakespearean fool might, Givings speaks bluntly. Rather than speaking unheard as the Shakespearean fool might, the Wheeler’s openly agree. Although Givings doesn’t act the fool, the validity of his ideas appears compromised to both the Wheelers and the audience because of his “social status,” much like a Shakespearean fool.

Alterations to the appearance and manner of the fool as seen in RR are easily contrived (they function to disguise the trope of the fool); however, the force of the alterations stems mainly from Givings’s bluntly insulting disapproval of the Wheeler’s decision to remain in America and not to move to Paris, which leads to a fight, which leads to (insert spoiler here). The tragedy then is amplified: in contrast to Lear, who is simply blind to the truth due to old age, the young Wheelers choose to blindfold themselves, continuing to live under a banner of truth they know to be false.

Brothers (2009)

In Brothers, a lesser talked about film this holiday season, the fiction writer might pay attention to the parallel storylines which arise from a familiar film technique: montage. Montage works on film because humans have a propensity to not look away from frenetic images. Frenetic images in fiction (or whatever technique may come closest) are not often successful (or labeled experimental) because a piece will feel non-sequitur, unfocused, and/or haphazard.

Brothers is inventive because it uses montage and then slows the montage to parallel storylines. We move between small town USA and worn-torn Afghanistan at slower and slower rates. The scenes feel progressively drawn out. Initially, the montage pulls at our heartstrings, juxtaposing images of a soldier at war with images of his wife and kids at home. Then, the film raises the stakes by slowing down. I won’t spoil how it raises the stakes (because I want you to see it) but the important thing is that the storyline slows down.

Parallel storylines is a popular, if not overused, technique of fiction. An issue I have with the term is that often the storylines are not parallel but converging. We know the two lines will eventually come together. Brothers is inventive because it makes its converging storylines feel like diverging storylines.

As montage becomes parallel storylines, the fiction writer should note how much its success relies on opposition. Foremost, there is simply the contrast in atmosphere between the US and Afghanistan. A more pointed example, however, comes when Captain Cahill is captured. He instructs his fellow captive to forget everything he knows. He tells him he no longer has a family as Afghanis rummage through his belongings, which include pictures of his wife and son. Meanwhile, Cahill’s wife sits on her couch watching home videos. While the husband is forgetting, the wife is remembering.

I think the use of opposition coupled with the slower rate at which the story progresses works to heighten tension—in a novel with converging storylines, it’s easy to see how progressively longer chapters might achieve the same effect. While parallel storylines is certainly not inventive in fiction or film, what is inventive (and counterintuitive) in Brothers is that the parallel storylines seem to suggest that the family will not reunite, the storylines will never converge. When they do, we’re relieved; but, we’re also eager to see how the film will resolve conflicts developed through the parallel storylines.

Miller's Crossing (1990)

If there’s one thing my creative writing students have learned this semester, it is the need to begin a story in the middle of the action. They easily recognize (and call each other) when a fiction begins with too much exposition, or flat out begins in the wrong place.

Gran Torino begins with the death of Eastwood’s wife. As I watched the film, I thought: "how nice. We begin the story in a significant moment."

But, the death of Eastwood’s wife, unfortunately, turns out to be an insignificant moment. Pretty quickly, we realize that this man doesn’t act any differently now that his wife is gone. Secondly, we realize that the conflicts that later arise are in no way complicated by the fact that this man has lost his wife. My creative writing students recognize that this funeral may not be “dropping us into the action.”

Miller’s Crossing is a good example of a story dropping the reader / viewer into the action. It begins with an intense conversation between two rival crime bosses, while an adviser to one boss is in the room. Later in the movie, one boss encroaches the other’s territory.

The opening of Miller’s Crossing performs double duty. Not only does it focus our attention on the rival crime bosses, it also focuses our attention on a second major conflict: The adviser is sleeping with his bosses girl.

Often, writers confuse “dropping the reader into the action” with “begin with a scene of intensity” (a la Gran Torino). It is critical (and difficult), however, to place the reader / viewer in a moment of significance. The intense opening needs to speak to the larger action, the overall storyline. If we think about Gran Torino and where the opening directs our attention—the belly buttons, short skirts, gossip, and cell-phones—we see that this focus does not become the focus of the movie. (The focus of the movie is actually a Korean War Vet and his relationship with his immigrant neighbors.)

So, rather than intending to “drop the reader into the action,” focus the reader’s attention. While it helps to remind yourself that you control the camera’s gaze, it also helps to think of your opening as a stage. A stage has limits. Set the limits of your story in the opening. Say to your reader / viewer: “You think this is intense? Wait until you see what happens when we go sniffing around the stage.” Or, like Miller’s Crossing: “This stage ain’t big enough for the three of us. Someone’s got to go.”

