“Bernie” and the Narrative Structure

Last night, I watched a very curious film called Bernie. It tells the story of Bernie Tiede, a charming mortician in Texas who befriends a controlling and manipulative shrew of a rich widow, subsequently killing her and using her money to improve the lives of everyone in the town.

The story itself is rather enthralling for sure. It is a very distinctive and “too-weird-to-be-made-up” tale of the morality and justifications of murder (of course, murder is wrong, but, if you watch the film, you will understand what I mean).

However, what is more intriguing to me is how the story is told—in other words, the narrative structure of the film.

If you have not yet seen the movie, then you should; if for no other reason than to just observe this unique narrative structure and how it develops characters and situations without using very much direct contact with the characters themselves.

The story is based on actual events that happened in the mid-1990s, thus, many of the individuals involved in the story are still alive today. This is used by the director and writer to tell the story in an unusual blend of fictional representation and actual testimony by those involved.

On the one hand, it uses the fictional representation of the major characters involved, portrayed by several A-list actors like Jack Black and Matthew McConaughey. This part seems very “Hollywood.”

Then, it uses cross-cuts and “talking heads” of real citizens of the town where the murder took place, giving their perspective on certain stages of the story. This part seems very “Michael Moore.”

This combination of Black Comedy film and historical documentary creates a genre in itself.

This unique way of portraying this story got me thinking about the nature of narrative structure and how it is represented in the literature that we ingest. Generally speaking, the narrative structure of any piece of literature is presented via the three pillars of storytelling—plot, character, setting (or, as I like to call it, “concept”).

However, Bernie introduces a new way to portray these three pillars via the documentary style. Much of the characterization of Bernie and Marjorie (the deceased). We of course see scenes of Bernie and Marjorie, both together and by themselves; but the bulk of the characterization, we get directly from the mouths of people that knew the characters.

Now, I don’t want to ruin the story for anyone wanting to watch the film, but essentially, through these talking heads, we learn that Marjorie was an absolutely terrible person. Her own sister is recorded as calling her “The Devil on Earth.” This is done in a way that would have taken the actress hours of screen time to fully demonstrate. We get direct reviews on the woman’s character, making her more and more disagreeable as more people give testimony. This characterizes her within just a few moments—before the actress says a word.

Though we see through the actor portrayal of her that she is very unpleasant, but much of the characterization of how terrible she is comes from those talking heads., making her progression of characterization very uniquely complimented by the documentary style and the actress portrayal in conjunction.

The reason I go into such great detail about this narrative structure and alternative characterization strategies is because I am coming to realize that the boundaries of how a narrative must be told are ever expanding. The director and writer could have elected to fictionalize the entire story of Bernie and Marjorie into a purely cinematic vessel. Alternatively, they could have gone the other way and portrayed the stories in a purely factual vessel—a “real” documentary. But, they instead chose somewhere right in the middle—a new way of telling a story using both fact and actor representation; a sort of “Fic-Fac” (a term I just coined).  

Of course, this isn’t necessarily “new.” We’ve seen the Ken Burns documentaries where reenactments are performed by actors to give the audience a better idea of how the situation played out. But, Bernie is a new representation of that style breaking forth to become a vessel through which a story may be told. While these Ken Burns-esque stories were told in documentary style with some actor portrays, it still leaned heavily on the fact-oriented structure. Bernie went the other way, leaning more on the actor representations than a facts-based structure.

Narrative structure is become more and more subjective. Not only can you lump genres together to make weird and amazing mash-ups (Like Joss Whedon’s magnum opus, Firefly); now, you can combine narrative forms of portraying stories and information to make something absolutely and irrevocably distinctive. 

A narrative structure is the way in which a story is told. Bernie makes it clear that the only stipulation to this is that those stories are portrayed. How this is done is subjective to what the situation calls for. In the case of Bernie, the story was best told in a film-documentary hybrid of Fic-Fac. But, it is also made clear that no story has a single formula in which it has to be told. I am not necessarily an advocate for experimental fiction, but I do find that it has its merits, particularly in spear-heading ways to tell stories. It just comes down to how the story should be told. Again, this is subjective, but it is an important question for any writer to ask about a new work.

So, how should your story be told?

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By the way, the “too-weird-to-be-made-up” story that I mentioned is (you guessed it) a trope. If you didn't catch my last post about tropes, I highly recommend it... because I wrote it... so, of course I recommend it... what are you, new? 

Cheers

Propp, Tropes, and the Brainstorming Process

The Russian storyteller, Vladamir Propp had a thesis that all stories were just a variation of 31 different functions and 7 character archetypes. These functions and characters could be pieced together like variables of an equation to factor out to a story. Of course, Propp was a folklorist who’s work was primarily centered around the study and construction of stories in a “fairytale” structure; but I think that Propp’s contention is the component base to the idea that there are no “new” stories, just new ways of telling old stories.

Propp’s methodology for boiling down a story into component parts was relatively straightforward. You take several key character archetypes, sprinkle them into one of the 31 functions, apply chronology and theme, and you would churn out a story that would, for all intents and purposes, provide some measure of literary significance.

