The Importance of Infection in Fiction
By Sarah Callender | August 9, 2017 |
Last week my husband and I forked over the $20.50 (per ticket!) to see the IMAX version of Dunkirk, a gorgeous film that left me weary and numb and in awe of the strength and courage of my fellow human beings. It’s really astounding, such courage. Me? I’m scared of head lice, sidewalk grates and Halloween. I’d be a ridiculous soldier.
But driving home after the film, I realized my husband and I were talking about the characters, not by name but by descriptor: The old civilian man, the pilot, the shell shocked guy, the young English soldier, the young English soldier’s French friend. Kenneth Branagh.
“Hey,” I said to my husband. “What was the name of the main character? The young English soldier?”
My husband couldn’t answer. Neither could I.
“How about the pilot?” I said. “Did we know his name? Or the old civilian man? Did we know any of these characters’ names?”
He and I realized we could recall the name of only one character: George, a teenage civilian hoping to one day get his picture in the paper to please his father.
We stopped at a red light. “Actually,” I continued, “a lot of times I couldn’t even tell which character was who.” Then it hit me. “Oh my gosh! We knew nothing about those characters. No back story at all.” I paused, reviewing the details of the film to see if that was true. “No names, indistinguishable faces, identical uniforms, no back story … that equals no character development! How, without the help of fleshy, flawed characters, did that film impact me?”
My husband was quiet for a few beats. He’s always quiet for a few beats before he says smart and insightful stuff.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to feel connected to the characters,” he said finally. “I don’t think that’s the point. The point of this movie is to put us there. On the beach at Dunkirk. It impacted you because you were there.”
My husband doesn’t read much fiction (a truth he blatantly disguised while we were courting), but he had nailed this. We, the viewers, are supposed to be on the beach of Dunkirk, not as witnesses but as participants. We aren’t supposed to be connecting with the characters any more than the soldiers are connecting with their fellow soldiers in the film, and they aren’t connecting with each other, getting to know one another and, I don’t know, exchanging phone numbers, because they are too busy not getting killed.
Likewise, we the viewers aren’t supposed to be getting chummy or feeling connected to any of the characters. We’re too busy getting hauled aboard the civilian yachts and fishing boats. We’re doing our job in the cockpit of a spitfire, watching the falling gas gauge and trying to shoot the enemy before the enemy shoots us. We’re trapped and submerged within the hold of a torpedoed destroyer.
I wasn’t sitting in that theater seat to fall in love with these characters, to share moments of empathy and recognition with them. I wasn’t even there to be entertained. I was there so I could be, you know, there.
Still, I like to be dumped in an unfamiliar world because of the characters who inhabit that world. This film had held my attention because it plunked me in the pilot’s seat of a spitfire and got me on a dock with Kenneth Branagh? It didn’t seem like enough to hold my interest. Why was I impacted by this film? I couldn’t figure it out.
When I can’t figure something out, I do one of two things: fold laundry while watching reruns of Parks and Recreation. Or I turn to Google.
I chose the latter and stumbled upon something interesting from my dear friend and comrade, Leo Tolstoy.
“Art,” Tolstoy says, “is that human activity that consists in one man’s consciously conveying to others, by certain external signs, the feelings he has experienced, and in others being infected by those feelings and also experiencing them.”
Leo and I were onto something: I was infected by the experience of Dunkirk. Christopher Nolan used visuals along with the actors’ skills to externally convey emotions that real soldiers at Dunkirk likely felt. As a result, I experienced terror, anxiety, futility, hope, hopelessness, ambivalence … all without knowing one bit of these characters’ back story. All without being privy to any intimate detail in these characters’ lives, without witnessing intimacy between characters.
Except, I realized, Christopher Nolan had created intimacy. Through imagery.
Kenneth Branagh’s ecru fisherman’s sweater. Hundreds of those soldiers’ helmets, resting like empty tortoise shells on wet beach. Strawberry jam on white bread. A soldier pooping in beach grass.
We are privy to these simple images–intimate objects and actions–rather than being allowed into the intimacy of the characters’ emotional life and development.
But please. A pooping soldier and red jam on white bread were enough for me? Suddenly I no longer required fleshy, flawed characters with burning desires and seemingly unhurdleable hurdles in order to sit through a story? Was I going soft?
