The TV Showrunner's Roadmap

by Neil Landau

  VS: We, for the most part, used the device of three worlds—and all three worlds had their own point of view. So that created somewhat of a sense of omniscient point of view. If there was a rule, it was that we had to stay within the world of those characters. It was like the characters in that world were the only points of reference. But when a character got more and more important in the story and more of a player, then we could driftover and see them. Like in season 2, we saw Roberta [Patti Kim] and Nicole Jackson [Claudia Ferri] in the security room when they discovered that Sarah had…

  NL: Right—when she smashes her hand in the door?

  VS: Right, but it was tied to the security cam footage. There was always the delicate balance of how much we could show within the world. With any of the main characters in the world, we clearly could use them as reference points, to see what they experienced, but then when the secondary characters were introduced later, they had to earn weight in the story in order to be a part of it. The other thing you said in reference to the omniscient [POV]—it’s a good question in the beginning because Patty Jenkins directed the pilot and the finale. She had this brilliant visual conceit which was that the camera had a point of view, so the camera wasn’t just sitting there, flaccidly, recording and documenting. There was a very subtle point of view that the camera had—and I loved that. I loved it because it influenced all of her moves in the pilot. It influenced the freneticness of the camera, the slowness of the camera, the longing—she really infused the camera and us with these emotions as we took in scenes. And even the aerials, we spent hours talking about them.

  NL: I actually noticed them in a particularly vulnerable scene. For example, there were shots that at the top of a high-rise building where it was just precarious. They weren’t just neutral interstitials. I felt like they did have that commentary.

  VS: We shot the aerials after we shot the pilot. I realized that I wanted the aerials to be something, but I couldn’t articulate what that was. There’s something very evocative about seeing the city from a plane. Patty and I got to this place where those aerials were almost the point of view of Rosie—almost the point of view of a dead girl. They had emotion. It’s as subtle as coming out of a scene; you’d feel the sadness of that scene or you’d feel how askew things were in the scene. That’s how she went and shot the aerials.

  NL: I hadn’t even thought of it in The Lovely Bones kind of way—as if looking down from heaven. Did you have tone meetings with subsequent directors where you would say to them, for example, “I want it to look like this character’s guilty in this episode”? Like in the “Donnie or Marie” episode, where it starts with it very much looking like Gwen is guilty, but then it shifts—and I’ve noticed this in reality shows sometimes where you think they’re subtly hinting who’s going to get voted off. The way that they’re showing a little bit more of that character or less of another character. Were those discussions ever conscious in terms of the way it was shot?

  VS: Yes, absolutely. It always began with the script. Especially the “Donnie or Marie” episode, because we were very conscious of bopping between them, so in breaking the story in the writers’ room: How do you create the sense that “this is the one” or “no, this is the one.” Tone is really important to me. I think it’s probably really important to a lot of showrunners that we spend a lot of time with directors. Because you’re analyzing the script, you’re going over your hopes, page by page, visually for the episode both emotionally and thematically—and about the subtle turn at the end of the scene— what you’re supposed to think at the end of it.

  NL: Was there a difference in breaking story on Cold Case and on The Killing? Obviously, I know they are completely different—they’re almost polar opposites. In terms of Cold Case, it’s one case which gets solved by the end. But did you break A, B, and C stories and structure the story in the same way or was it a very different process with The Killing?

