WATSONWORKSblog 9

The Practices of Storytelling

In recent blogs I’ve focused on elements in the
construction of stories. Blog 7 discussed ‘triggers’,
those actions, events, memories, observations which
drive the story, give the narrative its progression, its
momentum. Blog 8 looked at ‘Props’ – objects or
characteristics which assume particular significance in
the narrative – like, for instance, Desdemona’s
handkerchief in Othello (see NOTES IN PASSING).

Part 3
Frames, codes and characters
Every story has its narrative format or frame. In some
stories the narrator, the storyteller, is evident. First-person
narrative is admitting that the story is to be told from a
single point of view. It is a subjective account. Third-person
narrative distances the author from what goes on in the
story.

The author is like the Holy Spirit, intangible but ever-

present. We are aware that this is a contrivance. Yet if our
disbelief is suspended by artful storytelling we forget
authorship and find ourselves adopting the 'real' world of
characters and action 'free' of authorial strings. In fact, that
is one of the criteria of effective narrative, to make the
strings invisible.

Equilibrium, disequilibrium
What is common to all stories is the transition from a state
of order, of equilibrium, to disorder, disequilibrium. In every
story something has happened, is happening or is about to
happen which levers the story in to action. When, or if,
equilibrium is restored, the story has closure.

Sit-coms by and large have closure, while soaps shut down

one narrative only to open up others. In sitcoms, each
'upset' has to be 're-set' by the end of the programme.
With soaps, however, disequilibrium is a constant. Though
some story-lines are resolved, the 'whole' story of the soap
remains in a permanent state of disequilibrium – of new
dramas, new crises, new twists of fate.

For a soap opera time is a key element in the framing

process. There are 30-minute slots to be filled, each to
conclude with unfinished business, preferably dramatic and
suspenseful, while not being so dramatically 'final' that the
series cannot continue into an endless blue yonder.

Soaps need time, to bed down, unfold, and in their own

time they reflect the timescales of audience. In some cases,
the time-frame of the soap is as important as the
timeframes within it.
The soap 'frame', thus presented with time in largesse,
requires many characters and many plots. Soaps are full of
talk, of gossip; we generally learn of action by report rather
than see it occur.

The action is largely in the cutting, the quick-bite scenes

that frame both the story and the time in which it takes
place. Soaps move through time but they also suspend it to
suggest simultaneity, of actions taking place at exactly the
same moment.

Frame power
One suspects that the template or mould out of which soaps
emerge is not all that different from the one which produces
popular narratives of all kinds, including the news. They
must attract and hold attention. They must gratify both
cognitive (intellectual) and affective (emotional) needs.
They must facilitate identification and personal reference as
well as diversion; and they must convince us of their
fidelity.

The power of the frame rests both in its capacity to exclude

and to structure the 'storyworld' in terms of dramatic
contrasts; what is termed binary framing. Things are
defined in relation to their opposite – heroes-villains; good-
evil; kind-cruel; tolerant-intolerant; beautiful-ugly.

Genre, codes and character

In the maelstrom of available stories narrative modes
interact and overlap as never before, but for convenience
they continue to be classified under the term genre.
 We recognise common characteristics governed by codes
that regulate form and content. Variety works within a
frame of sameness.

Each genre contains a range of signifiers, of conventions

that audiences come to expect while at the same time
readily anticipating experiment with those conventions.
Knowledge of the conventions on the part of audience, and
recognition when convention is flouted, suggests an active
'union' between creator and consumer.

Audience, as it were, is 'let in on the act'; and this

'knowingness' is an important part of the enjoyment of
narrative genres.

When the hero in a Western chooses not to wear a gun (a

great rarity), audience (because we are familiar the
traditions of the genre) recognises the salience of this
decision. Such recognition could be said to constitute a form
of participation.

We use our familiarity with old 'routines' as a frame for

reading this new tweak of narrative. We wonder whether
convention will be flouted altogether as the story proceeds
or whether the rules of the genre will be reasserted by the
hero finally taking up the gun to bring about resolution.

Barthes’ narrative codes

We can explore the difference between narrative forms and
we can assess their similarities. In his book S/Z Roland
Barthes writes of a number of codes, or sets of rules, which
operate in concert in the production of both 'real' and
fictional stories; and he argues that all stories operate
according to these five codes 'under which all textual
signifiers can be grouped' in a narrative.