Or maybe I knew more about the characters than I realized. And maybe I knew what I needed to know about them, nothing more or less.
Anyone who has read books or seen films about World War II comes to the film knowing considerable back story about these soldiers: They are men in their late teens and twenties. They have lost friends and family. They are beleaguered, numb, exhausted. They worry that evacuation will render them cowards in the eye of the public. They wobble and startle with terrible shell shock. Their mouths are parched. Their belts, cinched to the tightest hole, barely hold up their pants. Their socks have not been dry for days. They miss the smell of the roast on Christmas night. They miss their beds. They miss their mothers.
I have somehow come to require a certain amount of intimacy and overt character development if I am going to keep turning the pages of a story, but what is that certain amount? A deft storyteller might find other ways to develop back story, generate intimacy and bridge reader and character.
Dunkirk reminded me that it’s not the amount of character development or back story that pins me to my seat. It’s the degree to which I am infected that matters. It’s the degree to which we writers infect our unsuspecting readers that matters, how we go about creating opportunities for intimacy and sharing only a need-to-know amount of backstory with the reader.
Your turn! If you have seen this film, were you sufficiently infected, or do you prefer to know a bit more about the individual quirks and particulars of the soldiers? How do you use back story in your work in progress with the goal of infecting your readers? What have you read this summer and how did it infect you? Thanks, writers, for infecting!
Spitfire photo compliments of Flickr’s Arapaoa Moffat.
A Middle Grade novelist (and Middle School English teacher), Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her family. Because Sarah dislikes cleaning anything that will just get messy again, she tidies the house and weeds the yard only when absolutely necessary. This allows her time to focus on her true–and somewhat fraught–passions: writing, Abe Lincoln, and Tony’s Chocolonely chocolate bars. Equally passionate about mental health advocacy, Sarah is a member of The Stability Network. Sarah’s first novel, LUCY IN BETWEEN, will be published by Margaret Ferguson Books/Holiday House in 2026.
I haven’t seen Dunkirk but from the sounds of it the characters weren’t given much back story because it would be too overwhelming. The audience wouldn’t be able to cope with getting to know and then losing so many people. Everyone would come out deeply traumatised. As it is, I didn’t think I could cope so I didn’t go and see it with my husband.
I just read the Golden Compass. The MC’s backstory was woven in with her daily adventures and ‘infected’ me with affection for her and a need to know she would be ok.
Hi MA,
Thanks for your comment. I totally agree that knowing more about the characters would have depleted me. It also would have made the film seem so “Hollywood” and American. It was refreshing to have the drama feel (and look) so clean and spare.
I love what you said about the affection you have for the main character in The Golden Compass … and the need to stay with her to make sure she would be OK. The power of a make-believe character! The last page (and I am not alone in this experience) of an amazing book often requires that I go through the grieving process.
Happy writing to you!
Huh. What a coincidence. My black lab Gidget just pooped in the beach-grass this morning. I’m guessing Hazelhurst in August ’17 is a lot safer beach than Dunkirk May ’40, Gidget’s landmine notwithstanding.
I haven’t seen it yet, and I so want to see it in the theater. My wife doesn’t want to go, so I’m going to have to soldier it alone. The drive home is the worst part of such ventures. No one to hash it out with.
I think the effect you’re talking about is similar to the function that world-building preforms in a lot of the sprawling epic fantasies I’ve loved over the years. Take Game of Thrones. On the page, you start to get to know the Starks fairly early, but there are so many of them! Not to mention George’s penchant for Headswerving (it’s a term I’m trying to start up for writers who jump around among, say, more than a dozen POV characters – myself included). You don’t really get to know anyone in that series for quite some time. But you *do* get to know Westeros. And that alone carries you for quite some time.
This really used to frustrate me when I first started learning the craft. Really well-meaning mentors would tell me to focus more on my protagonist (after they told me to pick one, from among my dozen POV characters), and dig into his backstory, and hence his goals, motivations, and conflicts. And it’s all true, and I’m glad I did it. I can see now that I was trying for a broader sort of infection. I wasn’t ready yet. Like they say, you’ve got to learn to master the rules before you can effectively break them. And really, to this day, even with the show racing ahead of George on the page, who can reliably say which the heck character is the primary protagonist of GoT? Dany? Jon? Westeros?… Drogon? (And Hodor’s gone, so he’s out.) I think you could make a case that the primary protagonist is the infection of being there, in this horrible but fascinating world gone wrong.
