In episode 88 of The Lizzie Bennet Diaries (“Okay”), the titular character’s youngest sister Lydia reveals that the website hosting her sex tape with George Wickham has been removed from the internet. Lizzie, who had been bracing against its release throughout several of the previous episodes, is instantly relieved that both her sister’s reputation and her family’s reputation have been salvaged through this seemingly-miraculous circumstance. In both the novel Pride and Prejudice (the protagonist of which will be referred to as “Elizabeth”) and The Lizzie Bennet Diaries (protagonist of which will be referred to as “Lizzie”), this revelation relieves a major source of tension for Ms. Bennet, and in both instances, she expresses gratitude toward the perceived agent of that relief.

In the original story, Lydia Wickham is precisely the same girl as Lydia Bennet. As the narrator says, “Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless” (Volume 3, Chapter 9). Rather than feeling shame at the stress and expense she imposed upon her family, she demands both congratulations and a place of higher esteem at the table. She is a quintessential flat character (Woloch 25). Lydia Wickham does not grow.

In The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, on the other hand, Lydia is sensible of both the potential consequences to herself and the emotional implications of George Wickham’s actions (i.e., that he does not genuinely care about her), which is best expressed through her emotional breakdown at the end of episode 85 (“Consequences”). She acknowledges in episode 88 (“Okay”) that “maybe I’m not so good at dealing with things the right way sometimes” and asks Lizzie for her time and emotional support. Here Lydia communicates both a change in attitude and a level of self-awareness that the Lydia Bennet of the 1813 novel never approaches. In that same episode, Lizzie also acknowledges Lydia’s multi-dimensionality, telling her “I didn’t really know you, I guess,” to which Lydia replies, “I never really let you.” This realization, one Elizabeth Bennet has in regard to Mr. Darcy but not her own sister, is a further acknowledgement of Lydia as a round character, both as demonstrated through Lydia’s own words and actions and Lizzie’s observations.

In both versions of the story, Elizabeth/Lizzie fundamentally represent what Woloch describes as the narrative’s “referential core” (18). In both instances, Ms. Bennet’s worldview and observations drive both the storytelling and the reader’s understanding of the other characters. For instance, Ms. Bennet’s one-sided understanding of Darcy’s dealings with George Wickham cast Darcy in a negative light. However, both versions also work to give a certain amount of “roundness” to its side characters. In Pride and Prejudice, its free indirect discourse gives the reader access to Darcy’s earliest feelings for Elizabeth even when she is not sensible to them, and it gives space for Charlotte Lucas’ intentions in her friendliness toward Mr. Collins. In some ways, The Lizzie Bennet Diaries goes even further to provide outside perspectives on the narrative, most notably through “side” episodes like number 15 (“Lizzie Bennet is in Denial”), in which Jane and Charlotte speak to the camera directly in Lizzie’s absence, and through the various side vlogs and other parallel social media accounts ostensibly run by the characters themselves (most notably Lydia’s independent vlogs of her time in Las Vegas with Wickham).

In most traditional narratives, “secondary characters. . .become allegorical, and this allegory is directed toward a singular being, the protagonist, who stands at the center of the text’s symbolic structure” (Woloch 18). Though Pride and Prejudice does provide a fair amount of stinging social commentary, it does still present itself to the reader as an example of a traditional marriage plot. Elizabeth and her sisters are single in a world where single women are unprotected and socially stigmatized, and through the machinations of the story, the sisters who “matter” (Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia) find themselves husbands. Elizabeth and Jane both proceed through courtship in (more or less) the expected way, maintaining the appearance of propriety throughout. As a result, they are rewarded with fulfilling marriages to wealthy men. Lydia, on the other hand, is “an eccentric” who “grates against. . .her position” (Woloch 25). She is so focused on achieving the goal of marriage that she does not follow the correct procedure, causing her family boundless stress, potentially ruining the chances of good marriages for her sisters, and ending in a loveless relationship (Volume 3, Chapter 19). Though the opinions of Mr. Collins are obviously ones which the reader should take with a grain of salt, Austen’s audience would ostensibly have found it believable that a clergyman would assert, “The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison to this [i.e., the appearance of having out-of-wedlock sex]” (Volume 3, Chapter 6). Particularly in comparison to her blissfully-married sisters, Lydia serves as an allegory for “what not to do.”

On the other hand, the Lydia Bennet of The Lizzie Bennet Diaries loses some of her allegorical function as a result of her comparative roundness (Woloch 20). Because Lydia is sensible to the pain she has caused and Wickham’s disregard for her (as seen in episode 85), the audience is asked to sympathize with her plight. By utilizing the multi-platform storytelling capabilities of the internet and ignoring the simple strictures of the marriage plot (both allowable by the time in which it was made), The Lizzie Bennet Diaries provides a roundness to Lydia unmatched by the original text; she can no longer be a simple warning to the readers of the text when she openly feels pain and is nearly as fully realized as Lizzie herself. In both texts, Lydia is susceptible to George Wickham’s manipulation. While the Lydia of the novel is a lamb lead to (social) slaughter, The Lizzie Bennet Diaries’ Lydia escapes manipulation and does not fulfill a simple allegorical function. She is a woman who reclaims agency over herself and her choices through her own self-awareness combined with the support of loved ones.