S/Z is a singular and highly readable volume. It takes the

form of a detailed deconstruction of a 23-page story,
Sarrasine, written by Honore de Balzac (1799-1850) in
1830. Each line in the story is linked, by Barthes, to one or
more of the five codes of narrative.

The Action (or Prioretic) code portrays the events that

take place in a story. It is the code of 'what happens',
detailing occurrences in their sequence.
The Semantic code or code of the seme deals with
character; with characterisation, which Barthes names the
Voice of the Person. Actions are explained by character.
Essentially the semantic function is to make clear, to
explain, to bring about understanding; and thus in a story it
can be instrumental in bringing about revelation.

The Enigma (or Hermeneutic) code, the Voice of Truth,

involves the setting up of mystery, its development and
finally its resolution. A good detective story usually contains
many enigmas, some of them deliberately placed there by
the author to mislead – clues which take Sam Spade or
Inspector Morse on a wild goose chase, enjoyable to the
audience, before further clues bring them back into the
'frame' of discovery (of who committed the murder).

The Referential (or Cultural) code, what Barthes refers

to as the Voice of Science, has the function of informing and
explaining. In a historical novel or drama the referential
code operates to explain to us how people dressed, what
their homes looked like, how they travelled from place to
place. The French film term, mis en scene, meaning ‘placed
in scene’, detailing the ‘staging’ of the story, is an
equivalent of the referential code.

As the term suggests, the Symbolic code works at the

‘meaning’ level of imagery where elements of the story –
character, incident – are transformed into symbolic
representations such as justice, reward, love fulfilled, good
triumphant.

The hand of fate

Symbol works at every level of the story. In a Hollywood-
style gangster movie of the 1940s and 50s, the gangster's
(invariably blonde) moll symbolises in her dress, speech,
body language, not only her own relationship to a
patriarchal world, but to that of all women 'under the
thumb' of males.

In Westerns (almost invariably) the dress, hair and

demeanour of women, and the context (bar or chapel) in
which we encounter them, will symbolise what their ranking
order is in the social milieu of the story.

They will also signify the woman's fate: in George

Marshall's Destry Rides Again (1939) the saloon-bar singer
Frenchie, played by Marlene Dietrich, falls in love with the
hero, played by James Stewart (who doesn't wear a gun).
Love is not permitted to overcome her dubious past and her
criminal present except by sacrifice. Frenchie is shot in the
back while protecting Destry/Stewart. She fulfils destiny
and at the same time opens the way for the hero to marry
the 'nice' girl in the story.

Symbols employing metaphoric forms illuminate and

enrich the texts of stories and they work in unison with
semantic codes. The TV Inspector Morse drove an old red
Jaguar. This symbolised the kind of person Morse was –
cultured, somewhat oldy-worldy, resistant to the more
traditional brashness of policing. It also helps to explain
how such a detective, from whose car stereo emerged the
strains of opera, never pop or jazz, went about his
profession.

Driving the action

Symbolic coding not only fills out our view of character, it
propels the action. In a Western, when the hero buckles on
his gunbelt, we know that the villains have pushed their
luck one notch too far. Confrontation lies ahead: resolution
will be brought about by violence exercised in the name of
justice.

The gun may additionally serve a referential function. In

an age when women have ostensibly proved parity of
treatment with men it can be seen as symbolically apt for
women to be as ready to aim straight and pull the trigger
as their male counterparts; officially, as cops, or out of self-
defence.

How we decode such a story is another matter, and this

will obviously depend, among other things, on who we are,
male or female, what our attitude is to the use of guns and
the degree of openness or closure that the text of the story
permits us: are we intended to cheer when the heroine
blows away the villain, or are we to be left with the nagging
doubt that there might have been another way to arrive at
a resolution of the situation?

The look of the thing

A case can be made for an addition to the codes Barthes
discusses – a code of aesthetics, that is, the artistic,
compositional, stylistic element of expression. We talk of
writers or artists finding their voice, their uniqueness
manifested in the artefacts they create.
For example, the work of the Russian film director Sergei
Eisenstein (1898-1948) is recognisable not only for its
politically oriented narratives but because of his narrative
style, characterised by innovative editing or montage.

We relish films such as Battleship Potemkin (1925) or

Alexander Nevsky (1938) for the sheer beauty of the
composition, of lighting, of the handling of movement. It is
fact, it is drama, but it is also poetry.

Gender coding
Being aware of different narratives codes helps us in our
appreciation of texts. The action code in a number of genres
(and in real life too) is traditionally associated with male
characters.