Thanks for getting me excited about Dunkirk again, and for really getting me thinking this morning, Sarah!
in my WIP I was focusing on the protagonist, but all his friends kept butting in and wanting to tell their stories, so I eventually let them and I think my book is stronger for it.
Right now i’m reading Tigana by Guy Gavriel Kay and he is breaking all the rules, he has a prologue, backstory dump in the beginning of the book. But it still is engrossing.
I laughed out loud, Vaughn, at the expense of sweet Gidget’s morning activity. Here’s a question: do dogs ever step in other dogs’ dog do? It seems to never happen, and it’s rather amazing.
While I could talk about poop for hours, I also want to mention how much I appreciated the Game of Thrones comments. And the head-swerving. And to think that Westeros is a protagonist? Fascinating! Let’s not forget Arya, right? What do you think about a marriage between Jon and Dany? That’s my theory … my theory is probably everyone’s theory, kind of like when I thought *I* had discovered Death Cab for Cutie, only to learn that they were on the Grammys just a few months later. Doh!
Winter is coooming.
Funny, but you’re right. In fact, when Gidge even gets a hint that another dog has defecated somewhere, she’ll circumvent the area as if the offending pile is a coiled viper. This from a dog who’s been known to scarf up raccoon poop, lol.
Regarding your theory, I’ll admit I shared it. But I’m not so sure anymore, now that it seems pretty certain they’re aunt and nephew (and Bran knows it). But then again, George was never shy about utilizing incest. I doubt anything’s ever totally off-limits on Westeros. We’ll see! * cue the Death Cab song, A Movie Script Ending*
Thanks again for a fun post and conversation!
Ha! But seriously … how on earth did I miss the aunt/nephew relationship? Honestly, I feel so bad for my husband (and GoT buddy). I am constantly asking, “So what’s their relationship?” or “Was that the guy who …”
There’s another cool band I recently discovered. Toad the Wet Sprocket. You should totally have a listen. ;)
Warning: GoT Spoilers Follow!
****
When Bran went – as the Three-Eyed Crow – to see the scene where a young version of his father Ned was going into a tower to rescue Ned’s sister Lyanna, Ned found she’d just given birth… to a bastard (Jon). It seems all but certain that child was fathered by Rhaegar Targaryen. So, Lyanna Stark is Jon’s mom, and Rhaegar is his dad, and Daenerys is Rhaegar’s sister.
*Cue the Toad song, I Will Not Take These Things For Granted… Or should it be Crazy Life? :-)
Wow. Does your brain have the ability to hear and retain all of that? Mine, alas, does not possess that gift. Thank you … but now I am sad about J and D. Arya and Tyrion perhaps? I don’t see the chemistry there, but they’d be a force. OK, I will stop trying to make love connections where there’s no need.
Definitely: I Will Not Take These Things for Granted. :)
Sarah–Thanks for your post.
Any talk of novels and films is talk of apples and oranges. To infect readers with words alone, to do what’s needed for them to want to keep turning the page is one thing. To infect viewers through use of the mountain of resources and talents brought to bear in a film is another.
As for backstory, I just finished reading Kingsley Amis’s The Old Devils. The characters’ pasts are skillfully woven into the ongoing narrative. By book’s end, the characters have become people, and for this reason the ending is very moving. It’s not imaginable to me that The Old Devils could be made into a successful film–and that’s part of its appeal for me.
It seems like all of the movies have seen lately have be adaptations of books because its interesting to see how that translation happens. I had read Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell and learned that they made a movie out of that book I thought, “How in the world did they pull that off” and so I had to see the movie and found that it was one of the better adaptations I had seen.
Hi Barry,
I’m so glad you brought this up because in a previous draft of this post, I had this:
Without the help of a camera, special effects, 70 mm film, and the fine actors who convey so much through expression and gesture–there are very few words spoken throughout the film–can writers adequately bridge reader and character in a way that makes a reader care about the character and his story? Can we as fiction writers, create a sense of empathy in our readers without showing the readers much about what makes these characters tick? If readers cannot empathize with a story’s characters, can they still connect with a story and in doing so, keep turning pages?
