Nate Intolubbe

May goes on, as does my analysis of science fiction. This week will focus on the center piece of the genre: the advanced technology.

Speculating on potential developments in engineering and physics has an enormous margin for error, and inevitably, some specific devices (plot or mechanical) require just as much suspension of disbelief as magic in fantasy does. That’s not a criticism, just an observation.

Consider the films that prompted my look into the genre: Star Wars. Even if the technology exists to travel at light speed, there still is a problem when it conflicts with real physics like inertia.

Imagine being in a roller coaster with your head forward, and the ride suddenly takes off, smacking your head backward. Or, driving with something heavy in the back of your car, and you brake suddenly, causing the item to slide forward. Just because the roller coaster started moving does not mean your head did, and just because your car stopped does not mean the item did.

So is the role of inertia in regular movement, and if one were in a ship traveling at light speed, they could be sent flying backwards, likely pulverizing on impact as the wall slams into them at such high velocity. Spaceballs, as campy as it is, did point out some of the realistic implications of this technology with the “Ludicrous Speed” scene. Spaceballs, of all places.

Now, the argument could be made that while originally developing light speed technology, the engineers developed a way to account for things like inertia. If modern humans accounted for the need to stop a car by inventing brakes, then it is reasonable that sci-fi technologists found similar work-arounds.

Is the physics behind Star Wars’ light speed ever explained much in the movies? No, and that is likely for the better. Otherwise, there would be more convoluted explanations that stretch the laws of nature further, breaking immersion.

And this brings me to the first main point on sci-fi technology: more realistic technology merits more explanation of how it works, and less realistic technology should receive less explanation.

A good example of this rule comes from the granddaddy of sci-fi himself, Jules Verne, and his novel 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Captain Nemo explains that his ship, The Nautilus, receives power from electricity. How does he do this, with the Victorian emphasis on steam locomotion? Sodium batteries. How does he get sodium? By burning coal, separating sodium from sea salt.

Boom. Sci-fi technology that operates under the laws of physics, all easily explained so that it enriches the reader’s understanding, not confuses it. Jules Verne completely predicted a new advancement that is reasonable, and has been developed decades after his book.

Another example is Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. As the astronaut protagonists undergo a voyage into space, their rocket has a rotating interior that simulates gravity through centripetal force. Again, a realistic discovery that uses the laws of physics as a step ladder, not a hurdle.

Returning to Star Wars, which is far more speculative and advanced than the tamer examples I gave. For the most part, this is a good example of the second half of the rule I stated: its technology is less realistic, but that is fine, because the writing in the films does not go too in-depth on how it works.

Outside sources for the Star Wars universe are a different story, and more is developed in alamanac-type books and Wikis about how it works for curious fans. But, it does not dominate the story with the physics behind it.

Another usual rule is that if a part of technology does something that is crucial to the plot, it must be explained or demonstrated. Nobody likes Deus ex Machina. Not even the Greeks, at least not anymore.

This rule applies to literature in general, and is almost like the opposite angle of Chekhov’s Gun (if a gun is set up in the story, it should be fired at some point). To illustrate, let’s call this Chekhov’s Gunfire. If a gun is going to be fired, the story should set up that there is a gun in the first place.

There is the age-old saying that rules are meant to be broken, and for me, satire can break all the rules of literature it wants. Satires of sci-fi can explain the most convoluted of inventions with whatever strange justification is needed, as suspension of disbelief is already thrown out the window. A good example is the Babel fish in Hitchhiker’s Guide, which feeds on and releases brain waves. This allows someone wearing it in their ear to understand any language.

Is that ridiculous? Of course. Can it get away with it? Of course, and the other genres just have to mope in the corner as it flouts every rule they live by.

Sci-fi’s most unique attribute can be its greatest weakness if not used correctly, and one of the best ways to prevent it from going topside is to know what to explain and when. With that, the stars are not even the limit.

What are some of your favorite sci-fi technologies? Which ones were so elegantly detailed, and which not so much?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

Continuing my look into science fiction for the month of May, the next part of the subject is characters in the genre.

