Writing on the Wall - Who Turned Out the Lights?

Writing on the Wall: Who Turned Out the Lights?

                People have different preferences in what they like in fiction. This is (part of) the reason why the word “genre” was invented: To help people classify their tastes, and help them find stories which they will find entertaining. Thus, we have classifications for stories, like “mystery” and “thriller” and “realistic.” Not all works within a genre are created equal, however, so there are also certain terms that, while not genres themselves, often serve as “genre modifiers.” So, within the broad swathe of “fantasy,” we have things such as “heroic” fantasy and “urban” fantasy. And while “romance” is a genre in and of itself, it often crosses over into other genres via the “romantic” adjective. With some of these modifiers, it’s easy enough to tell what they mean. For example, the aforementioned “romantic” generally means that a significant part of the story will be focused on the relationship between one or more characters. Some, however, are a little more arcane than others. Today’s topic of discussion is one of these hard-to-pin down descriptors: “Dark.” “Dark” is a popular one. Fiction goes through cycles of optimism and pessimism; compare some of the happy-go-lucky TV shows and movies produced in the 1950’s through the early 1980’s with the ones created in the depressive downswing begun in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s. Take a look at some of the genres that have boomed during this time period: “Post-apocalyptic;” “Dystopian.” But what does it mean for a piece of fiction to be “dark?” One synonym we can infer for it is “profitable,” but what internally characterizes “dark” fiction?

                From a purely literal standpoint, “darkness” means “the absence of light.” Of course, not every story that takes place primarily at night is considered “dark.” “Dark” as it is used with regards to stories generally means a more metaphorical type of darkness. In that case, what might be metaphorically considered “light?” Humor? Happiness? Love? Idealism? What is metaphorically “dark,” then? Drama? Sadness? Loss? Cynicism? Does a “dark” story need to have an unhappy ending? Can a “dark” story not have humor in it? “Dark” as a term can potentially encompass a great number of things, not the least because it is metaphorical. With the right argument, the metaphor of “darkness” could be extended to just about anything. Maybe all horror is dark by definition, because it is often full of fear and death. But what of the horrors that end on an uplifting note, with the monster vanquished and the male and female lead now in a relationship? Maybe a romance where the two characters eventually break up is dark, because it has a (seemingly) unhappy ending. Of course, old Billy Shakespeare once said that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. And if humor and laughter are “light” aspects, what does this mean for dark comedies? Finding a straightforward of definition of “dark” seems like it would be easier given the popularity of “dark” works. But when something is so popular, “dark” becomes as much a marketing term as a classification.

                But if we peel away the marketing-speak and the haze of popularity surrounding the term, I would hypothesize that what makes a story “dark” comes down to one simple thing: Framing. It isn’t necessarily about content, though some subjects take a dark framework better than others. It isn’t necessarily about themes, though again, some do take darkness more readily. It’s not about what you present, it’s how you present it. The process by which I’ve determined this is not exactly scientific. But I’ve read a number of books calling themselves “dark” and found myself giggling inappropriately, and I’ve read books billing themselves as fun adventures for children and been horrified by what I saw on the page. Picking apart all of those books, I think I’ve isolated those factors that make for a truly “dark” experience, and contrasted them against things which claimed to be dark, but failed to leave the same impression on me.

                To serve as our primary sources of examples, we’ll be comparing and contrasting two separate books. Since the discussion necessitates spoilers, they will remain unnamed in the body of the article itself, though those who find their curiosity piqued will find their names at the end of the article, written in binary. For now, however, know that these two books have a lot in common. Both have similar genres—fantasy—as well as similar audiences, being aimed at young adults. Both are fairly recent publications. Both of them also have a strong element of darkness to them. Book A openly sells itself on the basis of being “dark,” while Book B does not.  However, the way they present themselves differs dramatically, and thus, the feeling each one imparts on the reader is quite different.