Maleness equals action suggesting decisiveness that may

further indicate dominance. Enigma codes traditionally
relate more to women: femaleness is associated with
mystery; often suggestive of a secret, victimised past.
The obvious alternative for a novelist, playwright, film
maker, creator of a comic strip, TV commercial or story for
children is to switch the conventions so that females
appropriate 'male' codes.

This generally means breaking with social conventions,

shaking a subversive finger at the rules. The outcome may
underline cautionary messages as happens in Ridley Scott's
movie Thelma and Louise (1991) where the rebellion of the
two protagonists against a world dominated by men's
demands, men's expectations and men's abuses is resolved
only by their suicide: cold comfort for such a spirited lunge
for personal freedom.

No hard rules
It is important to note that Barthes, in positing his five
codes, is not claiming to fix narratives within prescriptive
rules. On the contrary; he writes in S/Z, 'The code is a
perspective of quotations, a mirage of structures; we know
only its departures and returns'.

Just when we think we understand the symbolism of

'blondeness' in narratives, we find that it has been
extended or transformed by new encoding. In Alfred
Hitchcock's To Catch a Thief (1955), the blonde Grace Kelly
is the epitome of refinement, sophistication and distinction.
Indeed attempts to link blondeness with dumbness have
often turned out to be witness to the opposite. Marilyn
Monroe was often cast 'dumb' and often played dumb, but
we know she was an altogether more complex personality,
and an altogether more talented actress than the
stereotype allowed.

Propp's people
In a study of Russian folk tales, Vladimir Propp classified a
range of stock characters identifiable in most stories. These
may be individualised by being given distinguishing
character traits or attributes, but they are essentially
functionaries enabling the story to unfold.

In Morphology of the Folk Tale Propp writes of the following

archetypal story features:
• the hero/subject whose function is to seek
• the object that is sought
• the donor of the object
• the receiver, where it is sent
• the helper who aids the action and
• the villain who blocks the action

Thus in one of the world's best-known folk tales, Red Riding

Hood (heroine) is sent by her mother (donor) with a basket
of provisions (object) to her sick granny (receiver) who
lives in the forest. She encounters the wolf (villain) and is
rescued from his clutches, and his teeth, by the woodman
(helper).

Story levels
This formula can be added to and manipulated in line with
the requirements of the genre, but it does allow us to
differentiate between story level and meaning level,
between the denotive and the connotative, between the so-
termed mimetic plain (the plain of representation) and the
semiosic plain (the plain of meaning production).

The tale of Little Red Riding Hood, examined at the

connotative level, is rich in oblique meanings and in order
to tease these out we begin to examine the characters and
events as symbols. We may perceive the story as a
parable; that is, a tale with a moral: little girls should not
be allowed in the forest on their own, however great their
granny's needs.
But then we begin to ask more questions – why did Red
Riding Hood's mother send her on such a perilous journey
in the first place; does the wolf stand for more than a wolf,
granny more than a granny; and what is the significance of
the stones which in some versions of the story end up in
the wolf's stomach?

We are seeing that even the simplest of stories, long part of

the cultural heritage of many countries, is a moveable
feast, its connotative richness varying from reader to reader
and context to context; and stories produced in contexts
are significantly modified by new contexts.

Read it on the ads…

It would be instructive to select a number of popular
narrative forms to see how far they conform to Propp's
formula, then turn to the primary folklorists of our age –
the advertisers. In a commercial, the subject is the
character who stands in for the consumer. The object is
what the product being advertised can do for the
subject/hero/heroine, such as bringing happiness,
satisfaction, fulfilment, glamour, enviability.

The donor or giver is the originator of the advertisement.

And the villain? – any factor that deprives the subject of
his/her desires (like dandruff, bad skin, obesity, thirst,
hunger or irritable bowel syndrome).

The above is a summary and

adaptation of Chapter 6, Narrative:
The Media as Storytellers in Media
Communication: An Introduction to
Theory and Process (UK:
Palgrave/Macmillian, 3rd edition).

***

In Blog 10, I’ll be having a look at

the connection between values
underscoring fiction and those which
direct and rule the news; a
connection which prompts
exploration of the notion of proximity and overlap between
fictional and real life narratives. It remains to be
acknowledged that fiction, particularly that on the printed
page, is as likely to disconnect from reality as connect with
it.
Notes in passing: that handkerchief…
Blog 8 looked at props in stories. Listening to the excellent
production of Othello on Radio 4 the other day, I got to
thinking how significant and central was the handkerchief
given to Desdemona by Othello, passed on to his mother by
an Egyptian, with ‘magic in the web of it’.

