Journal: Strawmen

THE POINT OF A STRAWMAN

by

Paul Adams

            So, I’m sure you’re aware of the trope known as the Strawman, a flat two-dimensional character designed only to push or discredit a certain political viewpoint. Whether they be an arrogant money-grubbing billionaire to represent Conservatives or a wild and selfish teenager who cares only about themselves to represent Liberals, a womanizing, wife-beating pig to push Feminism or a shrill screaming harpy to discredit Feminism, a foolish Bible-thumping prude or a drunk faithless washout to push religious perspectives, the Strawman is probably one of the most aggravating tropes in fiction.

            However, on a recent viewing of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, I became interested in the character of Denethor, played by John Noble. Denethor in many ways is very much a Strawman, representing a ruler whose concern is centered entirely on himself and his throne while having little to no concern for his subjects. When Gandalf and Pippin arrive in his court, urging him to call for help against his enemies, he refuses simply on the grounds of keeping his throne. He sends his son Faramir and their entire army to their deaths, enjoying a personal feast as they do so. And when Faramir is brought back wounded, he goes out of his way to portray himself as a martyr, refusing treatment for his son, and attempting to have them both burned on a pyre.

            Through all of this, I noticed that Denethor, unlike many Strawman similar to him, never became egregious. You never felt like you were being bashed over the head with some director’s personal political agenda. I stopped to consider why that was, and in doing so, I asked myself what is a Strawman? My answer was that a Strawman represents the extreme of any political viewpoint, a representation of what happens when that political viewpoint is taken too far or set out of balance.

            So, where does this fit into the process of storytelling. Naturally, the Strawman is a trope that should be used to show the dangers of going too far with the particular viewpoint they represent. A Strawman works best when the focus is kept on that. Where a number of Strawmen fail, I’ve noticed, is when they are presented as the only example of that political viewpoint. In reality, yes, there are a number of individuals who fulfill the “Strawman” persona and feed the stereotype, but there are normally far more with a much more balanced version of that viewpoint or have some very solid human reasons for acting the way they do. When a work of fiction portrays a strawman as the only version of that viewpoint, that’s when it becomes egregious and aggravating. If a strawman is to function, they must be shown as a more-or-less special case instead of the norm.

            The second way in which a strawman fails is that the director fails to demonstrate to the audience why this way of thinking can be dangerous, and instead simply uses them as a personal punching bag. In Lord of the Rings, Denethor’s selfishness has a massive impact on the plot, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of soldiers, the emotional devastation of his son, and nearly the loss of his kingdom itself. When his karma eventually catches up to him, the audience feels as if he has earned every bit of it, and the results of such a selfish ruler are clear to the viewers.

            Far too often, we do not see the impact of these Strawmen. They simply walk into the plot, say and do the things connected to the extremes of the viewpoint represented, provide a nuisance every once in a while, and then get punished. It is very much the director or writers taking out their own political feelings against an opponent who can’t fight back.

            So, I guess that’s my conclusion. Where a Strawman fits into the world of fiction and storytelling is not as a representation of the whole or simply as a punching bag for the writer. That Strawman should stand as a special case, representing the worst of that particular leaning, and the results of their actions should be felt by the audience. In essence, a Strawman should be a teaching tool, a warning against going to political extremes. If used correctly, they can be a powerful tool in the hands of a skilled writer. If used poorly, well, the writer tends to make themselves look as foolish and closed-minded as the caricature they are trying to portray.

Thanks for reading. Comment below and follow me for more.

Journal: Franchise Building

Journal: Franchise Building

by Paul Adams

            So, here’s a thought I had on trying to start on franchises. I was recently watching a video on the recent video-game-based movie Warcraft, a film that was received with less-than-enthusiastic reception as a messy and confusing film, that was however beautiful and full of immense detail perfectly recreating the world of World of Warcraft. Several comments I read tried to defend the film, as a “worldbuilding film”: a movie that did the work of creating the world of the story so that other movies later down the road could then move in and tell an actually good story.

            As I pondered this, I considered several other works in the same vein that worked or didn’t work. The original Star Wars and Fellowship of the Ring are two of the most notable examples, films that set up a world, but still remained solid films that could be enjoyed alone. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone did the job as well, as a book, and for the most part, as a movie. Iron Man did this for the entire thirteen films and counting of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Films such as Dragonball Evolution, The Last Airbender, Eragon, and most recently, DC’s attempt to catch up to Marvel with Batman v. Superman, did not.