I found Genette’s chapters on paratexts useful in thinking about the term beyond what I learned of it in my undergrad literary theory course. Even though the focus is exclusively on print texts, I found myself thinking more about televisual paratexts, trying to see what I could connect to the Fargo TV series and my own interests in Netflix comedy special paratexts.

This quote from Genette stuck out to me as I was thinking about how to classify some of the paratextual elements of Fargo beyond the “where? when? how? to whom? and to do what?” (Genette 4) approach, “The functions of the paratext therefore constitute a highly empirical and highly diversified object that must be brought into existence inductively, genre by genre and species by species. The only significant regularities one can introduce into this apparent contingency are to establish these relations of subordination between function and status and thus pinpoint various sorts of functional types, as well, reduce the diversity of practices and messages to some fundamental and highly recurrent themes.” (Genette 13). The genre of “TV viewed on streaming services” (I’m watching Fargo on my Hulu account) has many unique paratextual elements which I’m sure have been written about elsewhere, and then the Fargo TV series itself can be viewed as its own species, with individual seasons or episodes being perhaps subspecies. For this short essay, I’ll focus on Fargo 202, “Before the Law” to try and list some of the paratextual observations I have made and hopefully gesture towards inductively deriving some sort of functional type.

I need to begin by trying to define the opening sequences as paratextual elements before going further. To even classify this sequence as an opening/title sequence goes against many older generic forms such as the copy and paste title sequence with the same theme song and no variation (think any older cartoon series). However, many recent TV series have modified the opening/title sequence in creative ways like Fargo to diversify it to have meta-textual elements to the episode or the season (Better Call Saul, Bojack Horseman). One could contest that these newer, savvier opening sequences are not paratextual because they are so embedded into the text because of the production. However, I would say that they are paratextual by virtue of their repeating qualities that frame the episode. In Fargo (at least 2 episodes in) the opening sequence features a nondiegetic soundtrack, the opening text, split screen edits, and an eventual title sequence. These commonalities codify these sequences as title sequences.

The opening text that appears onscreen is the paratextual element that interests me the most. This writing seems to serve as the first indication of the show’s opening/title sequence, since it has occurred in both 201 and 202 with music accompaniment leading up to the reveal of the title (in 201 it comes after the cold open). As a refresher, the text reads, “This is a true story. True. The events took place in Minnesota in 1979. At the request of the survivors, the names have been changed. Out of respect for the dead, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred. An MGM/FXP Production” written out slowly between scenes with nondiegetic typewriter clicks. As discussed in class, this writing is nonsense, as the stories are fictional. As an uninformed viewer, I would have bought this as I did with the film version, and so I guess Genette would classify this as private paratext? At the very least, including this information at the beginning of each episode reminds viewers either to consider (wrongly) that the show is about an (un)true story, or, remind them that it is a farcically violent romp through the Midwest. As opposed to the film version where this paratextual element only occurs once, having the TV version repeat it, and repeat it as an indication of the show’s opening, amps up the functionality of this paratextual element.

The nondiegetic soundtrack is one of the other main indicators of the opening/title sequence and one that has perhaps the most “illocutionary force” (10) on that particular episode. For example, in 202 the song is “Reunion” by Bobbie Gentry, which depicts a fraught family reunion where multiple parties attempt to appeal to the Mama of the family. The song itself is satirical in that the bulk of it describes petty fights between seemingly younger family members such as hair pulling, but then the speaker states, “It’s first time ever that the family been together. It’s so nice that we all get along so well.” As a paratextual element the song has more force as it sets up one of the main conflicts of the episode: who will lead the Gerhardt family? In the episode we see the matriarch, Floyd, negotiating effectively with the rival gang, only to be challenged by her son Dodd solely due to her femininity. We know from the previous episode that the siblings of the family squabble much like the characters in the song, only instead of pulling hair, it’s questioning Rye’s masculinity and ability to do his job. Through all of this, Floyd (Mama) is the one who mediates these conflicts and is likely keeping the family unified, as is often assumed through gendered roles of motherhood.

Wowee there’s so much more to say!

“These are personal matters,” Jerry Lundegaard says, when pressed by Carl Showalter to explain himself. Carl is curious why on earth Jerry would hire a couple of thugs to kidnap and hold his wife for ransom. We learn that Jerry needs money, that Jerry’s father-in-law has money, and that Jerry can’t, or won’t, ask for it directly. But beyond this, Jerry only says, “These are personal matters.” Despite his reticence, Jerry’s actions—coming to the bar with the tan Ciera in tow and making the deal with Carl and Gaear—set in motion a chain of cause-and-effect events which constitutes the plot of Fargo and which confirms David Bordwell’s assertions that “In classical fabula construction, causality is the prime unifying principle” and that “the syuzhet represents the order, frequency, and duration of fabula events in ways which bring out the salient causal relations” (157). 

