by Neil Landau
The X-Files: nine seasons—“crime” procedural, but the cases revolve around the paranormal
Dexter: eight seasons—“crime” procedural, but our protagonist is a police blood spatter expert by day and a vigilante serial killer by night; also contains elements of family drama with his sister and late father in the mix
Burn Notice: seven seasons—“crime” procedural, but Michael Westen (Jeffrey Donovan) is a discredited former spy and no longer a sanctioned government agent
Lost: six seasons—post–plane crash/Twilight Zone-esque happenings on a mysterious island; survivors form an extended family drama
True Blood: six seasons—friendship ensemble/family drama/supernatural horror show; proof that audiences seem to have an unlimited appetite for vampirism
The Walking Dead: four seasons and counting—friendship ensemble/family drama/supernatural horror show; further proof that audiences seem to have an unlimited appetite for zombies
A valuable litmus test for a new episodic TV series is trying to come up with at least six future episode ideas beyond the pilot. Ideally, at this early blossoming phase, the basic premise should trigger so many possible episode ideas that it will make your head explode. On the other hand, if you’re having trouble coming up with episode ideas for season 1, this is a strong indication that the premise is too limited and/or flawed. Step back, re-tool, revise, rejigger, and then re-launch.
See interview with Pam Veasey on the companion website: http://www.focalpress.com/cw/landau
8
Identify Characters’ Weaknesses
We all have strengths and weaknesses. On TV series, these special abilities and liabilities are essential to both comedy and drama. Our primary goal as storytellers is to make our characters so relatable and accessible to an audience that they become emotionally invested in what happens week after week after week. We need viewers to cheer for their successes and lament their disappointments. We need the audience to worry about our characters and feel what they feel on a visceral level. And the key to this entry point is through character vulnerability.
In general, people tend to feel vulnerable due to physical and/or psychological limitations, such as
lack of basic survival resources and safety (The Walking Dead, Lost, Revolution)
feeling trapped/lack of freedom (Prison Break, The Americans, Once Upon a Time)
lack of money (Breaking Bad, Weeds, 2 Broke Girls)
lack of physical and/or mental health (House, M.D., Dexter, Boss)
lack of qualifications or readiness in a crisis (The Good Wife, The X-Files, Damages, Deadwood, Friday Night Lights, Parenthood)
lack of trust and/or self-confidence in a relationship (Girls, Sex and the City, Scandal, Grey’s Anatomy)
lack of a loyal support system of friends/family/allies (Mad Men, The Sopranos)
lack of time (The Killing, 24, Homeland)
If character flaws are organic to character backstory, they tend to work best over the long haul of a series. This backstory is often just obliquely hinted at in the pilot or the first few episodes—which is a good thing for both writers and viewers because what we don’t know about a character is often more compelling than what we do know.
Using Plot as Revelation
The goal in a TV series is to gradually peel away the layers of their characters’ defenses and metaphorical masks so that the audience can participate in the ongoing discovery about each character. As a series progresses, characters evolve from season to season. Depending on the series, character evolution ranges from almost imperceptible (Dr. House) to subtle and nuanced (Don Draper on Mad Men) to tectonic (Walter White on Breaking Bad). The genre, tone, style, and pace of the series will dictate the level of character evolution over time. Procedural series, such as Law & Order and CSI, are wholly plot driven and tend to have very little character development. Serialized dramas feature gradual, incremental character growth from season to season— sometimes with an endgame in mind and sometimes opened-ended—with new plot developments swinging the pendulum according to character needs and audience expectations (every showrunner I interviewed reads their online message boards).
Sitcom characters are their own species, and usually become more rooted in who they are as each episode’s situation challenges, taunts, and tempts them. They might fall in and out of love, but almost always revert to form, back to their comfort zones—which are also our comfort zones as viewers. We laugh with them and at them because they’re so familiar and keep ending up back in the same humiliating situations.
