Superhero Sequels and Reboots

The Story So Far......

Last time, I wrote about the way movie sequels nowadays are increasingly given a subtitle or name (Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides) rather than a number (Pirates of the Caribbean 4). My suggestion was that this is mostly a marketing ploy to convince us, the audience, that the film we’re about to see is good enough to stand on its own merits, and to avoid the malaise that is often associated with going to see movies with numbers after the title. For instance, would you rather see ‘Casino Royale’ or ‘James Bond 21’?

One thing I didn’t get around to exploring last time was the way this applies to Superhero films, and – in turn – what this tells us about how stories work over a number of sequels.

"Superhero films down the ages"

In the 1980s the Superman films were simply called Superman, Superman II, Superman III and Superman IV (although this last one had the subtitle the Quest for Peace).

Batman set a new precedent in the 1990s with its sequels called, respectively, Batman Returns, Batman Forever, Batman and Robin. Admittedly we did recently have Spidermans I, II and III. But I think those are more of an exception in today’s movie world. There is now yet another new Spiderman film – this one called The Amazing Spiderman, and the new Batman film (Batman III) is called The Dark Knight Rises.

I’d suggest that the naming of today’s Superhero movies owes a lot to the fact they’re all reboots of previously-established franchises. After all, what could they have called Batman Begins: Batman Zero? The new Spiderman movie effectively ignores the previous franchise, so could hardly have been called either ‘Spiderman’ (again), or ‘Spiderman IV’. I wonder if the film-makers considered calling it Spiderman Begins? I suspect they avoided it because they don’t want cinema-goers to think ‘Oh, they’re doing a ‘Batman Begins’ to Spiderman now are they? Typical! Anything to breathe new life into an old dog’

Erm... Spidey. You forgot to wear your hat thing....

Shake that Rebooty!

In some ways I think rebooting is a rather creative way of continuing a franchise. At least it avoids the tortuous explanations required in some sequels for a) continuing a story that was all wrapped up in the previous film, and b) resurrecting a character who was written out or killed off (the previously referred-to character played by Sean Connery in Highlander II). It basically frees you up from, for instance, having to find a way to bring the Joker back to life when he’s been dead for ten years, or from being restricted by any of the developments in the previous film.

As an aside here, I think even these situations can bring out the best in some writers. I love the way Arthur Conan Doyle made a virtue out of necessity, and brought Sherlock Holmes back from the dead, explaining his long absence by the fact he was working undercover to flush out Moriarty’s remaining criminal network.

Reboots seem to work so well, precisely because the cinema-goer is aware of the previous versions. I’m thinking of the character of Bond in Casino Royale and the enjoyment that’s to be had watching the emergence of a character that is destined to become the James Bond we already know. There’s good writing material to be had in, for instance, a scene where he orders Martini without his trademark ‘shaken not stirred’. Or when he’s been poisoned and his heart has stopped beating (what! James Bond can’t surely die on his first mission!). Or when he hands in his resignation to the Secret Service near the end of Casino Royale (What! He hasn’t even met Blofeld yet, and he’s already given up being a secret agent!)

…Or watching Hannibal Rising and knowing that this young man is destined to become Dr Lecter

…Or watching the cast of Star Trek assemble for the first time, knowing that the rancorous relationship between Kirk and Spock is destined to become a close and warm one.

… and so on.

Lovely view ... and notice those foot holds near the top of the picture

Reboots v Prequels

I mention these ‘origins’ films together, but actually they are slightly different beasts to what we are discussing. I think there’s a subtle difference between Prequels (The Phantom Menace, Hannibal Rising) and reboots (Casino Royale, Batman Begins, The Amazing Spiderman). Prequels work with our knowledge about later unalterable events (eg the character of 'Magneto' in X-Men: First Class, who is destined to go to the bad); whereas reboots work with our knowledge about earlier versions of the same story or character. With reboots, there’s a sense that things can still work out differently (indeed, in the re-booted Star Trek film, the storyline opens up an alternative reality, and therefore makes possible an entirely new timeline for subsequent Start Trek films).

