by Neil Landau
NL: Okay, but that’s more on an episode-by-episode basis, what about over the course of a whole season? Isn’t there always some sort of thematic question to be explored over the course of a given season? For example, in Dexter, there’s the big umbrella or macro theme of, Is he a human being or a monster?
CJ: Right.
NL: And then more micro themes within in each season, such as, Can he be a husband? Can he be a father? And in Homeland, has Brody (Damian Lewis) been turned, and if so, is he going to commit a large-scale terrorist act in the United States? And then the central theme of sanity versus paranoia— for Carrie (Claire Danes)—and will she be vindicated or crushed…
CJ: … as she was at the end of season 1.
NL: Maybe those aren’t exactly thematic questions, but they were central questions that sustained the whole season. Is that something that you’re thinking about when you talk about the science of story—more than theme?
CJ: Yeah. I don’t think you need any thematic stuff at all. You have a very operational question there. You have an attack on the United States and then you have these two extremely unreliable narrators; one is Brody and he’s sort of a mystery, you don’t really know which side he’s on. And then you have Carrie—who’s a little crazy. And that’s an interesting situation. You can just kind of lay it out. We don’t just play it forward the way we did in 24. We try to construct slightly stand-alone episodes, and in that sense they’re about something. We chose where to direct our focus for a particular week. But we don’t put these writerly devices onto it and say, “Oh, this one will be about the theme of giftgiving in the world.” We just don’t do that.
NL: I suppose there are different ways of thinking about theme. At its most basic, theme is a universal truth about life. But another way, I think, to look at theme is this: there’s the story, and then there’s what the story is really about. So when you said that each episode is stand-alone and about something, to me, that means theme. So, for example, in the season finale of Homeland, that you co-wrote (titled “Marine One”), there seems to be the theme of loyalty. Brody is caught between his allegiance to Abu Nazir (David Negahban) and his loyalty and responsibility to his family at home, and particularly to his daughter, Dana (Morgan Saylor), with whom he shares a special bond. And, ultimately, Dana talks Brody down and prevents him from detonating the suicide vest when he’s in the bunker with the Vice President and other top government officials. Or, is this something I’m imposing on your storytelling as a viewer and not something that you ever fully intended?
CJ: I did write a lot of that episode, and there was never the veneer of a thematic in it for me. What we go for though—and I think this is important—is that we go for a kind of recognizable emotional life. We try to construct that. We’re not just playing out some CIA operation, we’re very character based in terms of how that affects the people, the characters, the relationships. But we’re never trying to push our ideas. We just don’t do it.
In fact, I had a problem with the staff that I inherited when I took over as showrunner in season 5 of Dexter because to them it was all about the ideas, and I kept saying, “You know what? Your ideas are not that interesting to me. They’re just not that fucking interesting.” I would hear a lot about themes, and at one point I got so frustrated that I actually instituted a no metaphors rule in the writers’ room. Because everyone came up with metaphors and nobody came up with an actual story.
And that’s an issue. I’ve come to the place where I really value verisimilitude, a kind of naturalism. I picked up a lot of this from Josh Pate who created a series called Surface. It was a weird, sprawling sci-fi thing, but we tried to root everything in reality. It was a good lesson in this naturalistic thing. We did naturalistic dialogue, shot it pretty naturalistically, and tried to have naturalistic situations. There was always this tension because it looked like real life but it wasn’t because, in that case, there were these sea monsters. And we try to do the same thing on Homeland.
NL: It sounds like it kind of freed you up as a writer, not to be shackled to the “rules” of a unifying theme and these higher story ideals—well, maybe not ideals but—
CJ: It’s not an ideal. To me, imposing theme is just a bunch of bullshit.
NL: (Laughs) You’re actually perfect for this chapter because you go against convention—and your impressive body of work demonstrates that it’s working extremely well for you.
Anything that feels written, I just don’t believe in anymore. What I do believe in is interesting, complicated characters, and then seeing what they do.