But in drama series, as soon as the audience feels that they know everything about all of the characters, the series often becomes stale. For these reasons, whether you’re working on a series that’s been on the air for a while or writing a “spec” episode of an existing series as a writing sample, it’s advisable to seek out the unexplored aspects of those characters. What kinds of very specific emotional and physical challenges have we not seen the characters face? What kinds of dormant fears might they have that get triggered by new characters and situations? Do these new challenges feel organic to the setup of the series? Can we see a clear relationship between cause and effect? Is this new situation earned based upon what came before in the characters’ lives or is it something that’s feeling imposed by the writer as a gimmick and too contrived?
By the end of season 2 of Girls, Hannah’s (Lena Dunham) OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) seemed to emerge from out of nowhere which felt like an unnecessary embellishment to an already very quirky character—and viewer backlash soon followed.
Ideally, a character’s major flaw or weakness will be evidenced—either emphatically or obliquely—in the pilot episode. But that’s only half of what makes a memorable character.
Maximizing the Pro and Con
Each potential weakness or minus (–) needs some kind of positive strength (+), for all iconic characters enthrall us based upon their +/− contradictions. Dr. Gregory House (Hugh Laurie) has a bum leg, is addicted to pain meds, lacks empathy and sympathy for his patients, and is an incorrigible misanthrope. But we put up with him because he’s a brilliant doctor. Dr. House says things the audience wishes it could say (“You can think I’m wrong but that’s no reason to quit thinking.”) Such is the beauty of drama, in that watching becomes an act of wish fulfillment. We can’t say such things in our real lives, but we can vicariously watch as Dr. House does. Will Dr. House ever change? Nope. But it’s the precarious dance he’s able to do, week after week, pissing everyone off but managing to keep on grooving and succeeding on his own terms as a physician. He’s that good.
Meanwhile, Tony Soprano (James Gandolfini) from The Sopranos is a classic example of a strong, powerful, and complex mafia boss with a major flaw: he’s clinically depressed. From moment to moment, the viewer doesn’t know if he’ll have a nervous breakdown or break someone’s kneecaps. It keeps us— and him—on edge. And while he does terrible things—repeatedly cheats on his wife, neglects his children, kills enemies and former allies—we relate to him because even in the midst of all his power and influence, he’s a lot like us. He ponders death and the meaning of life. He feels guilty for neglecting his kids and for lying to his wife. He sees himself as a devout Catholic and patriot. Sometimes he has remorse when he’s forced to honor mafia code, even when it clashes with his own personal ethics. He’s often compelled to behave like a monster, but manages to cling to his humanity via visits to his (usually) impartial shrink, Dr. Melfi(Lorraine Bracco). And Tony’s also not all bad: he loves animals, such as a prized horse and the ducks in his swimming pool, and deep down we know that he loves his wife and kids, but he’s permanently scarred by his own upbringing.
Mad Men’s Don Draper (Jon Hamm) is great looking and seemingly always in control. He has money and an interesting career, and yet, he is deeply unhappy. From the moment he took the alias Don Draper (the name on his birth certificate is Dick Whitman), he has lived a life of deceit, promiscuity, and hypocrisy. Howe
ver, the audience follows his journey because he, like Dr. House, is brilliant at what he does: he gives advertising depth. But let’s face it, he’s not saving lives. There needs to be more. And there is: we sympathize with him because deep down he hates himself. Don Draper does not want to be the cheater that he is, and like the sinner in all of us, we relate and give him absolution. There is always a danger, however, of making a character flaw too flawed before the audience begins to not care about the character anymore. Don Draper, as the series continues, is towing the line between antihero and apathy.
Olivia Pope (Kerry Washington) on Scandal is always smooth and in control, fierce and intelligent, and yet her character flaw is that she had an affair with a married man, the then-governor Fitzgerald “Fitz” Grant (Tony Gold-wyn), now president of the United States. Some would criticize her as a glorified mistress. At this point in season 2, the affair is over, but she still carries feelings for him. We relate to and accept Olivia not only because she’s good at her job as a crisis-management fixer, but also because we know what it’s like to love someone unrequitedly. Her flaws reinforce to the audience that we are greater than our biggest mistakes.