Like any sort of character writing, the author must have a firm grasp of the environment each figure would have been in, as well as individual personality traits. Less nature vs nurture, rather considering how nature and nurture coincide to create the complexities of a person.

Is a character naturally plucky, or is their optimism a coping mechanism for living under a dystopian government? Do these experiences challenge this positivity, or give them a reason to hold on to hope?

Other important questions are how people are typically raised, which philosophies are predominant in the society, and how people with certain natural dispositions react to all this.

If the society is rigid and militaristic, someone who is naturally expressive and iconoclastic would have a very tough time (and depending on the strictness, in mortal danger), prompting a push for change. In communal and laidback areas, someone who is competitive and craves structure would be an oddball, and may go on a space-adventure to achieve that.

Relatability is another factor, one that sci-fi has its own complications with. Characters in modern-era stories are more relatable to us, because a reader from that time understands the general mentality and external factors they are going through . Works from other time periods, however, have less a generation gap, and more of a generation canyon, due to significant changes in the world.

Science fiction is temporal change on steroids, and in some cases, crystal meth. A generation Mariana trench. These characters will typically have experiences, slang, responsibilities, and culture vastly different from the current day. Part of the fun of speculative fiction is figuring many of this out, and expanding one’s worldview; however, part of the responsibility is understanding the fictional universe enough to reflect it in its characters, while presenting it in a way that readers can process and enjoy.

Especially in television or film, it is critical to have the characters relay most of the world-building. Books can get away with disembodied narration doing some of the explaining, but only so much can be said in text scrolling up the screen before a movie itself has to take over.

Thus, it depends on whether a character was separated from many of the sci-fi elements, or at least does not have the full history. Having some characters learn alongside the audience makes it more manageable.

Luke Skywalker in Star Wars was raised around the spacecraft and blasters, but his uncle avoided telling him about the Force, so he receives the information on it as the audience does. Neo from The Matrix is thrown into the high-tech future, and gets the same run-down we do. Bobby from Pendragon has lived his life in only one of ten dimensional territories, and learns about all nine others as he visits them.

And in all these cases, the characters use their prior experiences to deal with the challenges in the story. Luke piloting his speeder and bullseye-ing womp rats as a farm boy is relevant in the final battle of A New Hope. Neo being a hacker helps his understanding of the Matrix’s simulation. Bobby’s uncle taking him for skydiving, scuba diving, and other activities helps him out as the books progress.

Of course, all of this could be thrown out the window by having people in this futuristic world act and talk just like people in our time. Which is fine, as long as it fits the tone. It works well in satires like Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, because it shows how the weaknesses of people and societies carry over across the universe.

As with all writing, every factor has an interconnected relationship with the others, while still being its own piece to remove and examine.

And in a genre as up past the clouds as sci-fi, having realistic and tangible characters grounds the reader. Critics say that there is no need for realism in sci-fi because of spaceships and laser swords, but this idea forgets about suspension of disbelief.

Suspending disbelief is like a crane suspending a girder off the ground. The cable needs to be firmly attached to something solid, otherwise it will never pick it up; and there must be enough weight to prevent the girder from pulling the crane down with it.

Characters provide that counterbalance, allowing us to suspend our disbelief and enjoy the science fiction. And knowing how to engineer that crane will help build a strong, structured story.

Who are some of your favorite sci-fi characters? What makes them likable, and how does this enrich the genre?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

Hello readers. In honor of May the Fourth, the posts for today and the rest of the month will be my take on the Sci-Fi genre and several of its aspects.

To start, we need a definition of science fiction. Lexico (a dictionary site from Oxford) defines it as “fiction based on imagined future scientific or technological advances and major social or environmental changes, frequently portraying space or time travel and life on other planets.” This is the definition I will use for the sake of my discussion.

I thought of new terms today (May 4th, 2020) to help categorize different genres: fore-genre and back-genre. It references the foreground and background of a picture.

A fore-genre is one that lays the parameters for the work’s plot, whereas a back-genre is one related to a story’s setting and world-building. A literary work has at least one fore-genre and one back-genre, and can have multiple in each category.

Fore-genres include mystery, romance, action, and horror. They relate to the events that will take place. Back-genres include fantasy, historical fiction, modern-era, and science fiction. They relate to where/when things take place.

