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being a Rant on the Subject of the Anthropic Principle
So, the other day, I was watching TV with someone who does not need public scrutiny, and they said something that is, and likely always will be, one of my major pet peeves:
"Why are they doing that? That's so stupid!"
This statement hurts so much it makes my teeth fall out. It has some cousins I find equally noisome: "A person of that type (job, expertise, whatever) would never do that"; "That concept doesn't work that way"; "Oh come on, how did he not notice that?". You (hopefully) know the kind of thing I mean.
I have ranted here before about surrendering oneself to a story: my belief that suture (to use the fancy film theory concept) is the most paramount part of one's duty as a reader or viewer, and that nitpicking is, in my book, actually worse than just not watching something at all.
Today is the day I get a little more specific about why.
TVTropes, of all things, actually has an excellent summary in their article on the Anthropic Principle. To keep it short for those who don't want to click, the Anthropic Principle is originally a scientific/cosmological idea about the relationship of intelligent observers to the universe; some people have since applied it to story. The original principle states, to paraphrase, that it only stands to reason that the universe would happen to be the kind of universe favorable to the evolution of intelligent life, because otherwise we wouldn't be here to observe those favorable conditions to begin with. It may sound tautological, but when you think about it, it makes a certain Zen kind of sense.
The narrative Anthropic Principle, as it were, is a derivative of that idea, applied to the microcosmic universe of a story. Simply put, the reason that some improbable, silly, or otherwise unlikely things have happened in a story is because without those unlikely things, there wouldn't be a story. As TVTropes puts it,
Applied to the kinds of jaw-grinding situations I mentioned earlier, my answer becomes clear: "It happened that way because it happening the more logical way would abort the story right here." Even outside of speculative fiction, which of course requires a fairly large number of breaks from reality, there are certain little things that are allowed to happen because the story requires it: the distraction actually works and gets a guard to look the other way; or the right (or wrong) character sees the tiny key fall out of someone's pocket; or, most classically, the hero elects to go toward the dangerous, possibly lethal situation instead of walking away. All of these things are unrealistic in average cases; but average cases isn't what the audience tends to want. Barring incredible artfulness, nobody wants to watch the episode of Leverage where the con is found out five minutes in and everybody goes to jail; or the episode of Supernatural where the brothers get to the site of the latest haunting, realize they could die, and drive to Baja to get fish tacos instead.
This is not to say that all glosses of realism are acceptable; certainly too much deviation from reality (in a psychological/coincidental sense, not the sense where there are no vampires or cyborgs) is eye-rolling in the extreme. My general rule of thumb is twofold: First, how artfully is the break from reality dealt with? Second, how much is that break from reality needed for the story to be interesting?
An example: the first season of Lost. The plane crashes, and nearly everybody is alright; the wounds that people do have seem to hamper them only slightly, or to just cause scars (barring one or two deliberately grievous cases). The survivors just so happen to include several fit men, a doctor, a construction worker, an electrical engineer, and two veteran trackers (one of them also able to hunt). There are ample sources of food and fresh water on the island. And yet somehow, it's not settled by anybody that they can find within a couple weeks of arrival.
There are mysterious and supernatural explanations for some of this; but even below that, you can see the Anthropic Principle at work. Why is it acceptable that all these specialized skillsets, useful in this particular situation, survived a disastrous plane crash with all their faculties and limbs intact? Why is it okay that rather than the island being mostly populated by tough-skinned fruit and gamy birds, there are boars and bananas in abundance? Simple: because who the hell wants to watch a show where everybody dies within the month from infections and malnutrition? How old would the "finding water and food" plot get, and how fast?
The scenario Abrams and crew created here is a perfect example of the Anthropic Principle at its healthiest. (Apologies if my being behind on the show totally disproves my point; this is where I stand as of about episode 12 of the entire series.)
This is why that kind of nitpicking drives me crazy. This is why I only engage in it when a work has already made me disengage. Because the truth is, those conveniences fans like to yell about on the Internet? Those are the things that even make these stories possible. It's like yelling at your arm for having joints.
That said, I still reserve the right to make fun of The Core.
So, the other day, I was watching TV with someone who does not need public scrutiny, and they said something that is, and likely always will be, one of my major pet peeves:
"Why are they doing that? That's so stupid!"
This statement hurts so much it makes my teeth fall out. It has some cousins I find equally noisome: "A person of that type (job, expertise, whatever) would never do that"; "That concept doesn't work that way"; "Oh come on, how did he not notice that?". You (hopefully) know the kind of thing I mean.
I have ranted here before about surrendering oneself to a story: my belief that suture (to use the fancy film theory concept) is the most paramount part of one's duty as a reader or viewer, and that nitpicking is, in my book, actually worse than just not watching something at all.
Today is the day I get a little more specific about why.
TVTropes, of all things, actually has an excellent summary in their article on the Anthropic Principle. To keep it short for those who don't want to click, the Anthropic Principle is originally a scientific/cosmological idea about the relationship of intelligent observers to the universe; some people have since applied it to story. The original principle states, to paraphrase, that it only stands to reason that the universe would happen to be the kind of universe favorable to the evolution of intelligent life, because otherwise we wouldn't be here to observe those favorable conditions to begin with. It may sound tautological, but when you think about it, it makes a certain Zen kind of sense.