Gran Torino (2008)

In the introduction to Hitchcock Truffaut, the French critic cites Hitchcock’s rule of counterpoint between dialogue and image. Truffaut writes, “If we observe any [dinner or cocktail party], it is clear that the words exchanged between the guests are superficial formalities and quite meaningless, whereas the essential is elsewhere…The rule of counterpoint between dialogue and image achieves a dramatic effect by purely visual means. Hitchcock is almost unique in being able to film directly, that is without resorting to explanatory dialogue, such intimate emotions.” (I’m puzzled by the phrase almost unique.)

We see this technique in Gran Torino at the very very very beginning. Clint Eastwood, scowling, stands alone next to his wife’s casket at the front of a Catholic church. A man approaches and expresses condolence. Eastwood says, “Thanks for coming, Al.”

Then, the movie falls apart. I groan when Eastwood growls at the idiocies of youth—belly buttons and cell phones at funerals—pointed out to me by the camera as it cuts to another rude person or son or granddaughter fidgeting in a pew, waiting for the funeral to end. As if Eastwood’s anger needs provocation.

My problem with the film concerns this kind of heavy handedness, something I discuss as "in your face directorial decisions" in Rachel Getting Married. The film cares more about racisms than racism. The drum roll every time Eastwood touches a firearm.

So, here’s a thesis against heavy handedness: if something is constantly in your face, eventually you’ll want to push it away. With the alternative, subtlety, you never feel irritated at what’s in your face, because it’s never in your face. One could argue, that you could be irritated by what’s not in your face. But if there are enough subtleties, you’ll find something. So, you can never have enough subtlety. Viewers and readers building connections keeps fictions from falling apart.

The Great Debaters (2007)

When I can accurately describe a movie as logical, illogical, predictable, unpredictable, serious, subtle, light-hearted, heart-warming, hysterical, sickening, heart-breaking, ugly, disgusting, and beautiful, I tend to like it.

The marketing / packaging of this movie led me to believe producers strapped it into a formulaic straightjacket, whereas vitality and versatility better dress The Great Debaters. I blame the title.

The careful sequencing of shots impresses. Each scene ends with an unexpected watcher, or an unexpected smile, just enough twist that makes every scene feel worthwhile. It’s an idea for us fiction writers to take note of it. Offering the reader a gift—a reward—in each scene keeps a reader hooked. It's like a cliffhanger, but more subtle and genuine.

The climactic example of this comes in the final debate scene, which is broadcast across the country. Mister Tolson, black-listed for his extreme politics (more on the politically incorrect English teacher later), is not in the sequence of shots that contain all the characters of the film either attending the debate or listening next to a radio. The debate begins, still more cuts, ups and downs, and finally a cut to a man in a dark suit and dark hat making his way to the auditorium. We knew he’d come eventually, though.

If someone had told me that Denzel plays an inspirational, politically incorrect, poetry quoting English teacher, I doubt I’d give this movie a chance. (No one did.) Mr. Tolson, however, is more of a hardass than a Romantic poet, more discipline than liberation. The writers dealt with the characterization of Mr. Tolson carefully, undoubtedly aware of the type character they needed to avoid to make theirs interesting. Mr. Tolson is introduced to us while dancing at a backwoods whiskey fest. In the next scene, he, in suit and tie, lectures to college students. He also leads a movement to unionize local sharecroppers .

The story ends weakly, unfortunately. It’s hard to believe a movie that references warrants and logical fallacies would fall into its own trap. Weasely wins the debate against Harvard when a Crimson debater declares, “Nothing that erodes the law can be moral.” But, this is far too easy. Who better knows laws can be absurdly and violently unjust than Southern African-Americans circa Jim Crow?

But I pardon the movie because it reinforces many ideals that I hold true: the power of language, racism is wrong, the need for unions, the power of education, David can slay Goliath. I accept the movie because I accept its stance.

What’s got me hung up is that put another way these ideals are also clichés: the pen is mightier than the sword, all people are equal, power to the people, reading is power, and Go underdog Go.

Here is my update to Defiance, which also reinforces ideals I take to be true: 1. Love your family 2. Holocaust was horrific. 3. Go underdog Go.

Defiance masks the clichés of plot and ideology in illusion. The Great Debaters hardly masks the predictability of its plot.

Watchmen (2009)

...I wish there were more films / literature as outraged with contemporary morality as Watchmen.

...At 2 hours, 40 minutes, I wish more films to be a lot shorter than Watchmen.

...I wish I had time to read the graphic novel. I'm an outcast in the English department because I haven't. And, it seems Watchmen fans and movie critics agree that "prior knowledge" enhances the experience of the film.