  VS: The mechanics of the documents that were created were very similar. I learned that from Meredith Steihm, the creator of Cold Case, and that process was hugely helpful. There are many documents generated before someone goes to script. You’re kicking the tires constantly without again robbing the story of its magic because you can overwrite—you can over-analyze something. So the mechanics of Cold Case and The Killing were very similar. The difference I guess was that besides having to spend so much time with these characters over twenty-six episodes that we had to have so much material and know them in such an intimate way—the cops included. The A story in Cold Case was the big story—that was the hardiest part of every episode and where we had to devote most of our time. With Cold Case, we knew season-wise what the B and the C stories were for our cops. This is what personally they were going through—and these were the scenes that we would pepper in throughout the season to show this arc in their character, but because 90 percent of the episode was about the killing—the investigation was its own mini-arc. That’s where the majority of the time was spent. Whereas with The Killing, what we had to do is take three big worlds and over the course of each season map out where each world was going. We had this gigantic board in the writers’ room with every character, every episode, and our touch points of each character’s development—what was going on with them over the course of a season. And, then there’s obviously the investigation— how the investigation is tied into Sarah’s backstory and Holder’s secret. It was this incredibly intense juggling session.

  NL: In the season finale, the footage that Rosie shot on the video camera— it’s the closing valentine for the Larson family. It’s used in a totally different way than we’re anticipating. Because it seems like it’s going to be incriminating evidence, and it’s going to completely tie into everything. It’s bittersweet, but it leaves us with a kind of happy resolution. Where did this idea come from? Any final thoughts on the end of the season?

  VS: We were in the room first season when we were talking about the big arc and how things would ultimately end, and we started to talk about this film camera because the film plays a part early on in season 1. Through the teacher and this revelation that she’s running around the city with this camera. We watched this young artist from Seattle, this fifteen-year-old girl, Olivia B. We were just looking at how young girls shoot things because we didn’t want it to look professional—what she was shooting at the beginning of season 1. There was this incredible beauty and voice of this girl, and we were all so moved by it. It was ultimately about this girl [Rosie] who you just think of as a victim, and in a way, has never been present. We don’t flash back to her. We are like people left behind in a real-life murder. You don’t get anything. You just get what’s left in her bedroom—in the album. And to have this graceful moment of just this giftto us, the audience and the family, but the audience mostly, we’ve never seen Rosie alive except when she was running in terror. We saw her on film for a split second at that dance.

  NL: And there’s the very brief moment where Mitch is packing for the camping trip and you get to see the last moment when she was at the house alive.

  VS: That was the biggest discussion: Should we have flashbacks of the victim? Should we see her? How do we make her a presence in the story and not just a body? But then the tension is that you don’t have anything except for the memories that she left behind. It’s heartbreaking. It’s eerie too and a little bit interesting to see. One of the homicide detectives I was telling you about on the East Coast, I think she fell in love with this guy who had been murdered because she just saw these things in his house. Well, not “fell in love,” but it was just interesting this relationship she had with the dead. This is not just about body counts, and not just about exciting plot and getting the bad guy—this is about the price of a life. And this is who this girl is and this is the tragedy of her loss and this is the hope of her life. And losing this is losing the world. Our final touch that we wanted to put on the story is that we get to see Rosie alive—that finally after twenty-five hours, we get to see what�
��s lost.

  NL: It was a very beautiful, graceful endnote.

  18

  Establish the Mythology

  All series contain some inherent mythology. At a minimum, this will include the backstories for each main character—which may or may not be completely true. As this book is all about scripted television series, all characters and plotlines are fictional. And fiction is always open to interpretation. In other words, every character has his/her own agenda and perspective on past events. “If memory serves…” is about as reliable as it gets, even for the most honest among us. Other characters present the version of themselves they’d like others to see versus the full truth. Watching a TV series is interactive in that viewers tune in to discover and learn more about what makes these people tick on the inside, and how ongoing external challenges might force them to embrace change, ignore it (aka denial), or actively resist it.

  Whereas central mysteries concern something lost or obscured in the past, and central questions concern the future outcome of problems, a series’ mythology concerns the rules of the game.

  Creating a Credible, Alternative Reality

  In science fiction, we’re presented with a world that bears some resemblance to our own. But how does this sci-fi world differ from ours? Here are some basic questions for you to consider as you develop your series’ mythology:

  Are we in present day or in the near or distant future?

  Is it a post-apocalyptic, dystopian world?

  Is it a space colony?

  Is it overpopulated or are there very few survivors?