Going back to Oxford’s definition, we see that Sci-Fi sets up much of the backdrop – but not the specific types of stories.

Hence, its status as a back-genre, and why it needs others in the foreground. Combine it with mystery, and the result is Altered Carbon. Mix it with action and you get superhero movies, and a pinch of dystopian added to that cooks up The Hunger Games. Baking with adventure yields Star Trek. Hybridize some horror for Alien and Predator. Throw some adventure and fantasy in there, and Star Wars comes out.

I bring up that final combo not just because it is the series’ special day, but also to highlight the similarities. Years ago, I always wondered why Sci-Fi and fantasy were put together in libraries and bookstores.

But then I realized, they are essentially the same genre, albeit different angles. They are both speculative about altered versions of the world (technology and magic), have a variety of strange beings (aliens and mythical creatures), and require more suspension of disbelief. The grand epic nature is also commonly shared, as well as the use of allegory and philosophy.

I would go far enough to say that Sci-Fi is fantasy for writers who do not want to use magic. Though many works combine the two aspects, as in Star Wars, World of Warcraft, and my own book, Cases of Inspector Marshall, Vol I.

And all of this builds into the appeal of the Sci-Fi genre: it speaks to the human desire to improve our lives and explore new things. It allows us to evaluate where we are going, by showing a possible future. And, since many dystopian and war stories exist in science fiction settings, it oftentimes shows that human nature does not change because technology changes.

Its ability to give us works beloved and haunting points to its versatility, a strong trait that has made it iconic in the cultural mindset.

What are some of your favorite Sci-Fi stories? What genre-combos with science fiction have you enjoyed, or would like to see more of?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

With yesterday as the first day of spring, I continue my look into beginning certain parts of literature. This week, I look at the basics of world-building.

Before that, I have good news for my own series. I have already finished the first major story for The Cases of Inspector Marshall, Volume II, and have made progress with a couple other ones. Plenty of new content on the way.

Returning to the subject of the post, it is important to understand that world-building is done in two methods, which often feed back into each other. The first is the broader brainstorming, the pool of information about the world and its general principles. The second is the specific application of these principles in the text or onscreen, which information is shared as is relevant.

Both are vital. The general aspect is used to determine what is used in scenes, and the specific use refines and expands the broader knowledge.

All genres rely on world-building. Fantasy, sci-fi, and alternate history are the most looked at, as there is the speculative aspect, with timelines and universes often coming from scratch. But, other genres use it in subtle ways. Hence, this is still an important skill for authors to learn.

Historical fiction uses the past as a backdrop, which needs to be constructed properly. The atmosphere and tone derive from the how the setting is established, vital for determining if a romance is bright and cheery or down to earth; whether an action film is bombastic and cinematic or jarring and gritty; and if a drama encompasses a small town or stays in one house.

If a town is your setting, it should feel rich enough to stand out and be memorable, its history or routine playing into the plot. It should feel like its own character, unique and relatable to the reader, brought to life through its denizens and events transpiring.

And if you are going for the bold move, creating your own fantasy/sci-fi world, here are some general tips I learned when crafting mine:

1. Water the plants, don’t drop them in the pool. Info-dumps are rarely helpful, trying to flesh the world out in such a short time with an inorganic fashion. Creating lore is fun, as is sharing it with others; and to make it better for everyone involved, giving it as needed provides a more natural way for readers to process the information.
2. Write as much of the lore as you want – and switch back to writing the novel when you’re stuck. And, vice versa, in whichever starting order works for you. This allows you to use ideas and events from one to craft the other, like both sides of a handcar driving themselves forward.
3. Don’t use the body text as your almanac. Keeping your world-building compiled in a separate file/document/section lets you record everything where you can easily access it. And, it reduces temptation to share lore where it doesn’t quite fit. The document I did this with evolved into the Appendices at the back of my book, an effective solution to establish lore while avoiding info-dumps in the body text.
4. You don’t need to know everything about your world to write your story. And, the world-building should not come before writing a good story. It is better for you to leave some blank spots in the lore for later works to fill in, if it prevents snags in creating the novel itself.
5. Show when it makes sense to. Tell when showing does not make sense. If something is told, it should weave naturally into conversation (when applicable, and considering what the participants should know as people in the world), or be narrated in a way that engages the audience.