                Fantasy need not be about adventure, but both of these books do indeed center around the protagonists making a journey. Both books place their main characters in a considerable amount of peril. However, while the heroes are facing these obstacles, each book treats the danger differently. For example, let’s look at two of the earlier dangers faced by our heroes. Both are dangers posed by the environment, as opposed to an antagonist. Book A has a forest filled with razor-sharp leaves, which is suddenly playing host to high winds. Book B, meanwhile, has a churning sea filled with currents that threaten to dash the heroes against the rocks. Neither is a situation in which someone would want to find themselves, and both pose considerable danger. But Book B, despite having the more mundane of the two scenarios, puts far more emphasis on the actual threat posed by the situation. The characters in Book B linger in their discussions over the possibility of death. They are gripped by a very reasonable fear. In the heat of the action, the book takes great pleasure in detailing the closeness of their scrapes to the rocks, and the burning of their lungs as they ache to inhale, and the heart-stopping iciness of the water. The details it invokes are those which would pain a real person in a similar situation, and the specter of death hangs over the whole ordeal. But Book A? Instead of the damage a forest of flying razorblades could do, it focuses mostly on the spectacle. The narration is more “in the moment,” and draws more attention to the strangeness of the situation, and the uniqueness of razor-edged leaves. Despite the fact that it’s a very tense moment, the writing almost seems to be stopping to say, “Look! Look at this cool thing! Sure, it’s deadly, but see how alien and strange it is! Isn’t it imaginative?” Characters are hurt, yes, but their injuries seem to leave little impact, and are forgotten in time for the next adventure.

The escapade is interesting and exciting. But it does not drum up those more primal feelings that we associate with “darkness.” It lacks a sense of fear, because the danger of the situation is under-emphasized. It doesn’t have long-term repercussions, which could give the rest of the story a sense of hardship and, perhaps, hopelessness. Death seems unlikely, because it occurs midway through the book, but even the possibility of death is brushed over. This is unlike in Book B, where the potential of death remains a constant background fixture. Book B’s scene also has long-term impact on the plot. Although the protagonist escapes injury, friction between he and his companions over the way he handled the scene leads to character and plot development further down the line. Book B allows itself to have some “weight.” Small things are important, one event leads to another in a steady progression, and everything has its consequence. This gives Book B a feeling of severity that makes the situation seem more real to us. Why does this make it darker? Because “dark” feelings aren’t always ones we want to experience, so in order to more effectively inflict them upon us, the work needs to convince us there’s a reason for them. If we expect things to be funny or heartwarming, we’ll generally be willing to give a limp chuckle or weak “d’aww,” even if the situation presented to us is clichéd or trite. “Lighter” emotions are easier and more enjoyable to have, so we’re more willing to let works manipulate us to be happy. Feeling true sadness or anger at fiction takes more work on the part of both the author and the audience. So in Book A, when the characters frolic through a forest of swords and come out without any scrapes that matter, it’s difficult to muster up genuine fear, because the stakes don’t feel genuine.

Let’s look at another comparison point between Book A and Book B: Their antagonists. Both antagonists have a number of features common to “dark” works. They don’t play by the rules. They don’t display their malice in overt, cartoonish ways, but in subtle, manipulative ones. They don’t kidnap maidens, but they’ll harm innocents to prove a point. They have backstories that suggest that perhaps they were good guys once, but external forces forced them down a dark path. And, unlike in most “light” works, where one reasonably expects the good guy to win by the end, these guys have a half-decent chance of succeeding. They are intended to be threatening in such a way that we as readers will genuinely believe them a danger. In a “lighter” and more optimistic work, we don’t expect Lex Luthor to really triumph over Superman. We don’t think the Evil Queen is really going to stop Snow White forever. We suspend our disbelief so we can enjoy the dramatic tension, but we expect unambiguously happy endings. In a work which is going to be “darker,” and try to challenge us, we need challenges tough enough that our heroes genuinely might not make it.

So how to Book A and Book B stack up? Well, the bad guy in Book A is almost limitlessly powerful against the good guys, and could stop them in his tracks with a snap of his fingers if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want to, because...? And that’s where I run out of answers. From the standpoint of a reader, the antagonist of Book A is only as powerful as he needs to be to only just not stop the protagonists. Although he is established in-universe as being tough enough to, basically, squish them on a whim, he simply... doesn’t. And while his character is established in such a way as to suggest he might enjoy “toying” with them, there is no motivation for that toying. The villain acts like he does because the heroes need some conflict to brush up against now and again. Even though the environment and the people within it provide ample distractions for the good guys’ heroic mettle, the nigh-omnipotent villain only seems to exist to throw in a threat or two in the downtime between them. And while he’s subtle, seductive, and menacing when he does get screen time, his lack of action greatly reduces his impact. The bad guy in Book B, on the other hand, makes his presence known almost immediately. Although the heroes generally do a good job of avoiding him, he’s not omnipotent like the antagonist of Book A is roughly supposed to be. Book B’s heroes also have a greater number of close scrapes. And when the heroes of Book B do finally meet up with their villain, he has reasons for behaving the way he does, and maybe letting them get off too easy once or twice. Book B drops some massive revelations about the nature of its villain near its end, and they cast the events of the book in an entirely different light. So massive is this paradigm shift that the emotions that come with it are also massive. There is anger that the heroes could be treated so. There is fear of the villain, and hopelessness in the face of what he is truly capable of. There is not one happy, humorous, or good-natured emotion in the bunch. Book A has a shocking reveal of its own, but rather than dire up the situation, it only makes the villain look lamer and more pathetic. It’s effective in other ways, but it doesn’t provide that same feeling of all being lost. All is minorly inconvenienced at best.