NL: Okay, so in telling a great story, can we talk about what makes a worthy, effective A story? It seems to me, a good story will have what I like to call “story tentacles” meaning it leads to more story. For example, in the season 5 opener of Dexter that you wrote (titled “My Bad”), Dexter (Michael C. Hall) discovered that his wife, Rita (Julie Benz), was murdered and he felt responsible, which led to a whole lot more story because he didn’t know how to grieve. He lacked empathy. And we got to see how Dexter dispassionately studied how the people around him—Rita’s family—all grieved for her, but Dexter just had this bemused void.
CJ: You know what. I have to take back everything I said. (Laughs.) In breaking season 5 of Dexter, we were going around and around and everyone was getting frustrated and I finally realized I was the new showrunner, I had to come up with something, and I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote down the word “Atonement.” I realized I had the arc for the entire season. Dexter would cross a line that he’d never crossed before. He’d actively decide to help someone as a means to atone for not being able to save his wife. He wouldn’t do it consciously; he’d kind of stumble into it. But eventually it would become clear that that was what the season was about.
NL: And that’s what led to the Lumen (Julia Stiles) story? That entire season 5 arc?
CJ: Exactly. There was a, I hate to say it, a kind of theme that emerged. And in atoning for Rita’s death, Dexter found a kindred spirit, Lumen, who’d been sexually abused and victimized and wanted to get back at the people who did that to her, and Dexter could align and help her carry out her cause. And he could fall in love with her because they shared the same passion— but then he’d lose her as a result of it.
NL: Yes, because once they’re able to kill the serial abusers, Lumen is ready to let the past go, to move on … and Dexter isn’t going to be part of her future?
CJ: Right.
NL: Your episodes are always so nuanced. There’s a degree of detail and subtext that lets you mine the emotions of each character. I’m reminded of those Mickey Mouse hats in the “My Bad” episode of “Dexter.” Rita’s parents had taken her kids to Disneyworld, and Dexter discovers Rita’s dead body in the bathtub while her kids are on vacation. He’s freaking out, and then they call from Disneyworld … and he just can’t bring himself to tell them what’s happened.
CJ: Right, which is so real. How do you tell a kid something like that over the phone?
NL: And then they return from Disneyworld with these funny Mickey Mouse hats that have their names stitched on them. They give one to Dexter.
CJ: Yeah, my wife, Virginia, came up with those Mickey Mouse hats. Actually she comes up with a lot of stuff.
NL: Props to your wife. Such an ironic detail.
CJ: Yeah, Dexter puts it on, he’s actually wearing it when he breaks the bad news to the kids … and he just looks ridiculous … until his stepdaughter knocks the thing off his head and runs out. Then Dexter follows her out to the car and they have a more genuine exchange.
NL: She accuses him of not caring about her mom because he’s not crying, and she wishes it had been Dexter who’d been killed.
CJ: And he doesn’t react.
NL: You know, it just occurs to me now that Dexter’s lack of being able to feel any empathy allows the audience to empathize with him in a significant way. We know he’s hurting but unable to express it. We feel his emotional pain
and grief even more than if he’d just been able to bawl his eyes out.
CJ: But he is able to grieve for Rita in his sort of random, unpremeditated murder of the stranger.
NL: Yes, in the bathroom at that dilapidated marina store when he beats the crap of out some redneck asshole?
CJ: Right. Dexter goes ballistic, just rails on him, and then just leaves him there, all the blood, all the mess—not really his M.O. He just loses it. He crosses a line.
NL: “My Bad” was such a memorable episode for me because Dexter is pushed so far to the edge that he feels his only alternative is to escape. So he gets on his boat and takes off, but then he decides to return for Rita’s funeral after he beats and kills the redneck stranger in the bathroom. It’s as if he’s now ready to start grieving for Rita in a more conventional way.
CJ: Yeah, he’s had his release.
NL: When I hear “release,” I think about Aristotle and catharsis—which I know is very artsy, but still…
CJ: He has his release and then wants to be around people who loved Rita. The final moment of the episode is when he also realizes that maybe he wasn’t as able to grieve for her, but he did love her. He is capable of love.
NL: So instead of theme, would it be fair to say that your approach to storytelling is to push your characters to the edge? To make them as vulnerable as possible in each episode?
CJ: Maybe not in every episode, but I am interested in how people cross lines they haven’t crossed before and what motivates them to do it. That’s what draws me in.