World-building is fun, and is arguably fiction in its rawest form: creating something new, outside our current existence. And since it has the largest scope out of other writing tools, it can be unwieldy when not in capable hands.

And whether it’s a studio apartment or a cosmic war-zone of gods, the setting should be deep enough for the readers to immerse themselves – while not dragging them down to drown.

Have a bloody – I mean, blessed – Ides of March. Do not forget to stab a bowl of Caesar Salad for the good of Rome.

Continuing on from previous posts, I will address various means of beginnings in literature. This time, focusing on the novel, given the recent publication of my own work.

The order in which I wrote The Cases of Inspector Marshall, Vol. I is well outside their chronological presentation. The first Marshall story I ever wrote was not the prologue. In fact, that was one of the last parts I put down on paper. Or, word processor, if I’m being literal. The epilogue was not even the last one I typed. The cases I started for Volume II are already scattered across the timeline.

“The Creature of Kettle Hall” was the story I had written before all the others. Even though it was a fair introduction to the detective, his capabilities, and background, I elected to put a prologue in front. I will delve into why shortly.

Starting a novel consists of two parts: the opening sequence, and the motivation to begin. It can be daunting, to have nothing written yet so much to write; it is possible to get hung up on how the book should commence.

Which is why my best advice to start a novel is to write a chapter other than the very beginning. An author does not have to write every chapter or story in the order they appear in the book. The sections to prioritize are the ones richest in the mind of the creator, typing out the ideas while they are fresh. That way, there is something written down that you can springboard off into other parts.

Wading one step at a time into the pool can take too long to immerse yourself, and it is too easy to leave. Cannonballing into the center, however, gets it over with faster. It allows you to get deep enough in, and you can swim around to any part of the pool from there. The stairs can wait until you need to use them.

And if the very beginning is the richest scene in mind, go for it. And if you are stuck on a certain step, you can always launch further into the water until you are ready to go back to it.

Writing later sections of the novel can help you out when you return to the true start. You can set up foreshadowing, raise questions that other chapters answer, create a base for how characters were prior to change – and so many more possibilities.

And most importantly, you are familiar enough with what the novel is, so that you understand more about how it should begin.

All of this adds into why I wrote the prologue after finishing most of the other stories: I realized it was a stronger opening than “Kettle Hall.” For action and narrative purposes. Recurring characters introduced, the world setting established, more gripping and immediate events – I learned enough about the book to know that these were what needed to come first.

If any of you readers are aspiring writers yourself, keep all of this in mind. Solve the pieces of the puzzle that you can, and soon you will see more of the picture and where it snaps together.

Best of luck.

I will be making a post today and tomorrow, to account for not doing one last week.

In the spirit of beginnings, March’s posts will focus on the ways to start various parts of literature. Zooming in from last week, we know look at scenes.

Kicking off a scene functions differently from opening a short story or novel, as the latter two involve creating a first impression of a literary work. For this reason, this post will focus more on beginning a scene independently of whether it is the first one of the narrative.

Thus, this advice is more for after you have determined where in the story it occurs.

The initial step is understanding what type of scene it is. Like novels and movies, scenes have genres. There are action scenes, comedy scenes, romantic scenes, horror scenes, dramatic scenes – and these can occur regardless of the genre of the work in which it takes place.

For instance, Shakespeare’s Macbeth is a dark tragedy, but it still has comedic moments like the drunken porter (who I remember), and Lady Macduff arguing with her son. Monty Python and the Holy Grail is a satire, but has actions scenes such as the Black Knight and Lancelot vs. Swamp Castle.

Once the type of scene is determined, you can answer the journalistic questions about it. Each one of these add to the stakes.

For example, an argument scene can have a multitude of effects on the reader based on these facts. An argument between strangers has different risks compared to one between a boss and an employee, or to a newlywed couple. If it takes place in a house with just them, it creates different environmental factors than happening in the middle of a restaurant, and even presents a physical threat if it occurs on a balcony high above the ground.