  

For instance, Christopher Nolan’s Batman franchise is interesting in the way it deliberately avoids the perennially dark Gotham City favoured by Tim Burton’s films, and by computer games such as Arkham Asylum. The bat cave is hardly a dark cave – it’s a well-lit functional and spacious basement. The batmobile is more functional and practical compared to the stylish and gothic vehicle of the Burton films.  In Nolan’s films, Bruce Wayne is a spoilt playboy, rather than the reclusive and tortured Bruce Wayne as played by Michael Keaton. And much of the action in The Dark Knight actually takes place in broad daylight. What I suppose I’m saying here, is that when we watch the new Batman films, we’re still conscious of the previous versions – rather like watching someone new play Hamlet or Dr Who, and automatically comparing it to previous portrayals.

David Tennant: Hamlet and Dr Who. Two in One combined. What value!

Creating a Modern Myth?

Let’s make no bones about it. Studios create reboots and sequels for guaranteed box office, and because they are generally not willing to take financial risks with new stories. But this results in an interesting phenomenon. When you cast different actors in the same role (Connery, Lazenby, Craig for Bond; Jack Nicholson /Heath Ledger as the Joker; Michael Keaton /Christian Bale for Batman), you inadvertently create something bigger than just the one version – you create a myth (in inverted commas).

I’d argue that the Bond films – the most successful of the franchises we’ve been discussing – has survived precisely because of its casting of different actors and its willful ignoring of any sense of chronology or ageing. The James Bond in the books is of a particular place and time, rather like George Smiley in Tinker Tailor. But the James Bond of the movie franchise is as much at home in the Cold War as he is on Twitter. And the funny thing is – we, the audience, simply take that for granted. Casino Royale should really have been set in the 1950s or 1960s with Daniel Craig. Instead they had James Bond begin his career in the 2000s when all the subsequent missions we'd seen previously took place during the Cold War and its aftermath!

All these different movies simply become versions of an ‘uber’ story. Batman isn’t just Nolan’s interpretation. It’s Burton’s as well (and Heaven help us, the 1960s camp version). I’m reluctant to use the word ‘myth’ here, but maybe that’s closer to what we’re talking about. Maybe Superman, Spiderman and Batman are an attempt to create a ‘modern myth’, although I’d argue they are not necessarily resonant in the same way that, for instance, Lord of the Rings is (the novel, not the film).

Mr George Smiley, pondering what to put on his Twitter update

And now for the Science ...

A parallel in literature would be, for instance, the Arthurian legend stories.  There are different versions of which knights do, or don’t win the Holy Grail. There are numerous stories of all the quests undertaken by different knights, many of whom appear in each other’s stories – but there’s no attempt to organize these into a strictly chronological order. The proliferation of Arthurian stories by different authors all those centuries ago wasn’t by design, but ended up creating numerous versions of similar or identical events. The point isn't to pick and choose which versions you prefer and ignore the rest; it's that all the versions exist happily side by side, even when they depict utterly contradictory events.

  

If one was getting carried away, one could also cite Greek Tragedy as another example – many Tragedians wrote different plays about the same characters and events like the Trojan War.

And finally ....

I think nowadays we like reboots and what I call ‘origin stories’ because they are reassuring to us. Like hearing the same bedtime story for the umpteenth time. We like the story because we know what’s about to happen.

In fact, it’s no different to what happens in many stories. Although we might not know it, we have an inbuilt template for how stories work. When we watch The Artist, we instinctively know it will all work out for our hero in the end. When we watch Tinker, Tailor, we know that George Smiley will be successful in finding the mole in the Circus.

‘Origin’ stories take this one step further. It’s not just that we sense things will work out in the end; we know they will, because we know that the hero survives this battle for the many future adventures we have already enjoyed.