  Is the environment sustainable?

  Is the air toxic?

  Is the Earth burning up or flooding or arid and arctic?

  Do animals and/or other anomalous creatures live among us?

  Are humans the dominant species?

  Are food and supplies in abundance or is there poverty and famine?

  Is your version of the future or this alternative world light or dark?

  Who governs?

  What kinds of laws keep the order?

  Is it a militant state? Anarchy? Somewhere in between?

  Who enforces the laws?

  What kinds of weapons exist?

  What kind of special abilities do the police and citizens have?

  Is there a class or caste system or equality?

  Does artificial intelligence exist?

  Is the world on the verge of singularity theory?

  Humans versus Cylons

  In Battlestar Galactica, a human civilization has migrated from their home-land of Kobol to a group of distant planets known as the Twelve Colonies. For decades, the Twelve Colonies have battled against a cybernetic race—the Cylons—whose mission is the annihilation of the human race. The Cylons wage war against the Twelve Colonies and the Colonial Fleet of starships that protect them. These attacks devastate the Colonial Fleet, destroy the Colonies, and virtually all of their populations. Of the entire Colonial battle fleet, only the Battlestar Galactica, an enormous battleship and “space-craftcarrier,” manages to survive the Cylon attack. Under the leadership of Commander Adama (Edward James Olmos), the Galactica and the pilots of “Viper” fighters lead a fugitive fleet of survivors in search of the fabled thirteenth colony—planet Earth.

  What was most revolutionary about Battlestar is its showrunner Ronald D. Moore’s resistance to old school science fiction mythology. In his manifesto, “Naturalistic Science Fiction, or Taking the Opera out of Space Opera,” Moore makes a provocative pronouncement: “Our goal is nothing less than the reinvention of the science fiction television series … [and to jettison] the stock characters, techno-double-talk, bumpy-headed aliens, thespian histrionics, and empty heroics.” Moore set out not to make another Star Trek or Star Wars; rather, he’s after something much more nuanced, with the character complexity and contradictions of The West Wing or The Sopranos. Moore’s manifesto goes on to proclaim: “We want the audience to connect with the characters of Galactica as people. Our characters are not super-heroes. They are not an elite. They are everyday people caught up in an enormous cataclysm and trying to survive it as best they can. They are you and me.”

  Perhaps the best way to sum up Battlestar Galactica’s approach to mythology is less is more. Rather than a strict adherence to the tropes of the scifigenre or even the laws of time and space, Moore and his writing staff were cognizant that the audience actually connects to the people—not the mythology and technology. You can create the biggest, most mind-blowing, climactic battle sequences ever, but nothing trumps those small moments of character emotion.

  Welcome to Doomsday

  In The Walking Dead pilot, we enter the arena after some sort of zombie apocalypse. We’re not sure if the cause was biological, chemical, nuclear, or environmental. All we know is that virtually everyone is dead—but then resurrected as a zombie in constant need of living human flesh in order to survive. In season 1, the small group of survivors makes their way to the Center for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta. The episode teases us with an explanation of the apocalypse, but provides no clear-cut answers to this cataclysmic mystery. But we do get one horrific piece of news via the Director of the CDC (Noah Emmerich) who whispers something cryptic into Rick’s (Andrew Lincoln) ear before they both depart (Rick leaves with his fellow badass survivors; the CDC Director kills himself). SPOILER ALERT: By the end of season 2, Rick tells his comrades the ominous news: all survivors are already infected with the virus—and it’s only a matter of time before each one of them is going to turn into a zombie—whether they’re bitten or not. In other words, inside each one of them is a ticking time bomb. How’s that to ruin your whole day? At this point, we have also become well versed in the Rules of the Zombies:

  They have very low intelligence and live only to eat living human flesh.

  They do not talk or communicate with one another or use technology.

  They congregate in flocks and each new prey causes a feeding frenzy.

  They’re not smart enough to scale walls or climb over fences.