Establishing the stakes gives the readers a reason to engage with the scene.

With all of this in mind, here are some of the more common ways to begin a scene:

1. Describe the setting. Detailing the unique aspects of the ‘where,’ especially with rich sensory imagery, can create interest. This usually applies to the first time a scene occurs at this place, not repeated for the same location unless it undergoes change between scenes.
   1. Example: much of Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
2. Dialogue. This helps if the scene is more conversational, and can set the rhythm of the communication. Others details of the where can be unfolded at whatever pace is necessary.
   1. Example: the interrogation room in The Dark Knight.
3. In media res. An oldy but a goody. A character is taking action, and the narration drops in as it occurs. The reader is often thrown abruptly into the change of pace, creating wonder to what has happened and what will.
   1. Example: the guard chase (“One Jump Ahead”) in Disney’s Aladdin.
4. Direct hook. An opening line, sentence, or passage that grips the reader’s attention. This immediately sets up the stakes, dropping the severity of the situation right on the reader.
   1. Example: the first line of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
5. Anecdote. Narration or storytelling to add context or set the tone.
   1. Example: the text openings in the Star Wars films.

Each of these are descriptions, with plenty of bleeding through between them. This is more to help give structure to one’s thought process, as there are too many possible scene openings to list.

Ultimately, every scene should have a purpose. The beginning should help show what some of that purpose is, and let the rest of it fulfill that reason. And like all good writing, not every question should be answered too early. Knowing what not to put right at the start is as valuable as knowing what to put.

The first impression of many scenes does not have to equal that of larger works, though each one adds up for a better experience for the reader. For the scenes are the bricks that build the story, and a house made of bricks is better than a brick the size of a house.

Unless you need to load a trebuchet. Or if you’re Quentin Tarantino.

What are some of your favorite scenes, and what about them draws you in from their beginnings?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

It is good to be blog-writing again, readers. March is upon us, bringing with it spring and revival from winter. Some cultures (like the Romans) had their calendar begin in March for this reason, and the vernal equinox is also New Year’s Day in the world of my recently published novel, The Cases of Inspector Marshall, Vol. I.

The month symbolizes rebirth; with my book finally available and my getting back to blog-writing, plenty of beginnings have happened. So, the theme I am using for March’s posts revolve around beginnings in literature.

This week will focus on starting short stories.

There are general rules for an effective opening that apply to all sizes of literature – scene, chapter, story, novel – and methods that adapt to each of these categories. In most cases, the start should answer the journalistic questions of what, who, where, when, how, and why – but not all of them.

The reason is to catch the attention of the readers, and give them a reason to keep going. If a story begins with a murder, that answers the ‘what’; giving a victim answers some of the ‘who’ (pauses – “Ever since I was a young boy, I played the silver ball…”); and details like ‘where’ and ‘when’ paint a picture that grounds the audience. A murder immediately establishes the stakes as well, and creates investment in what has occurred.

Meanwhile, delaying the answer on ‘why’ it was done and ‘who’ did it makes the reader want to learn these facts. With the conflict demonstrated, people want to see it play out and for the characters to resolve it.

A short story benefits having this initial spark earlier than other mediums, due to its length. A five-act play like Shakespeare’s Macbeth can wait some time before the conflict-driving murder happens, though a short story has less wiggle room. Not to say that every story should dive right into the problem either, as it oftentimes is better to introduce some of the characters and what they are doing. This makes them more relatable to the audience, so that when you do drop the main conflict, people are more invested in it.

Like introducing a kindly old woodcarver, selling his handmade wares on the curb; learning about how he has almost made enough money to take his grandkids to Disneyland; he snorts when he laughs; he keeps a photo of his wife in his pocket-watch, and as he starts telling you about how great her cookies are…

…a truck speeds by, and a masked man in the back clubs the woodcarver in the head with a baseball bat.

Smaller-stakes narratives benefit from the same principle. For instance, if a story is about a wedding gone wrong, it helps to establish who is getting hitched and some details about the big day – just to find out that the rings have been lost, or that the bride or groom used to sleep with one of the bridesmaids.