What’s interesting is how the same object is viewed

through contrary perceptions. Othello’s attitude to the
handkerchief is one of reverence and superstition.

Not lost, but what if it were?

Desdemona had dearly cherished it, but with her husband’s
sudden coldness towards her on her mind plus her
determination to have Cassio reinstated as the Moor’s
lieutenant, she is tempted to relegate it in significance: ‘It
is not lost; but what if it were?’ A position that is sensible
but disastrously mistimed.

Meanwhile Emilia, in possession of the handkerchief, is less

mindful of its value to Desdemona and more of the
imperious demands of her husband, Iago, who ‘hath a
hundred times woo’d me to steal it’. For her it is an object
of placation. She demeans its value by calling it a ‘napkin’.
She acknowledges that Desdemona ‘loves the token’ yet
immediately decides, ‘I’ll have the work ta’en out’.

Thus the same object, the same prop, means different

things to different people, according to the situation they
perceive themselves in. For the audience, the missing
handkerchief signifies the beginning of a tragic outcome.

Why, what’s that to you?

‘Do not chide; I have a thing for you’, is Emilia’s response
to Iago’s demand for the handkerchief. She is curious
enough to ask her husband what he intends to do with the
handkerchief only to receive the curt response, ‘Why,
what’s that to you?’ She lets the matter rest for, like all the
members of the cast, Emilia cannot begin to imagine
Iago’s evil purpose.

The issue of the handerchief matches Shakespeare’s two

grander themes, the first concerning reputation. Iago
considers this ‘an idle and most false imposition; oft got
without merit, and lost without deserving’. But to Cassio it
is ‘the immortal part of myself’.
Yet it is not so much respect for reputation that governs
the plot of Othello but trust, the misinvestment of it.
Othello trusts Iago; Cassio trusts Iago, Desdemona trusts
him and so, amazingly, does Emilia.

One ounce of doubt on their part and Iago’s plan would

be done for. It could be said that none of those involved
in the tragedy actually, or deeply, trusts the others –
enough. Iago meanwhile trusts no one but himself.

And the green-eyed monster?

Looming over all the other ‘properties’ is, of course,
Othello’s jealousy; but it could also be described as his
insecurity concerning his own persona and background.

A general of Venice he may be, but the attitude and

response of Desdemona’s father, Brabantio, would have
been widely shared. He trusted in his daughter and that
trust has been set at nought – ‘O treason of the
blood!-/Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’
minds’.

Brabantio calls Othello ‘thou foul thief’ and can only

believe that Othello ‘hast enchanted her’. By marrying
Desdemona without her father’s consent, Othello must
have known he might not have won that consent
voluntarily. Othello later confesses his wonderment at
Desdemona’s choice.

Brought before the Duke of Venice, Othello eloquently

makes his case, but what really wins it is Venice’s military
necessity, a Turkish fleet ‘bearing up to Cyprus’,
consequently the importance of Othello’s generalship.

The Shylock connection

It’s no mere coincidence that Venice is the setting both
for the ‘sooty bosom’ of the Moor (as Brabantio puts it)
and another member of a persecuted minority, Shylock in
the Merchant of Venice.

Ultimately, in matters of the heart rather than war,

Othello has a brittle self-view. The ‘green-eyed monster’
thus has him at its mercy, aided by some diabolical
tweaking from Iago. In his case, career-opportunism
might actually be considered only the part-motivator of
his actions.
 After all, following Cassio’s disgrace, Iago becomes the
Moor’s lieutenant. Careerwise, he has got what he
wanted.

He could have handed back the handkerchief, heading off,

for Othello, ‘such perdition/As nothing else could match’;
and everyone would have lived happily ever after! Alas,
for Iago, the game is everything.

He will have been well-content with the human

devastation he has caused. One wonders how far his
genius for manipulation might have carried him in the
modern world.

To feed back on the above or correspond on like

matters, please contact the author on
[email protected]

In previous blogs:
HISTORY’S NEGLECTED WOMEN (No.4, October 2009)
IN PRAISE OF WOMEN’S SOCCER (No.5, November
09)
LAST FLIGHT OF THE HEYFORD K6875 (No.6, Dec 09)
TRIGGERS & PROPS IN STORYTELLING, 1 (No.7, Jan
10)
PROPS PROPEL, Part 2 (No. 8, Feb.10).

THANKS FOR READING THIS!

JIM.