15
Pique Our Interest with a Potent Teaser
Ateaser is the opening segment of a television episode. Most shows open with the teaser, then cut to the main title sequence. On the page, the teaser is approximately five pages long, but can run longer (the pilot teaser for The Good Wife was sixteen pages). A good teaser does exactly what it suggests: it “teases” viewers with a compelling opening that leaves them wanting to find out what happens next so they don’t change the channel. Pilot teasers often have to work harder because viewers are experiencing the show cold, whereas teasers for established shows don’t have the burden of introducing dynamic characters, or grounding the audience in an unfamiliar world.
The hook. Effective teasers will hook the audience immediately. In The X-Files pilot, the episode begins with superimposed text over black: “The following story is inspired by actual documented accounts.” The first image is of a young woman in a nightgown frantically running through the woods at night. Suddenly a blinding white light emanates from the distance, and a shadowy figure approaches the woman as the wind swirls. The screen fades to white. In the next scene, the woman is found dead in the forest with no obvious cause of death, only two odd marks on her back. One of the crime scene analysts says, “It’s happening again, isn’t it?” The teaser not only poses a paranormal mystery, but it also hooks the audience with the suggestion that it could have actually happened.
Orient the audience. Good teasers also establish the world and tone of the show, and often give defining actions for the main character. In the pilot for House of Cards, the show opens with the sound of a car accident over black. A dog is critically wounded by a hit-and-run perpetrator. Frank Underwood (Kevin Spacey), the show’s main character, puts the dog out of its misery by choking it to death and says to the audience, “I have no patience for useless things.” By the end of the teaser, the audience learns Frank is the House Majority Whip, and he expects a reward for being instrumental in the President-elect’s victory. The teaser establishes how the show deals with the seedy underbelly of D.C. politics, the Machiavellian code of the main character, and the recurring narrative device of breaking the fourth wall.
In the pilot for Lost, the show begins with an eyeball in extreme close-up. And then the camera pulls back revealing a man, Jack (Matthew Fox) lying on the ground in a tropical forest, staring up at the sky, disoriented. It starts with his eyeball because he’s our POV, our way into the series. Jack wanders onto the beach and sees the chaotic aftermath of a catastrophic plane crash. This may look like paradise, but it’s a form of hell. Jack’s adrenaline kicks in and he races from injured passenger to passenger, giving them aid, establishing himself as a doctor and natural leader. (This indelible shot of Jack’s eyeball was also the final image of the series when it ended its run.)
The crux of the show. Teasers can also establish the central conflict of the show. In the pilot for The Shield, the teaser intercuts a scene of Vic Mackey (Michael Chiklis) and his morally gray Strike Team chasing down a drug suspect along with a scene of newly minted, straight-arrow police Captain David Aceveda (Benito Martinez) giving a press conference about how he’s going to clean up the streets of Los Angeles. Aceveda’s crusade to destroy Vic and his law-breaking team runs through all seven seasons of the show.
In Doogie Howser, M.D., the pilot opens with sixteen-year-old Doogie (Neil Patrick Harris) taking his driver’s test with his mother in the backseat. The driving instructor tells Doogie to turn around because there’s an accident up ahead, but Doogie speeds toward the scene. The boy genius springs from the car and offers medical assistance, winning over skeptical police officers in the process. The core of the show deals with Doogie balancing adolescence with his medical career as well as his struggle to garner respect from adults.
The bookend. Other teasers can hook the audience by playing with the chronology of the episode. Breaking Bad frequently places its characters in a precarious situation, and then shows how they got there throughout the course of the episode. In the pilot, Walter White (Bryan Cranston) careens through the New Mexico desert in an RV with dead bodies rolling around on the floor. He steps out of the RV in a rumpled green dress shirt and underwear, records a tearful goodbye to his family on a camcorder, and then wields a gun as the wail of sirens grows louder. The episode comes full circle and shows the aftermath of what transpired in the teaser. But the genius of this teaser is that its payoffis not as we had anticipated: turns out the sirens were not the police but the fire department—who then zoom past Walt to go put out a brush fire. He’s in the clear—and ready to bury the camcorder confession to begin his new secret life as a meth cooker and drug dealer. This setup and pay offstyle of teaser and epilogue is what’s referred to as bookend s.