For my own stories, I have found that an effective way to start is to describe the setting, then introduce characters with the conflict afterwards. The order of this changes to add variety and to adapt to the particular story.

And that boils down the idea to its core: a skilled writer does not memorize one formula and haphazardly apply it to every story, rather understands what the narrative needs, and has the insight on bringing it out with the proper timing.

If you are writing a short story, here are some questions to ask yourself if you are stuck on the opening:

What is the goal of the story, and what has happened before its events? Where does it start, and which features of the location can lead into the conflict? Who does the story focus on, and how do they tie into what occurs? Are there any themes or central premises that the story is meant to explore, and how should the beginning demonstrate them? Why is the story happening, and what are some ways to keep the audience interested and guessing? What impression do you want the reader to have in the first few pages?

Starting something is often the part that requires the most willpower. I struggled for a week to write the opening for “The Drowned Tomb,” and once that was done, I wrote twenty-plus pages in three days. I deleted the first seven pages of “Inspector Marshall Versus the Headless Horseman” because I did not like how it went, and knew that I needed to start over.

Understand your story and what you want it to accomplish, to give an idea on how you want it to begin; then proofread it to bits to make sure you are satisfied with it. That is one way to write well in general, and is especially applicable to kicking off what you want your short story to be.

What are some of your favorite opening scenes? What is it about certain works that immediately grip your attention?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

As we crest over the middle of November, so too does the investigation into satire continue.

Other genres follow the familiar story progression (exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, conclusion), while satire takes the episodic approach. There are some that include the buildup of tension into a climactic event as usual, yet the primary model is a buildup of comedic effect. The scenes and episodes create humorous elements that leads to the equivalent to a climax: the punchline. The reason for the satirizing, and the point it leaves.

Throughout Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the characters contribute to the philosophical search for meaning. Understanding Life, the Universe, and Everything is the goal, from regular to cosmic beings. The most recognizable joke from the novel is the computer’s calculation to the meaning of it all: the number 42. Which, in code, stands for an asterisk (*), which also in turn stands for the phrase “whatever you want it to be.” A programming joke makes a simple point–that life is best when you decide what to do with it–that goes over the heads of the Magratheans.

In short, they ask a computer (named Deep Thought) to decipher meaning, it gives a computer’s response, and they do not understand the implications. Upset at not being told what they want to hear, they strive to build a machine that does. Making the most of life is not enough for them.

A snarky yet astute commentary on close-minded philosophers.

Voltaire’s Candide follows a similar pattern. The true “climax” or “punchline” of Hitchhiker’s Guide was when the above capstone information was received. For the Frenchman’s work, the ultimate pinnacle of its satire is when the titular character abandons his optimism for a more pragmatic mindset. “We must tend our garden,” he tells Pangloss, a statement about taking responsibility instead of expecting everything to turn out for the best. The ultimate evisceration of Leibniz’s philosophy, where the horrid reality reveals the naivete behind zealous positivity.

Martin (akin in many respects to the android Marvin) provides the pessimistic antithesis, creating humor as the caricature of negativity is more aware and sensible about the atrocities of the world. Only after hearing Pangloss’ foolish excuses, attempts to force the events to fit his outlook, does Martin’s influence on Candide become fully apparent.

In this case, the punchline takes the form of character growth, fair to the episodic story by sticking to the person that is always there.

The philosophical works pull off this culmination of meaningful humor, yet parodies express this in their own unique ways.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail may have a plot climax at the bridge scene, yet the comedic payoff plays out across the ending. The swallow, French Knights, and police all play the built up role for humorous plays. The ultimate joke, however, is that King Arthur and his knights fail just as they do in the legends. While the final moments leave an unsatisfying conclusion at the very end, it still gives the parallel to the source material: serious Arthur loses for serious reasons, silly Arthur loses for silly reasons.

And when a fictional king is subjected to ridicule, this typically represents a joke on leadership. Arthur’s lack of expected kingly qualities (fairness, justice, and dignity) has us consider how few actual monarchs in history espoused these traits. Lancelot’s bloodlust show us why knights existed in the first place, warfare, and reveals why romanticizing these times does a disservice to its victims. This parody of medieval idolization is more realistic than other portrayals of the period, and the flaws of the comedic characters are fitting.