What's in a name? The Art of naming Sequels

It’s often been commented that Hollywood likes to make movies with a ready-made audience. More and more movies nowadays use characters and stories from comics, books, and TV shows or are sequels to earlier movies. Which means that without needing to spend a single dollar on Marketing campaigns, the studios are already guaranteed a certain audience, no matter how good or bad the movie actually is.

I saw the new Sherlock Holmes movie recently, and it got me thinking about brand recognition – chiefly about a trend that has developed over the last few years in the naming of movie sequels.

It struck me that they don’t call it ‘Sherlock Holmes 2’, but ‘Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows’. I can see why – it seems wrong to call it SH2, when there are so many other big screen versions of Sherlock Holmes in existence (well, going back a few years, anyway). To call this movie  Sherlock Holmes 2 would be a bit like calling The Quantum of Solace ‘James Bond II’.

Mr Robert Downey Jr engaging in an ill-timed staring competition

Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows is part of a very modern trend, where a sequel is given its own title, rather than a number. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that nowadays studios seem to go to great lengths to avoid putting a number after a movie title.

Back in the 1980s it was completely the reverse. Granted, sequels often had alternative titles, such as Terminator 2: Judgement Day. But most movies from those days didn’t bother. Gremlins 2 wasn’t called Gremlins go to Manhattan (sounds like a Muppet movie?). Jaws 2 wasn’t called Jaws: Return to Amity. In those days, having a number after the title was reassuring, indicating that you were just getting a bigger bolder brasher version of essentially the same movie you’d enjoyed first time round.

Short Circuit 2: Death of a Franchise?

Of course, we do still have those types of movies. The one that springs most to mind is the Saw franchise. I’d imagine they call it Saw 8 (or whatever) for the same reasons – to reassure the audience that it’s the same as all the others, but bigger and ‘better’ (in the case of Saw, read more gruesome and blood curdling).

So why the change? Well, would you really want to go to see a movie called Pirates of the Caribbean 4? Wouldn’t you rather see Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides?

Using a title implies the movie stands more on its own merits. I’d also imagine it’s a good strategy for ensuring a franchise doesn’t stop dead in its tracks if one of the sequels is rubbish.  I mean, Die Hard 7 would be a hard sell if Die Hard 6 turned out to be a stinker.

Using a movie title rather than a number is also imperative if there is any chance of building up a lasting franchise. It handily avoids the judgements we instinctively make with numbers (anything with a 2 after it = excellent to average, anything with a 3+ after it = average, poor or end of franchise).

The bottom line? Sequels avoid numbers nowadays because it means the studios can make more of them, and spin out the cash cow for longer.

One final complication to the sequels rule we haven’t covered – there’s the ‘Part 1’, ‘Part 2’, ‘Part 3’ trend. eg The Godfather, Back to the Future etc.

Generally the ‘Parts’ approach is more difficult to pull off because you need a story that sustains interest over two or three movies. I’d imagine the Studio Execs also avoid it because having a ‘Part 2’ implicitly limits the number of sequels you can do. I mean, if you wouldn’t see Pirates of the Caribbean 5, I’d imagine you definitely wouldn’t see Pirates of the Caribbean Part 5 (‘How come this wasn't all sewn up in Parts 1 to 4??’)

Back to the Future before it was Part 1

So, what’s this got to do with How Stories work?  Well, in the spirit of the subject, you’ll have to wait until my next blog entry to find out. I haven’t decided if my follow-up will have a Title, number or Part – but any ideas welcome.

Creating Suspense: Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White

***Spoiler alert: plot details revealed for The Woman in White***

Background stuff:

The Woman in White was written by Wilkie Collins in 1860, and was the first in the so-called Sensation Novel genre.