            The theory I formulated I will call the “Burger Theory.” Imagine you go to a Burger Joint and order a burger. When your food arrives, you are surprised to find only the bottom bun on your plate. You complain to your server, but he assures you that the bun is simply there to set up your burger and that if you wait two to three more years, you will get a patty. Two years after that, you’ll get your entire burger. They tell you that they hope you’ll be willing to wait that long, promising you that the burger you get in the end will be more than worth it.

            A few days later, you go to a different Burger Joint and ask for a burger. Soon enough, you are served an entire burger, and the server tells you that if you enjoyed the first, you are welcome to order a second. You eat, and it’s . . . good? Bad? Either way, you got a whole burger.

            The problem with the “It’s a worldbuilding film” defense, is that that shouldn’t be good enough. A viewer, reader, or otherwise should never be forced to settle for just a bun, hoping a great burger will come years down the road. If you did that in an actual Burger Joint, you’d never get a repeat customer. Why then, as a writer, creator, or artist, would you expect anyone to do any different when it comes to a work of fiction.

            The Marvel Cinematic Universe has grown from a simple standalone film about the origins of Iron Man to a massive interconnected universe featuring thirteen plus films, each raking in millions upon millions of dollars with every single entry, two television series, and three critically acclaimed Netflix series. Much of this wouldn’t even be possible without that first Iron Man film. One of the most important pieces to the success of Iron Man was that it remembered to tell its audience a good story. It had a charismatic and engaging lead, a clever script, and a level of depth that left the audience feeling more than satisfied. The only clue the audience had that it was supposed to lead into a wider universe didn’t even come until the now-famous postcredits scene, in which Samuel L. Jackson’s Nick Fury appears to Tony Stark to talk to him about the “Avenger Initiative.” In a figurative sense, the servers waited until the patrons had finished up their delicious burger before approaching and offering them a little bit more.

            On the other side of that coin was DC’s Batman v. Superman. The history of DC films is a rocky one. For many years, the only movies based on DC characters were Batman or Superman films, half of which were often poorly received. Their greatest claim to fame was Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy. Nearly any attempt they had made to branch out to other properties were often met with catastrophic failure, some few examples being Supergirl, Catwoman, and Green Lantern. During all of this, Marvel slowly built up their cinematic behemoth, dwarfing DC and leaving them far behind in the dust.

            Their latest Superman film Man of Steel was met with mixed reviews, but DC was done with being left behind by Marvel. In a risky and desperate move, they pumped millions of dollars into jumpstarting a combined universe off of Man of Steel’s groundwork, their first entry being what they thought would be a shoe-in with Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice. What we got instead was a tedious and messy movie, skipping several of the much needed steps Marvel had taken by building up their universe slowly over time, instead opting to throw as much at the screen as they could, shouting to the audience, “Hey, look, it’s Wonder Woman! Hey, look, we’ve got the Flash! Aquaman! Let’s throw in Doomsday and kill off Superman in the second outing, instead of way down the line as it should be! That’ll get us back up to Marvel’s level.”

            In a sense, DC gave us a plate chock-full of fries and chocolate sundaes and sodas and salads around a single bun, when all we’d wanted was a simple burger.

            In the end, works like Iron Man, Star Wars, Fellowship, and Harry Potter did not try to force their great expanded universes on anyone. They told an interesting story and left their audiences feeling satisfied and excited. They got their sequels because the viewers wanted more. They delivered their promised burger, and the audience came back for seconds. Movies like Batman v. Superman and Warcraft tried to feed their viewers a piece of a story, making grand shows about having much more to come without actually delivering in the first outing. When this comes to my writing, it reflects how I used to go about writing the story versus what I’m trying to do now. Originally, my first book was full of stuff that led into later books without necessarily going anywhere and getting the audience lost and confused. In my newest attempt, I am trying to focus on writing the first book and let it stand on its own, while having a plan for later books that all could work together as a whole once finished. It’s a fragile balance, but hopefully one I can pull off.

Thanks for reading. Follow me for more and comment down below.