  They can’t deliberately strategize, set fires, or use weapons or explosives.

  They can’t pick locks or operate cars and other machinery.

  They don’t eat each other, but will feed on animals.

  They can’t procreate.

  They can be killed by non-zombies, but only by crushing their skulls, thereby destroying their brains.

  If an uninfected human is bitten, there is no antidote; it’s just a matter of time before he or she will transform into a snarling, vicious cannibal.

  At press time, these rules have remained constant. The series is based on a series of comic books of the same title, but I haven’t looked ahead to find out what’s going to happen next because the TV series doesn’t always follow that roadmap. I can only prognosticate and hope for zombie evolution over time. For example:

  What if the zombies can start to learn and aren’t simply the Walking Stupid?

  What if a zombie accidentally fires a gun or gets behind the wheel of a truck?

  What if they start to be able to communicate in some sort of zombie language (à la the book and movie Warm Bodies)?

  What if all that rotting flesh and septic wounds cause bacterial and viral infections and those viruses started to mutate?

  So many possibilities—or maybe the show’s creators and showrunner plan to keep all the rules constant?

  When I interviewed the now former showrunner of The Walking Dead, Glen Mazzara, I asked him if the viewers were ever going to find out what caused the zombie apocalypse and why? Glen’s response was a definitive no. In his view, it didn’t matter. To him, the show was all about survival of the fittest and how to build a new civilization amid chills and thrills. To him, this was/is a horror show, so he preferred to keep the scientific gobbledygook to a minimum. Our motley crew of survivors are all on the endangered species list, overwhelmingly outnumbered, and there is no escape. See also Revolution.

  Blood I
s Thicker Than Water

  In the science fiction/fantasy series True Blood, created and produced by Alan Ball and based upon The Southern Vampire Mysteries novels by Char-laine Harris, we’re indoctrinated into a fresh, new twist on the classic vampire genre: they feast on synthetic blood (brand name: Tru Blood) that’s readily available in all convenience stores, like six packs of beer or bottles of ketchup. The show’s mythology is that vampires have been living among us for centuries, and it’s only recently that Japanese scientists have created synthetic blood to enable vampires to “come out of the coffin” now that they no longer need to feed on humans to survive. But as with every revolution, there are inherent politics. Some vampires desire to join and integrate with the human race. But hardcore vampires are resistant and feel it’s against their violent nature.

  Set in the small town of Bon Temps, Louisiana, the series’ main protagonist is Sookie Stackhouse (Anna Paquin), a “Halfling,” who is later revealed to be a human–fairy hybrid with telepathic abilities. Sookie works as a waitress at Merlotte’s Bar & Grill, owned by Sam Merlotte (Sam Trammell). Unbeknownst to most of the townsfolk, Sam is a shapeshifter. Sookie meets and falls in love with Bill Compton (Stephen Moyer), a sexy 173-year-old vampire who looks about 30. Also in this phantasmagoria are: Sookie’s sex-crazed brother Jason (Ryan Kwanten); the Sheriff of Area 5, Eric Northman (Alexander Skarsgård)—who also happens to be a thousand-year-old vampire; and then there’s Lafayette Reynolds (Nelsan Ellis), a flamboyantly gay, black, fry cook, drug dealer, and medium. In this show’s universe, mythological beings (and Tru Blood) are, more or less, the norm.

  In contrast to the well-defined, narrow parameters of, say, The Walking Dead, we get the sense that virtually anything can happen in Bon Temps. And so, in addition to the proper care and feeding of vampires, the show also explores the humanity of fairies, werewolves, witches, and a Dionysian cult. The “sweet spot” of this series is how its authors skillfully correlate these fantastic, esoteric, sexy supernatural plotlines to relatable contemporary issues, such as racism, homophobia, drug addiction, faith and religion, pervasive media, and the quest for identity. At the core, this is a show about “family” values, and the blood ties that bind us together and rip us apart