In the pilot for Breaking Bad, Walter White is a high school chemist facing inoperable lung cancer, the ultimate underdog. But soon Walter starts manufacturing methamphetamine to provide for his family after his death. While we hate what he does (make drugs), his reasons are altruistic: for his family. His character flaw is his hubris and the ability to lie to himself about his “good” intentions. It becomes clear his journey isn’t about family—it’s about him. It’s about him ascending from a previously mediocre life into a life of power. The meek shall inherit the earth, and indeed, he has. Why do we follow him? Again, wish fulfillment, as many of our lives are spent, as the saying goes, in quiet desperation.
In Homeland, Carrie Mathison’s (Claire Danes) insecurity about her hidden bipolar disorder (in season 1) causes her to be hypervigilant in her counterterrorism responsibilities for the CIA. She’s willing not only to break protocol and put herself in harm’s way, but she also throws herself into an extremely risky and inappropriate tryst with Brody (Damian Lewis) who is potentially a dangerous, “turned” terrorist operative. What makes Carrie so good at her job: trigger-fast instincts and intuition—are also her chief liabilities: too impulsive, paranoid, and renegade. Yet, we admire her doggedness and how she makes the case for what she believes in the face of severe obstacles, for example, when she threatened to pull a Saudi diplomat’s favorite daughter from Yale unless he played ball. She is the Voice of Truth in a bureaucracy more concerned with politics than performance. She’s a lone wolf, an outsider—just like Brody. We may not condone it, but we can certainly understand her connection to Brody, who is as confused and bifurcated as she is—and somehow we empathize with their taboo attraction. Maybe love can conquer all?
Identifying Weaknesses through Strengths
What’s your main character’s weakness? Does he use his strength to (over) compensate for it? For example, in The Big Bang Theory, Sheldon Cooper (Jim Parsons) is an egotistical scientist who, even though he is the smartest person in the room, has no understanding of irony or sarcasm and can be very annoying. His character flaw is tempered by his complete lack of social skills, which makes him endearing. Even as brilliant as he is, he didn’t have a girlfriend (due to his fear of germs and physical contact) until his mid-twenties—something many in the audience take for granted. While he may be smarter than us, he is not better than us, and thus, relatable.
In Elementary, Sherlock Holmes (Jonny Lee Miller) is a deductive genius who is also terrible in social situations and like Sheldon Cooper is always the smartest person in the room. Obnoxious to a fault, he’s not someone to invite to a dinner party. His flaw is acceptable to us because he’s a broken man—a former drug addict trying to piece his life back together. He’s eaten some humble pie, and while still a difficult personality, we know he is at least trying to connect to Joan Watson (Lucy Liu), his sober companion as they solve some of the hardest cases in New York City.
On Bones, Dr. Temperance “Bones” Brennan (Emily Deschanel) is once again akin to Sheldon Cooper: intelligent but lacking in social skills. Even her name gives a major clue to her flaw: temperance, which means restraint and control over excess. Not someone that sounds like too much fun. And even as bright as she is, she often says, “I don’t know what that means,” in reference to pop cultural references. Her flaw is that she’s so smart, she’s almost outside the realm of our culture, and for that, we accept her.
With these examples, a theme begins to emerge: the audience may not have as much patience for a character that is mediocre at their job. Human nature is such that we give more leeway to people we perceive as geniuses.
Pacing Flaw Revelation
Character flaws gradually expand and deepen over time. We know that Don Draper is a philanderer in the pilot of Mad Men, but we don’t discover that his mother was a prostitute when he was a kid until season 6.
From the first five episodes of Scandal, we presume that Olivia Pope is a home wrecker by participating in her affair with the married president, but we don’t learn until episode 6 that Fitz’s marriage was one of political convenience. We also presume that Fitz is in the driver’s seat and certainly in a more powerful political position than Olivia—but in season 2 we discover that Olivia was actually instrumental in getting Fitz into office—via a rigged election—which he was unaware of. As Olivia’s network of (well-intentioned) secrets and lies unravels, she becomes increasingly vulnerable in both her love life and professional life. Her prior strength in handling covert manipulations may now just circle around and destroy her—which raises the stakes.