The narrative Anthropic Principle, as it were, is a derivative of that idea, applied to the microcosmic universe of a story. Simply put, the reason that some improbable, silly, or otherwise unlikely things have happened in a story is because without those unlikely things, there wouldn't be a story. As TVTropes puts it,
For any given work, there are basic elements that are required for The Verse or the basic premise to happen. There'd Be No Story otherwise. Claiming that one of them is a Wall Banger is equivalent to saying the work shouldn't exist in any form.
Applied to the kinds of jaw-grinding situations I mentioned earlier, my answer becomes clear: "It happened that way because it happening the more logical way would abort the story right here." Even outside of speculative fiction, which of course requires a fairly large number of breaks from reality, there are certain little things that are allowed to happen because the story requires it: the distraction actually works and gets a guard to look the other way; or the right (or wrong) character sees the tiny key fall out of someone's pocket; or, most classically, the hero elects to go toward the dangerous, possibly lethal situation instead of walking away. All of these things are unrealistic in average cases; but average cases isn't what the audience tends to want. Barring incredible artfulness, nobody wants to watch the episode of Leverage where the con is found out five minutes in and everybody goes to jail; or the episode of Supernatural where the brothers get to the site of the latest haunting, realize they could die, and drive to Baja to get fish tacos instead.
This is not to say that all glosses of realism are acceptable; certainly too much deviation from reality (in a psychological/coincidental sense, not the sense where there are no vampires or cyborgs) is eye-rolling in the extreme. My general rule of thumb is twofold: First, how artfully is the break from reality dealt with? Second, how much is that break from reality needed for the story to be interesting?
An example: the first season of Lost. The plane crashes, and nearly everybody is alright; the wounds that people do have seem to hamper them only slightly, or to just cause scars (barring one or two deliberately grievous cases). The survivors just so happen to include several fit men, a doctor, a construction worker, an electrical engineer, and two veteran trackers (one of them also able to hunt). There are ample sources of food and fresh water on the island. And yet somehow, it's not settled by anybody that they can find within a couple weeks of arrival.
There are mysterious and supernatural explanations for some of this; but even below that, you can see the Anthropic Principle at work. Why is it acceptable that all these specialized skillsets, useful in this particular situation, survived a disastrous plane crash with all their faculties and limbs intact? Why is it okay that rather than the island being mostly populated by tough-skinned fruit and gamy birds, there are boars and bananas in abundance? Simple: because who the hell wants to watch a show where everybody dies within the month from infections and malnutrition? How old would the "finding water and food" plot get, and how fast?
The scenario Abrams and crew created here is a perfect example of the Anthropic Principle at its healthiest. (Apologies if my being behind on the show totally disproves my point; this is where I stand as of about episode 12 of the entire series.)
This is why that kind of nitpicking drives me crazy. This is why I only engage in it when a work has already made me disengage. Because the truth is, those conveniences fans like to yell about on the Internet? Those are the things that even make these stories possible. It's like yelling at your arm for having joints.
That said, I still reserve the right to make fun of The Core.
posted by Tyler at
10:38 AM
3 Comments:
I am one of those who will occasionally make such statements as "Why are they doing that?" or "How did he not notice that?"
Here's the thing. I have no problem suspending disbelief for the sake of The Story. But as you pointed it out, it must be artfully done. The point at which it's so improbable that I can no longer suspend disbelief is the point at which it is no longer artful.
If I declare, during a show "How the hell did he not notice?!?" while condemning the writer for being incompetent, I'm also begging those around me to help me find my belief, to give me a plausible reason for whatever idiocy is on the screen.
@Kijeren: I do it, too; but (and I think you're saying the same thing I am) when I do it it's because it's so clumsily done, from my perspective, that I've already stepped back from the story in disbelief. I do try to help out those who have this reaction, because I think it's sad to lose engagement with a story like that; and I remain calm if my effort at aid fails.
My problem is not with bad writing jarring somebody out of a story—God knows I do it all the time; nor is it with people like you who genuinely are asking for help believing in the story. My problem is when the story is perfectly fine, but people insist on picking nits anyway.
Such grating situations include people who: cannot get past the fact that some level of illogical behavior is part of the premise (e.g. any story where the main characters are heroes, and so run at danger instead of away); refuse to meet the story on its level of escapism (e.g. people who nitpick the physics in Star Trek shows); have specialized knowledge of a subject and refuse to appreciate why 100% accuracy might be detrimental to the story, not make it more enjoyable; refuse to acknowledge that not everybody is wholly focused on what is happening in the story in the same way they are (e.g. "He's sneaking up behind you!"); refuse to accept that sometimes external constraints on a story force the hand of the writers (e.g. any time a main character suddenly knows how to do something vital to the plot because it's expensive to hire a new actor for one episode of a show); or my favorite, think that picking nits in an otherwise good story is an enjoyable pastime (e.g. most of my fellow nerds).
Yeah...okay....I get it. Thing is, I KNOW I'm being annoying when I do it (ya' know, yell at the screen and stuff) but I usually do it because I'm too afraid to allow myself to become any MORE engaged than I am already, because the impact the show is having on me is like falling off a cliff - in other words, I'm freaked out and yelling to remind myself that I am alive and NOT about to be gored by a demon or slaughtered with the other natives running from the beast. I'm silly, I guess, but my bellowing at the story is definitely NOT intellectual. Just saying...
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