I suppose in a way that goes against my original statement that it’s all about presentation, since some of Book B’s villain is probably down to content—and the nature of Book A’s reveal probably makes it difficult to pull off with gravitas. But while content can affect it, presentation still affects the tone of the work a lot more. Compare Book A’s scene with the razor forest with the usual, not merely dark, but “Darker and Edgier” work. The sort of thing that many people think equals dark. The focus of such works is generally not on the difficult emotions or challenges of a situation, but how “cool” it is. The writers try to ramp things up by adding more violence, more swearing, and more sex appeal, but the emphasis is not on how close the heroes come to death, the anger and hopelessness that drives them to swear, or relationships and sexual dynamics. It’s on how many shiny, spinning blades there are on that robot, how bawdy that word is, and how titillating that actress looks in a skimpy dress. Although the added violence and swearing makes it seem like there are more intense stakes and emotions in play, those things aren’t explored. That’s how the scene in Book A feels—it’s not about the heroes and their struggles, it’s about making cool monsters. And I’ll be the first person to say it: There is nothing wrong with cool monsters. But “cool monster,” by itself, is not an emotion. And if a text treats a cool monster as just that—a cool monster—then readers will notice its cool-monsterness more than they’ll notice the severe danger it poses to the heroes.

And if looking at young adult fantasy novels you don’t know the names of doesn’t convince you, why don’t we let Shakespeare step up to bat for us once again? Look at one of his more troubling and dark plays, like The Merchant of Venice. Merchant is, by technical definition, one of his comedies. All’s well that ends well (even though that’s a different play), the good guys end up married, and the bad guy gets his comeuppance. There’s a number of his usual comedic tropes, like the overbearing father, and the obligatory crossdressing scene. But many of these standbys are presented with an unusually serious air. Shylock may be a bad guy, but he’s got thoughts and feelings to, to the point where scholars still debate how sympathetic he’s meant to be. Portia’s search for suitors is a strange spectacle, but the impact it’s left on Portia is a bit more inspected than it might be in other plays. And while other Shakespeare comedies may have philosophical ramblings in them, or unusually grim subplots, Merchant treats most of its topics with a seriousness that Shakespeare’s other comedies lack.

In a way, that’s what the essence of “darkness” really is: Seriousness. This is true even of dark comedy. Compare a joke where the punchline itself is something tragic or disturbing—“dead baby” comedy, if you will—with a joke that takes place during something tragic, or is based around it. Dark comedies and dramedies like M*A*S*H*  may set out to show that things like war and death are not without humor, and that life continues to be funny even when it’s sad. But they do so with respect for their topic. In a way, they seek to ease the sting of tragedy by showing that life goes on, and help people come to grips with their sadder feelings by providing people with something to laugh about. However, when the joke is merely that a tragedy’s occurred, you’ll get about a 50/50 spread of people claiming it’s funny, and people claiming it’s offensive. To many people, such jokes feel like they’re merely belittling the topic. They don’t actually address the “darker” feelings, and instead try to pretend that they don’t exist.

It should be obvious that not every work that takes itself seriously is or should be considered “dark.” Nor should every work, ever, be “dark.” But if a work is going to attempt to be “dark,” it should do so by treating its more depressing subject matter with a little respect, instead of going gung-ho with the violence and overblown tragic backstories. It’s possible my thoughts on this matter are too little, too late. Some pop-culture analyzing-type people are theorizing that popular media is currently in an upswing towards “optimistic and happy” again. With things like Glee and My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic dominating the airwaves, maybe the dark and dreary cobwebs spun in the 90’s are finally being brushed away. But these things are cyclical. In 20 years or so, the grim will probably be back, in full force. Maybe then, they’ll do it with a little bit of sincerity. And if we really are entering an era of “new optimism?” Let us dare to hope.