As a fan and a writer of science fiction
romance, my “reality meter” is set pretty low. In fact, I love all things
paranormal, supernatural, weird, out-there, futuristic, not-readily-explainable
and mind-expanding in addition to your usual adventure-in-space tales. I tend
not to demand that a story fit within the normal boundaries of “real life.” I imagine most
of you feel the same, dear readers, or you wouldn’t be reading this
blog.
Though I will occasionally pick up a good
history or biography, or catch an interesting TV documentary, I read—and watch—primarily
for escape. That’s why I so often choose romance novels, which can not only
transport me to another place and time, but also assure me of an emotionally
satisfying ending. On-screen, too, I look for an experience that offers
something very different from my daily life—a trip back into history, a glimpse
at the future, an adventure in an exotic setting, or, at the very least,
thrills and chills and stuff blowing up while I remain safe in my theater seat.
My mom (gone for many years now) always used
to say she had no interest in soap operas because she had enough of that kind
of drama in her own life. I react the same way to novels or films about
dysfunctional families, young people trying to “find themselves,” romantic
comedies, or—the latest trend—quirky old people on some kind of quest. (Apologies
if those happen to be your favorite kind of stories or films; exceptional
examples can always be found, of course.)
A friend with a much higher “reality meter”
setting and I recently disagreed on just such a film: THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE
EBBING, MISSOURI. Now, already, this is not a film I normally would go for,
with its premise of a woman (Frances McDormand) who seeks to shame the local
police into solving her daughter’s rape/murder by calling them out publicly on
said billboards. But the movie was filmed locally, and my friend recommended
it. Since I like Frances McDormand, I tried it.
The acting was great, but the film was disappointing.
In particular, I thought the ending left the audience (me) with no sense of
closure. The film seemed to have no point, I protested to my friend. But, she
responded, that’s just like real life.
You often don’t get answers in real life.
Ah, but a film is not real life. It’s
fiction, an artificial construct that may reflect
real life to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the writer’s choices.
The writer is in charge of that construct. The writer can give us answers,
unlike real life. I can blame the writer (and the filmmaker in this case) for
not giving me the answers I want.
This is the reason I rant and rave at the random
killing of beloved characters on television series. I understand that sometimes
actors need to leave and move on with their careers. But sometimes, writers
just decide to kill characters off for the apparent hell of it (Game of Thrones, Blue Bloods, Walking Dead,
Person of Interest, any number of
others), weakening the story and leaving fans in gaping disbelief.
In fiction, random acts do not occur. (I
would also argue that truly random acts don’t occur in real life, either, but
that’s just my personal philosophy.) Things happen in fiction because writers
cause them to happen. In the fictional worlds I create, people die when I want
them to die, for reasons I lay out carefully in the plot. These deaths cannot
be avoided because they trigger other events; they push the hero and/or the
heroine to action, or they signal a pivot in the plot.
In the same way, if a story is left without
an ending I find satisfying, it’s not because “real life” seldom has a neat
ending, though that may be the writer’s argument. The writer chooses to tell the
story a particular way, and chooses to end it a particular way. If that’s the
case, then, as the reader (or film-goer), I can object to the writer’s choice.
Unlike in real life, where I can only act
with the knowledge I have, then lodge a futile protest—or send out feelings of
gratitude—to the Great Author in the Sky for whatever surprising turns my own
story might take.
Cheers, Donna