The first thing to remember about many nineteenth century novels is that they were written primarily for a weekly or monthly readership, and only published as a complete book after their serialisation was complete.  They were also written to deadline.  As far as I’m aware, it was exceedingly rare for any author to have completed their novel before serialisation started, and they would generally be writing each instalment for imminent publication (indeed, Wilkie Collins had to correct some of the chronology in his story when it was published later in complete novel form)

An author writing in serial form had to create enough interest with each instalment to keep the reader wanting to read more. Writing like this inevitably shapes the finished novel in a particular way – there will be plenty of crescendos or cliff-hangers during the story, as these are often the endings of the separate instalments. In other words, the author is creating a page-turner.

It's all me, me, me! First person narration

A key feature of The Woman in White is in the way events are told using first person narratives – diary entries and legal documents.  Why is this effective? It means that events are always told from one person’s (subjective) point of view; from a perspective of incomplete knowledge and surmise, and without knowledge of the events to come.  To illustrate what I mean, none of the narrating characters ever writes things like ‘Little did we know then that …’ or ‘Had we known how disastrously this decision turned out, we would have done x, y or z’. 

The first person narration is effective, for instance, in describing the first appearance of the woman in white, a scene told from Walter’s point of view. He is disturbed and shaken by the encounter, and the sense of unease he feels colours the events that follow. 

It’s interesting to note which characters are ‘allowed’ to be narrators, and which are not. We read the early events in the novel from Walter’s point of view; Walter is then absent for the central part of the book (leaving the women effectively at the mercy of Sir Perceval and Count Fosco); he then reappears as narrator to describe the climax of the novel (the attempts to recover Laura’s identity and fortune).  The central part of the book is mainly narrated by Marian - never Laura - for reasons that later become apparent (Laura’s supposed demise).  My point here is that the interest in the novel is maintained by who does (and does not) describe the events that take place. There would be no mystery if events were described by Perceval or Count Fosco, as it is mainly their secret intentions and plans that form the central interest of the novel.

It helps if it's also a great story......

Of course, first person narration in itself doesn’t guarantee that a novel will be exciting. For that to happen you also need the story itself to be convincing and gripping. It’s therefore worth considering how Wilkie Collins builds and maintains the reader’s interest over the length of the novel.

Firstly, we have Walter’s stay at Limmeridge House. Interest here is created by his secret love for Laura; then by the air of mystery and unease that surrounds his enforced departure. Interest is then created by the appearance of Perceval, and our suspicion of his motives in wooing Laura; we suspect Laura is making a big mistake by marrying him – indeed, much of this part of the novel is taken up with whether she will go through with it or not. Of course, Walter’s absence ensures that the two women are in a much more vulnerable position, without a competent male friend to be their advisor – and this adds to the anxiety of the situation.

Simon Callow and Tara Fitzgerald in BBC's adapation

The couple do marry, and events now reach a crisis point, as it becomes clear Perceval is indeed a gold-digger and has only married Laura for her wealth.  Marian overhears conversations that even make her (and the reader) fear for Laura’s life.  Count Fosco then contrives events to make it appear as if Laura has died, as the purpose of the Count’s secret plans becomes fully clear – a very satisfying climax to this part of the novel. The rest of the novel is taken up with Walter’s attempts to restore Laura’s identity (and fortune) to her.

Relating the structure of the novel like this doesn’t do justice to the skill Collins applies in putting his story together.  For instance, it is quite a shock to the reader when events of Laura’s death are related in a way that appears to leave no doubt that she has actually died. The figure of the woman in white makes for a wonderfully ghostly presence in the novel – firstly by her dressing all in white, and by the fact the first time we meet her is at the witching hour. In a very dramatic climax to one of the later instalments, Walter is at Laura’s graveside when he sees Laura herself approach all dressed in white. There’s nothing like a story with hints of the supernatural to maintain interest!

PS

One final thought – The Woman in White is not unique in being narrated by different protagonists. Frankenstein employs a Chinese box structure of first-person narratives, and Dracula – another novel in the gothic vein - is written entirely using a series of first-person diary entries. It’s surely no coincedence that all three novels are attempting to excite and shock their readers.