I had to take it out because to answer those questions (and addressing the apples and oranges truth you so astutely mention) would have required another 1000 words. I kept wondering how this film, written and “built” just as it is, would translate to a novel. Would it read like a textbook? I suspect it wouldn’t be very exciting to read; there would be none of the infection we feel when sitting in those theater seats.
I’m so glad you added your thoughts here this morning!
We had a similar conversation in my family after seeing Dunkirk. We marveled that we’d felt so much for so little (shown) character development, too, but also that we’d felt so much despite a lot of garbled language. Maybe it was the theatre, but we had a difficult time understanding the words — and we were still strongly affected by the film! We landed on the same conclusion as your husband: that the reason for our collective visceral response was that we felt as though we were there, and were filled with anxiety, beginning to end. In no small part was this because of the score, something we obviously don’t have access to as novelists — at least not yet. #22ndCenturyNovelistsWillHaveScoresIfWeSurviveThisCentury
We did appreciate the hat tip to backstory and enlightenment re: motivation when we learned that the old fisherman had lost a son at the start of the war.
Thanks for a great post, Sarah!
Hello Therese! Yes on all accounts. The wonderful old man (captain of the civilian yacht) was my favorite character. I think that tidbit about his personal life was the only detail we knew about any of the characters. As a result I felt a connection with him … plus, his expressive eyes and gift as an actor are amazing.
I’m so glad you mentioned the score! That too is infecting. Infectious? Three cheers for the idea of making it into the 22nd century … and into the next decade. Hugs!
I watched the film with my youngest son (33 in about a month) and noticed that the same scenes that had me tearing up got to him too. We both knew the story of Dunkirk before we attended the movie, so we were prepared to be moved. The steadfastness of the “old civilian,” the charity of the young civilian, the courage and satisfaction of the pilot . . . did not disappoint. As you indicated, we already knew the backstory.
Hi Faith,
Yes! And you raise yet another great point … how universal some stories really are. The fact that you and your son experienced such similar emotions at similar times shows how story unites us–and suggests how similar we humans really are, at least at the core. Such a good thing to be reminded of right now.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I Googled “Dunkirk history” as I sat through the umpteen very loud and agitating previews. I loved the film for the way it infected me and what I learned from it.
Thank you for sharing here today! I love that you see films with your son.
:)
Hi Sarah, Love this post. My husband and I saw the film a week ago. Yes, I was infected, but even before I walked into the theatre because I knew what Dunkirk was and how the little boats braved the channel and saved so many. MRS. MINIVER–anyone? There are also scenes like these in ATONEMENT. So what can we take from the film to our own work. I believe a love of “place” which can save their bodies AND their souls. These are men who want to live, but the most poignant moment for me came at the end, when one soldier had to pull himself from the bottom of the boat to see “the cliffs.” The White Cliffs of Dover. Home. Place. From the beaches of horror, they knew home wasn’t far away. But how to get there. Human courage and intent. Maybe that’s something we can infect our characters with. And it doesn’t have to be a geographical place, but a “life” place. Thanks for your post–as always.
Hello dear Beth,
This is the most beautifully-written comment. And you raise an idea that hadn’t occurred to me … the theme of home. You are right! That phrase (something along the lines of) “Home is just across the water” was repeated more than a few times. That, too, is a universal theme that unites and infects us. There’s no place like home. We all understand that on some level.
Thank you for adding that to the conversation, Beth!
Keep writing.
:)
That was bossy of me. I should have said, “Keep writing, PLEASE.”
;)
Not bossy at all. Encouraging. THANKS.
I like the idea of “infection.” Another way to think of it that suits narrative fiction is, I think, “immersion.” Thanks.
Yes, Ray. Thank you! That is such a great word … and it sounds a lot better (less gross) than infection. Laughter and joy can be infectious; everything else that infects? Ick.
Tolstoy should have consulted you.
Happy writing to you, Ray.