The (seemingly) innocuous teaser. This kind of teaser presents us with a detail that seems random and innocuous at the outset, but by the end of the episode, we actively discover its real meaning. And it turns out to be a crucial plot point or game changer for one or more of the characters. Take for example the season 5 episode of Breaking Bad entitled “Dead Freight.” The episode opens with a kid riding his motorcycle in an isolated stretch of desert, then stopping, catching a tarantula and trapping it in a Mason jar. As the kid examines the captive spider, we get a bit of foreshadowing: a train whistle in the distance. That’s all. But this out-of-context setup will lead to a tragic payoff. The audience learns at the end of the episode that the kid was a witness to what Walt and his cohorts had assumed was a successful train robbery (they stole mega amounts of methylamine from the freight train). But now they’ve got a loose thread to contend with: the kid on the dirt bike. Before they can formulate a plan, one of Walt’s underlings shoots the kid point blank and kills him. The kid drops the jar and the camera lingers on the spider trapped inside, an apt metaphor for Walt, Jesse, and Mike’s predicament. An innocent child was gunned down, making them all accomplices, and pushing their criminal operation into uncharted, more dangerous territory. The stakes of the series have been exponentially ratcheted up, and it all stemmed from the spider in the teaser.
The case. Crime procedurals like Law & Order or CSI almost invariably open with the crime, and then end the teaser with a wisecrack or one-liner from one of the lead characters. These shows are built on the promise of an unusual crime in the opening that will be solved by the end of the episode. This also extends to medical procedurals such as House, M.D. Dr. Gregory House (Huge Laurie) will be
presented with an intriguing medical case that one of his colleagues or he will solve at the eleventh hour.
No teaser. Cable shows like Game of Thrones, The Sopranos, Homeland, and Mad Men simply open the show with their credit sequences and jump into act 1. These shows are heavily serialized, serving almost as mini-movies each week. It’s not as common in network television to see a show without a teaser. However, Castle is an example of a show that begins with act 1. The structure of the show is six acts with no teaser. The show’s title sequence is displayed at the end of act one. Different networks have different structure preferences. It’s not unusual for ABC shows to have six acts with no teaser.
The cold open. Comedy teasers are called “cold openings.” They function the same, although they always end with a punch line or a gag. In addition to being funny, good cold opens introduce the main issue and thematic through-line of the episode. In the season 4 episode of Modern Family titled “Fulgencio,” the cold open deals with Jay Pritchett’s (Ed O’Neill) mother-in-law wanting to name his newborn son Fulgencio, much to his chagrin, but he doesn’t have the nerve to stand up to her. Despite Jay’s best efforts, he can’t get his mother-in-law to like him, which he soon realizes mirrors the relationship he has with his son-in-law Phil (Ty Burrell). By the end of the episode, Jay finally tells offhis mother-in-law, and they reach an understanding. He agrees to name his son Fulgencio Joseph Pritchett.
Direct pickup. Some serialized shows pick up exactly where they left off in the previous episode. A direct pickup is referred to in the TV biz with the abbreviation DPU. At the end of the True Blood pilot, waitress Sookie Stack-house (Anna Paquin) is being brutally attacked in the parking lot by a pair of sinister restaurant patrons late at night. The second episode teaser begins in the same spot with Sookie being beaten. Suddenly, the attackers are whisked away into the darkness, and vampire Bill Compton (Stephen Moyer) helps Sookie to her feet. The direct pickup model gives episodes a cliffhanger feel and also shows how compressed time is in the universe of the program. See also Weeds. (FYI: In daytime soap operas, DPUs are used at the start of each new episode. Given that daytime soaps tend to move, by design, at a snail’s pace, many daytime soaps also utilize “frozen time” between storylines, so that when we cut away from a scene and then cut back to the same scene, it’s as if those characters were frozen in their exact same positions. Frozen time is to be avoided in primetime. When we cut away from and later return to the same scene, best to show some movement or progress in the scene or else there is an artificial stasis in the storytelling.)