Most iconic TV characters will continually battle against their flaws and inner-demons in an attempt to transcend them—while other protagonists will live in a bubble of denial. Still other series leads are actually fueled by their flaws (House, Dexter, The Shield, Breaking Bad). And some will succumb to those flaws.
By the end of a long-running series, some protagonists may overcome their main flaws and learn to believe and trust and love. At the conclusion of The X-Files, Mulder and Scully finally see the truth in Area 51 and stop denying their feelings for one another. And in Lost, they literally see the light.
On a TV series, there is nothing more satisfying to character development than when a character’s greatest strength also becomes his or her greatest liability. This push and pull and internal/external struggle will help sustain a series over many seasons. The trick to dramatic sustainability is keeping your main character in this form of limbo. When the external demons are temporarily suppressed, it’s time for the inner demons to rear their ugly heads.
Interview: David Shore
David Shore Credits
Best known for:
House, M.D. (Executive Producer/Writer/Creator/Director) 2004–2012
Emmy Award Winner (Outstanding Writing for a Drama Series) 2005
Emmy Nominated (Outstanding Drama Series) 2006–2009
WGA Award Winner (Episodic Drama) 2010
Hack (Executive Producer/Writer) 2002–2004
Family Law (Executive Producer/Co-Executive Producer/Writer) 1999–2002
Law & Order (Producer/Supervising Producer/Writer) 1997–1999
Emmy Nominated (Outstanding Drama Series) 1998–1999
Due South (Writer) 1994–1998
The Practice (Writer) 1997
NL: We’re talking about eight seasons of House, M.D. Part of the reason that the show has been so beloved and enduring is that you started with a great central character: an iconic, flawed, often maddening, fascinating, complex man. And, it seems to me, that what defines your series is that everyone evolves, except Dr. House remains the same. Can you speak to your initial story strategy?
DS: When I first started writing the pilot, it wasn’t completely clear in my mind who this character was—although it became clear fairly quickly. I feel strongl
y that the character is only as strong as the challenges presented to him. So a detective who solves a really obvious murder is not really a detective. It was important to me that you’d have these extremely challenging mysteries, but it was also important that the characters around him be challenging. I certainly feel that some of them have been overshadowed by him a little bit. They needed to be really smart and really interesting and really challenging because what we’re judging him on are the judgments he makes and the relationships he establishes. They all have to challenge him in a way which is worthy of him. They were all, hopefully, very specific. You try for that.
NL: So he would bring out different facets of them?
DS: I’m not sure it’s quite so calculating that this guy was assigned to bring out this asset or that, but clearly it was the fact that he had this team that was challenging him from below. How did they respond to him and how did they resist him or not resist him? His best friend—same questions—how does he resist him or not resist him, but from a different point of view. That is sort of his conscience. And who would be this guy’s friend is also something that is constantly challenging. Obviously Wilson [Robert Sean Leonard] had to have his own demons. He’s not as obviously screwed up, but he had to be basically as complicated as House on some level. In some ways, the most challenging one was his boss, Cuddy [Lisa Edelstein]. When you create a character such as House who is just such a steamroller and doing incredibly inappropriate things. What do you do with the boss? Because if the boss actually shuts him down, he’s not doing anything. And if he steamrolls over the boss, then she becomes Colonel Klink [from Hogan’s Heroes] who is just a wonderful sitcom character, but not a good, interesting character for a one-hour drama series. Very early on, we made this decision because it’s interesting, but also because it works dramatically for the long term that she should be a character who challenges him, but understands what he’s worth and is therefore much more about managing him. She doesn’t always shut him down, but she doesn’t always let him go. He gets around her when he needs to, but she surprises us when she allows him to do something. She also has to win some battles, but obviously, not all of them.