:)
I saw “Dunkirk” with my daughter and son-in-law last week, and all three of us were stunned and exhausted by its impact. I, too, thought about how little we learned about the characters, yet how little we needed to know. Seeing the pilot desperately trying to get out of his submerged plane after he crashed was as gripping as anything I’ve ever seen in a movie.
But another thing that contributed mightily to the movie’s effect was the music: specifically, Christopher Nolan’s use of the so-called “Shepard Effect.”
https://www.businessinsider.com/dunkirk-music-christopher-nolan-hans-zimmer-2017-7
Unfortunately, music isn’t available to writers.
Yes, Jean. Thanks so much for this … honestly, I didn’t even consider the impact of the music. So silly of me!
I wonder if it felt like such an integral part of the story that I didn’t even notice it … I guess that’s a good thing?
And boy, you are right about that scene with the pilot. And how calm he was? Amazing. Clearly, I don’t have the same DNA as a spitfire pilot. Oy! :)
Thanks for the insight, Sarah. I’ve read your posts before and always find them meaningful. Although I haven’t seen _Dunkirk_, I had the same experience with _Saving Private Ryan_. We got a phone call from our babysitter just after the long opening scene and had to leave the theater. But that scene seared me, without any character development at all. There wasn’t time even to recognize characters who were appearing more than once. Yet, I was THERE, adrenalized, tight with tension and fear. Amazing, but your post caught that perfectly. Thank you for the insight. Next challenge is to keep trying to do that with words!
Oh my gosh, Bill. You are absolutely right about the challenge of that.
Sometimes I wish there were a secret recipe to cooking up the perfect novel, but I suppose if there were, the story would lack a certain spark, a particular authenticity. Ugh. Such a tough gig, this writing.
Thank you for your kind words. I’m glad you are here.
:)
Unlike the reviewer and most commentators, I was disappointed in “Dunkirk” because of the lack of character development — but also for other reasons. Also missing was vital context — on both sides of the English Channel. Nazi Germany was vaguely referred to as “the enemy,” yet Hitler and the Nazis were on their way (along with Japan and Italy) toward conquering the entire world and subjugating most of its people. The British under Churchill’s indomitable will and fired by his eloquence, marshaled those hundreds of boats to save their soldiers from annihilation or capture — thus to fight another day, to save their island and ultimately help save humans globally. With context on both sides of the Channel, the story would have had meaning. Otherwise, it is a high tech shoot ’em up. I found it depressingly lifeless and meaningless when it could have been stirring. “Saving Private Ryan” and “Band of Brothers” put deep meaning into their stories, and enrich us with understanding and appreciation — not merely superficially entertaining us with pyrotechnics conveyed via IMAX.
Hi Carlos,
I don’t disagree with you at all … in fact, in writing this post, I nearly drove myself crazy trying to figure out if I liked the film (i.e. the story) or if I just thought it was “pretty.” You know? And then I had to figure out if this film even had a plot, as in, a series of scenes that generate escalating tension. The thing is, in my opinion, these scenes were totally interchangeable, and that’s not really how great stories are constructed.
In the end, I realized I liked the beauty of the film. That’s usually not enough for me, and frankly, I wonder about the excessive hype.
Thank you for sharing, Carlos! I’ll think of you when I hear bout the dozens of Oscars the film garners. We can say, “Huh. Really?” and shrug our shoulders in solidarity. :)
Dear Sarah,
Thank you for your additional insights. They prompt me to add this thought: That a movie can have both the fabulous, dramatic, edge-of-the-seat type action scenes AND a combination of character development and context — i.e., fighters for freedom and democracy against sadistic, power-hungry storm troopers. Kind regards and thanks again…
First time I’ve read your post. Nicely done, insightful.
Why thank you, SK. You are very kind to take the time to share your words. I’m glad you found WU!
Happy writing to you.
sarah
Thanks for this marvelous post, Sarah. I saw Dunkirk last week, with high expectations based on reviews. However, I came away disappointed — and I’ve been wondering why ever since.
There were some riveting scenes, to be sure. The sailboat captain was excellent, though my favorite was the pilot who chose not to return to Britain to refuel so he could save a few more of his countrymen, knowing that he would either crash or be captured by the enemy (as he eventually was).
I did find the lack of backstory and dialogue to create less of an emotional bond, say, than in SAVING PRIVATE RYAN or VALKYRIE — two movies I consider the gold standard of emotional character development in war movies.