Though, Propp’s belief was somewhat reductionist in terms of providing an entirely comprehensive view of the narrative structure, it allows us to look at fiction in a far more clinical fashion than we ever had before.

I was recently watching the television show About a Boy, a new sitcom that tells the story about a rich, bachelor man-child as he is forced to evolve when an endearing young boy and his single mother move in next door. The show features some charming elements and engaging characters, but as I was watching through the episodes, I noticed that, essentially, the entire show boils down to a mathematical equation of tropes.

For those of you who might not watch Community or spend a lot of time researching literary devices, a “trope” is a storytelling method that is intended to personify a metaphor, cliché, motif, or image. Fundamentally speaking, a “trope” is a spiritual successor to Propp’s functions in that, it represents a regularly recurring phenomenon within a body of literature.

As I have mentioned before (and will likely mention again), “literature” is not necessarily regulated to literary fiction written by the greats (Hemmingway, Joyce, Salinger). Literature can be embodied much more effectively as “any story told through a grand medium.” For this purpose, television, film, webcomics, and serialized novellas can all be classified in the same category as a standard novel—as long as it contains a modicum of literary elements.

That being said, in watching a sitcom like About a Boy, or any other popularized work of “literature,” we can see Propp’s ideas personified in a more complex, but essentially the same, manner.

Take a trope like the “Man who never grew up” trope, add in the “overly mature child” trope combined with the “socially awkward outcast” trope, and you have your characters.

Then, put those characters in a classical situation, such as the “Man has to be in two places at once” trope (first popularized by the Flintstones in the 1960s), and you have yourself a story told in a very “A+B=C” fashion.

The concept of tropes—and ultimately, the dogma preached by Propp—has been further popularized by meta-shows like Community, and in Wiki-style websites like TVTropes.org. In places like these, tropes can be developed, contemplated, illuminated, and indexed for use by future storytellers.

There may be some negative stigma to taking “stock elements” from indexes like this to purposefully apply them to stories. However, I have found that the study of Propp’s functions and characters as well as contemporary indexing of tropes can be very useful in the brainstorming process. Having problems with a character? Peruse some character tropes. Combine two or three (or seventeen) of them to create a unique character with complex dimensions. One doesn’t have to use stock elements as they appear on the shelf. However, they can use them as component parts in the creation of a much more complicated recipe. This is what Propp had hoped with the definition of his functions and characters; that they may be used to apply greater complexity to an archetypical story through elucidation on these elements.

Kind of like the scientific elements. Carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen on their own are individual pieces. But, put them together (in certain increments), and you get sugar.

This is how great literature is formed; by studying elements from the past and putting them to use in your own work, with a little customization work.

"Lucy" and the Grassroots of Quality Fiction

My wife and I went to see the movie “Lucy” recently, and it made me realize something that I think carries overarching value in the world of fiction;

Film makers no longer know how to tell a good story.

When I look at many of the box-office successes in the past few years, the ones that carry the most weight are often those that are based off a book or story of some kind.

“Lucy” was an original screenplay that took the concept of “what if we could use more than 10% of our brains,” and turned it into a film based on that concept alone.

The chief problem here is that a concept alone cannot perpetuate a good story. It might sound awesome and thought-provoking, but it can’t last in the eyes of viewers if there is no greater value than a decent concept.

I get a vision of some film executives sitting in a boardroom bouncing ideas off each other. One of them says, “What about a movie where a girl is able to use more than 10% of her brain?”

Another responds, “Perfect. We start shooting on Monday.”

“But, shouldn’t we write a story for it?” One argues.

“Nah, we’ll totally figure one out., says the first.

So, we are left with, what? A film that feels like it was just thrown together because no one actually sat down and tried to develop characters, foster adequate plot progression, or create any likable story elements at all. Just some cool effects, a half-baked concept, and a couple big names—throw it on the grill and serve it up at $22 a plate.

From what I understand, the movie has done alright in the box office, but in terms of longevity, it will be forgotten, even by those who go to see it. Why? Because the story isn’t appropriately incubated or developed.

With the creation of independent publishing platforms like Kindle and Nook, many critics are saying that it is the end of quality fiction, since any old Joe can publish a book now. I disagree. I think that it is the beginning of the end—not for quality fiction, but for tiers of the industry.

Rather than established executives deciding what might be a good story to put on the big screen, it will revert to grassroots-driven trial-by-fire for authors. If a story is well received by a large audience, filmmakers can deduce that it will be well received by moviegoers as well.

There are some major drawbacks to self-publishing platforms, but the benefits, in my opinion, are far greater. If a book is quality (and well marketed, of course), it will succeed. If it is not, it will fail.

Agents, publishers, executives—these gatekeepers will no longer decide what succeeds. Or, at the very least, their role will continue to diminish from its once god-like status. Authors will succeed on their own merits and efforts, not on the backs of bloated publishers.

Movies like “Lucy” will become less common as good stories are more readily available.

Of course, this is just my prediction. I would like to think that, based on the direction of the publishing industry, it is not far off.

Time will tell.