Mel Brooks’s Spaceballs does not have an exact punchline, following the traditional story structure (with Mega Maid the climax). Its goal is to make fun of sci-fi movies, not even to provide criticism of the genre. Yet it is too on the nose on that, imitating the source material too much, for there to be any commentary on the genre it targets.

This lack of a punchline makes it a weaker satire, where all the effort from the buildup amounts to very little. Using slightly different character names and events does not lend enough to be clever, and the dumb jokes only make the movie bearable when intoxicated. It sets a low goal for itself (be a comedic version of beloved sci-fi films), and does not fully accomplish even that.

Compare to South Park, an animated show that surpasses the aforementioned parodies in terms of ridiculousness, yet ends up being the smartest in its own way. The episodes always contribute to the same punchline: people. The nonsensical way that characters in the show act, or the bizarre consequences from the chain of events, pale in comparison to the decisions of real people.

In “The Coon” trilogy, they satirize the BP Oil Company’s response to them spilling in bodies of water. In “Informative Murder Porn,” they make fun of parents’ concerns for the media their children interact with, by putting the parents in the position of kids’ monitored activity. In “With Apologies to Jesse Jackson,” they mock people who gain publicity for racially inflammatory behavior. And while the events seem exaggerated at first, the real joke is the mindset behind what they are targeting. Lack of responsibility, parents judging their kids while they themselves view worse things, and careless/casual discriminatory actions so brazenly displayed.

The episodes change every year, but the spirit of the comedy remains unchanged. It knows how people work, and creates strong allegories for the points it wants to get across.

Most of these examples showcase how reality is more strange and contradictory than fiction, and have us consider the ridiculousness of our own world. Brilliant satire leaves the reader/audience with these considerations.

Not so much the particular plot style of up and down a hill, the constant rise of the satirical staircase story arrives at the punchline at the top. The most effective ones weave it in so well, it speaks for itself.

What are some of your favorite moments in satire? Which parodies succeed or fail, in your experience?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

For November, I am continuing my look into the satire genre and the parts of it that make it work. I am also using the same handful of examples from last week.

For the purpose of this, I will be using the definition of satire from dictionary.com: “a literary composition, in verse or prose, in which human vice or folly are held up to scorn, derision, and ridicule.”

This also includes parody: “a humorous or satirical imitation of a serious piece of literature or writing” (dictionary.com).

This week, I will discuss how satires can use their story structure/events as part of their jokes and social commentary.

Stories of this genre often take a style of adventure and picaresque, where each stop and segment of the journey derides and mocks something different. Each scene or chapter usually becomes a mini satire, culminating themes as the characters travel. Episodic in nature, the changing setting reflects the way these stories agitate the concepts they target.

For instance, Monty Python and the Holy Grail satirizes Arthurian legend and the romanticization of medieval times through the silliness of its scenes. The anarcho-syndicalist commoners mock peasant revolts like the Jacquerie, and portrays Arthur doing what actual kings did: he attacks people who challenge his authority. It also makes fun of divine right monarchy, showing the practical ramifications of him being a king.

The French knights hark back to the Hundred Year’s War, while demonstrating a comical version of siege warfare. The plague scene portrays the middle ages as filthy and full of pestilence, as opposed to the glamorization of the time period in media, with the humorous comparison of body carts with garbage trucks. Sir Robin being cowardly, the murderous Three-Headed Knight, the territorial Black Knight, and the cruel Knights of Ni portray an inversion of the brave, protective, generous, and kindly cavaliers of fiction.

The film mocks tales that romanticize the medieval world, and uses the best engine for this task: King Arthur, the one that started it all.

Spaceballs, on the other hand, does not use scenes to satirize concepts, but scenes to parody specific scenes. The characters meeting Yogurt and the Schwartz training matches Luke Skywalker meeting Yoda. Rescuing Princess Vespa, just like rescuing Princess Leia. Destroying Spaceball I and battling Dark Helmet, like destroying the Death Star and battling Darth Vader.