The snippets of insight and dialogue offered in these movies made them far more impactful to me. Think of the conversation Tom Hanks character has with Matt Damon’s character while waiting for the Germans to arrive at the bridge. The story Matt Damon tells about his brothers being together for the last time before being drafted, and Tom’s memory of his wife using the garden shears. Wow! Those tiny details, and the subtlety with which they were delivered, infected me for days afterward.
In Valkyrie, the growing desolation one feels for Tom Cruise’s character, knowing he’s an officer in a military whose values he shares nothing with. Then the slow descent toward his execution as he chooses the moral path over the patriotic path, turning against his own country to commit the worst treason imaginable. I loved that we met his wife and children earlier in the movie, which only adds to the sense of what his decision will cost him. Not just his own life, but the lives of his family.
Yup, Matt. I totally agree. I’m glad to hear I wasn’t the only one who felt something along the lines of, “Wait. Did I miss something?”
I had heard somewhere that Nolan didn’t consider this a “war film” so I just now I went in search of an article to support that … here you go (if you are interested). Nolan says it’s a survival story and a suspense film. Just happens to take place during a major wartime evacuation where the enemy is bombing and torpedo-ing the Good Guys.
https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/films/news/dunkirk-christopher-nolan-wwii-film-war-film-harry-styles-release-date-trailer-a7667286.html
While I, like you, was expecting to be more moved, I have made peace with the fact that if Nolan’s goal was to immerse and infect me? He did it. I was there, and the images (rather than the story or the characters) have certainly stuck with me.
I guess I can’t have it all … not even for $20.50/ticket. :)
Dearest Sarah:
First, thank you for STEALING MY IDEA for my next WU post. Hmmph… I must go away and sulk for a bit.
Okay. I’m back.
I was going to write about the difference between story and immersion. John Podhoretz wrote a view of Dunkirk that was strongly unfavorable, though still very respectful. And one point he made, or tried to make, was that Nolan is a great filmmaker but, in this film at least, a terrible storyteller. Where was the larger context? Who were these individuals we were following?
As I reflected on this, and talked it through with my wife (who saw the film with me — yes, Imax, awesome), we realized that criticizing Dunkirk for its storytelling was like criticizing the Impressionists for their drawing.
Nolan’s point was always immersion — what you call infection — putting us there at the scene. Your points about our not being meant to empathize with the characters but rather experience what they’re going through via sensory detail is exactly right.
Mette found this refreshing. She’s come to see most war films as suffering from a fundamental thematic sameness — the price of victory. (Even Podhoretz admitted it’s extremely difficult to make a great war film.) And she got it right away — the point of the film is to put you (not the characters) on the beach.
And Nolan also avoided the “nobility of hardship” narrative that is so often nailed to the forehead of war stories, none more so than the Dunkirk evacuation. Instead, we saw a gut-level human desire to simply get the f**k out — however that happens and whatever it takes. We saw raw terror without sentimentalizing. We also saw bravery, yes, and lot’s of it. But this film didn’t bow to conventional expectations in any way.
Interestingly, recently I at last saw the film adaptation to Ian MacEwan’s Atonement, which also has an extended Dunkirk sequence. It’s much more conventional, but still exceedingly powerful, precisely because we are so invested in the character, and want so desperately for him to get home. But that sequence is not really about Dunkirk. It’s about the character.
BTW: I agree that Hans Zimmer killed it with his score, and I do think the film would be much less effective without it. (I love Therese’s hashtag, btw.)
Finally, for Vaughn, and the solo ride home: I always have to sit for a while after a film that’s truly affected me. I need to let it settle in, take root, change me. If I talk about it too soon, I notice I’m actually doing damage to the feelings the film has created. Dunkirk benefited greatly from exactly that kind of post-viewing silence. So maybe that drive home alone won’t be so terrible. :-)
Dearest David,
All day I have felt terrible about this … when the Russians said they wanted to meet with me to discuss the ban on international adoption, and then it turned out they *actually* just wanted to show me the dirt they had found in your Word file titled, “Brilliant Ideas for Future WU Posts,” I stayed only long enough to receive a floppy disk of your file.
I feel especially horrible because, let’s face it, you know what you are talking about, and I just wander around, throwing words hither and yon, until I finally figure out what I am talking about. And by the time I do, I’ve hit 1,100 words and have to wrap it up. All this to say, I am sorry about the Russians and I am so very glad you can share your wise ideas here in your comment.
For example: the Impressionist analogy? Brilliant. Or, as the Russians say, “умная.” That is absolutely true.
And now I am going to see about streaming Atonement … is it worth the watch? I have resisted, but perhaps it’s now time?
For my September post, I was thinking of using this as inspiration: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/theres-nothing-quite-like-your-first-bomb-you-feel-bones-amy-schumer?trk=eml-b2_content_ecosystem_digest-hero-22-null&midToken=AQFO9EH3gGajhA&fromEmail=fromEmail&ut=2oNQNGYwKT47U1
I just don’t think I can pull it off. It’s yours if you want it.
Happy summer!
Infection is especially important in zombie fiction . . .
Ha! Yes! And probably in a story about Typhoid Mary as well.
;0
Sarah, I was disappointed in the film. I knew quite a lot about Dunkirk, so I had the historical context. I was grateful that it wasn’t sentimental–such a temptation with the story of the little boats. Other than that, I was simply bored. Lots of explosions. Lots of water. Unlike you and some others, I did not feel that I was there. I appreciated some technical aspects of the cinematography, though the fact that I was thinking about such things tells you I was not immersed in the film.
***POSSIBLE SPOILER ALERT***
The structure–switching between the three stories–kept letting all the tension deflate. I couldn’t tell the pilots apart and didn’t learn enough about any character to muster interest in their fate. Too often I couldn’t hear the dialogue, and what I did hear was sometimes pretty cheesy. Some things went on too long; some repeated too often. Even without character development–you made a good point about the intention of the film–much more could have been done to make the film interesting.
We saw Dunkirk as a family a few nights ago and were collectively underwhelmed. Despite the sense of immersion, we all found the soundtrack bossy and intrusive, though haunting. (“You WILL feel a sense of peril, coddled movie-goer!”)
Because of the group protagonist and multi-focal antagonist and the lack of a true climactic moment, the storytelling part of the movie fell apart for us. But I did appreciate the chance to experience a different time, especially since that era feels perilously close at present. Not sure what civilian captains can do against a nuclear threat, however. :/
Anyway, a good topic for discussion, dear Sarah. It’s probably as important for we writers to decide what we don’t enjoy as what we do in our storytelling.
IMHO, there’s a fairly simply explanation for the success of *Dunkirk* — “shared mental real estate”, as it’s called.
*Dunkirk* taps into the western world’s currently greatest fear: being the victim of a terror attack. Psychologically and emotionally, there’s not much difference between the massed, sitting-duck soldiers on the beach, and the mass of people milling about inside an airport, for instance. Both masses-of-people fear being hit by a random attack by people they don’t know — which happens in *Dunkirk* every time a german plane strafes or bombs the beach or ships.
Nolan has achieved the effect by carefully leaving most of the actual war stuff out of the picture. A third of the evac-ed soldiers were french — we see very little of those in the film. The perimeter around Dunkirk was mainly held by the French. Again, we see little of that. I don’t think Nolan is leaving out the perimeter defense perspective because he is trying to ignore the French contribution to the successful evac. It’s because it would remind us of the key difference between the modern terror attack and the Dunkirk op: in the context of war, the “crowd” at Dunkirk was a legitimate military target. The allies paid the Nazis back in 1944 at Falaise, where the trapped German divisions, just as “helpless”, were carpet-bombed by the USAF and the RAF.
There are also some known episodes from the real-world battle of Dunkirk which we don’t see, because seeing them would shake our willingness to “be there”, such as English troops shooting some of their own comrades (at the perimeter defense) to stop them from running away.
The takeaway for storytellers, IMHO, is that you can “find” the situation you want to storytell about in the most unlikely places — if you are aware of what you’re actually doing (or intending) with your story, and make the right selections from the elements of the “stage” you want to tell that story on.
Dear Sarah,
I hadn’t at all considered seeing the movie Dunkirk. But after reading the description of your experience with the movie I most definitely want to watch it.