Evidently, this gives less room for creativity and makes it a less effective parody. It does not even go far enough to mock that many tropes of the sci-fi genre, sticking only to specific films and shows. The lack of original storylines detracts from its cleverness, and does not add much to the dialogue on the subject.

Not that it was ever meant to be a super meaningful work, or in depth commentary on sci-fi.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, meanwhile, accomplishes this in spades. Though it does rib its home genre, Douglas Adams primarily uses sci-fi to ridicule humanity and philosophy. Zaphod Beeblebrox is the President of the Galaxy, yet his Earthling citizens like Arthur Dent did not even know such a role existed. This comments on irresponsible leadership, painting scenes in a new light: the entire time, Zaphod is supposed to be doing his job, but is not.

The scene of Earth’s destruction pokes fun at bureaucracy, as well as eminent domain in Britain. Arthur Dent ending up on Zaphod’s ship adds salt to the wound, as the planet could have been saved if he had been fulfilling his elected duty. The Earthman talking with the robot Marvin, particularly on Magrathea, creates banter that makes the eventual climactic moment hilarious. And the constant search for the meaning of “Life, the Universe, and Everything” shown as a space journey plays on philosophy, having the entire cosmos to explore, but searching for meaning instead.

Candide mirrors this, where each major event whittles at the protagonist’s long-ingrained optimism. Since Voltaire wanted to mock Leibniz’s philosophy (that this is the best of all possible worlds and everything turns out for the best), he caricatures his rival as Dr. Pangloss, juxtaposing the incidents of the novel with the idealistic mindset. Candide is instructed that everything is awesome (cue The Lego Movie song), right before being kicked out of his home and conscripted into an army that commits atrocities. When our hero’s friend Jacques drowns in Lisbon, Pangloss tells him that the port was created for him to die in, and feeds into his foolish positivism when the earthquake strikes.

Traversing Europe, the Americas, and the Ottoman Empire, Candide witnesses all kinds of horrors. War, rape, religious persecution, natural disasters, slavery, and others. If this were a simple adventure, these plot events primarily apply to the character’s own disillusionment; but knowing it as a satire, it becomes a scathing rebuke of Leibniz’s optimism. If such wanton violence and injustice occurs, than this cannot be the best of all possible worlds, and Pangloss’s commentary on each evil reveals the naivete behind the outlook.

While Hitchhiker’s Guide takes a Horatian (light-hearted) look at general philosophy, how people (and machines) search for meaning (and ultimately find none), Candide retorts and satirizes a specific attitude, more Juvenalian (dark-humored).

South Park mixes Horatian and Juvenalian styles depending on the message, occurring in the same town yet still traversing all corners of the universe. As the only television show in these examples, it takes the episodic approach quite literally, homing in on a specific target and utterly destroying it in twenty two minutes. “Crack Baby Athletic Association” (a phrase you thought you would not read today) satirizes how colleges do not compensate their student athletes, a more hard-hitting Juvenalian lampoon. In “Make Love, Not Warcraft,” the episode engages in Horatian humor to spoof the video game and people who excessively play it. The series parodies Game of Thrones with the “Black Friday Trilogy,” using the show to mock the holiday and vice versa, bouncing between both types.

The situations created in South Park are utterly ridiculous, even more absurd at times than Holy Grail and Spaceballs, yet there is still an internal logic. It makes sense in the framework of the episode, and the show can get away with it because of the brand it has established. And, it accomplishes what excellent satire sets out to do: create bizarre situations that seem unrealistic, and nonetheless reveal how strange reality is. “Child Abduction is Not Funny” portrays the parents as idiotic (a common theme in the series), an exaggeration that really is not so exaggerated considering the mistakes grown adults make in real life. The focus that episodes bring allow such in-depth approaches.

Like any joke, part of the humor is in the telling. A good one can make people laugh before the punchline is even uttered, whereas one that does not properly set up and build up will fail even with a good punchline.

While there is no singular formula to create satire, the key is to understand where the story is supposed to go, and take the best route to arrive there. The readers and audience are along for the ride, and a road trip that is all about the destination is less enjoyable if the journey is boring.

What are some of your favorite satires (or even South Park episodes)? Do you prefer Horatian or Juvenalian methods?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.