The causality of Fargo’s major plot is crystal clear: Because Jerry brings the Ciera to Fargo, Carl and Gaear drive it to Minneapolis to kidnap Jean, and because Carl and Gaear are driving the brand-new car with dealer plates, they are pulled over by the state trooper, and because Carl and Gaear have Jean in the backseat, they kill the suspicious state trooper, and because they kill the state trooper, they attract the attention of the passing motorists, and on, and on, and on. In this way, the film is organized and driven forward by causality. 

There is also a way in which this chain of events satisfies viewer expectations (what Abbott calls “closures at the level of expectation”)—the film’s epigraph has promised a “true” story about murder—and so far it has delivered a nitty-gritty (if not strictly true) story of murder. But what about Abbott’s “closure at the level of questions”? The first question that the viewer has been explicitly prompted, by Carl, to ask is “Why does Jerry want his wife kidnapped?” We are given a half answer (that he needs the money), but this only inspires another question: Why does he need the money? Because of the strong chain of causality and the many other little questions that are raised and answered (for example, Will the kidnapping work out as planned?), the viewer is perhaps encouraged to set this question aside for the time being—in expectation of later answers. As Abbott states, “at the level of questions, we anticipate enlightenment” (60). But do we every get this enlightenment?

Even though after the initial meeting Jerry is no longer pertinent to the kidnapping plot (at least until the ransom), the narrative keeps up with Jerry, but these scenes don’t bring the closure or answers we expect. In fact, our questions only multiply and our expectations about Jerry are confused. We might even begin to question what we thought we knew about Jerry from that first meeting in the bar: First, we see Jerry at home with his wife, son, and father-in-law, whom he is asking for a loan on an investment opportunity, intensifying our pre-existing question (Again, why does he need all this money?). Then we see him shaft a customer at the car dealership, upsetting our expectations about mild-mannered, soft-spoken Jerry Lundegaard (Is this a well-meaning family man forced by circumstances to desperate measures—or a habitual thief and cheat, cleverly disguised?). Finally, we see Jerry ask a coworker for an extra hockey ticket (the coworker’s response lets us know what an absurd request this is—Apparently, Jerry is in the habit of asking for more than he ought to), then lie to his customer with a plastic smile (Does he have any scruples at all?), and clumsily side-step the requests of a GMAC official for the VIN numbers substantiating a very large loan he has apparently forged. Perhaps it is at this moment that the cause-and-effect chain of Jerry’s actions becomes obviously jumbled for us—with so many underhand money-making schemes, it is unclear if Jerry is trying to cover up one dirty deal with another, or if he is collecting all this money for some other reason. But by the time Jerry discusses the investment deal with Wade and Stan, and he urges, “I don’t need a finder’s fee. Finder’s fee that’s…what? Ten percent? Heck, that’s not gonna do it for me. I need the principle!” we might begin to wonder whether this investment deal is just another of Jerry’s scams. 

Eventually we realize how wrong we were about Jerry Lundegaard: the expectations and assumptions we didn’t even realize we were making about him—that he seems like a nice, mild-mannered, soft-spoken kind of guy forced into a desperate situation—are unraveled and, furthermore, we still don’t know why he needs the money. And we never do. Thus, while one narrative thread (Jean’s kidnapping) moves forward with clear causality and routine gratification of the viewer’s expectations and questions, another parallel narrative thread, which we believe will takes us “backwards” into Jerry’s motives, only multiples our questions and confuses our expectations.

It seemed to me unconventional (and maybe even a little risky) to embed such a large question into a film’s narrative yet never deliver on it. Of course, we’ve all seen films which revel in taunting the viewer with the missing pieces (one example that comes to mind is the end of Inception, where unreliability of perception is a theme of the narrative and interpretation becomes a fun game for the viewer to participate in). But with Fargo, we find a significant gap in a film whose narrative seems in every other way perfectly willing to fulfill Bordwell’s description of omniscient and highly communicative classical narration, giving us almost unrestricted access to all details of the story, including cues when the location changes from Fargo to Minneapolis to Brainer (Bordwell 160). The narration is so attentive and omniscient that we even witness Jerry’s private outbursts of frustration—but are never made privy to his deeper motives. So the questions I’d like to pose to the class for discussion are: Is this a liability or a strength of Fargo? How would knowing or not knowing Jerry’s ultimate motives change our experience and perception of the film? My own inclination is that we as the viewer are made to understand that, to a certain extent, motives can be immaterial—Jerry causes the deaths of seven people regardless. That fact can’t be changed by intention. In addition, the pretense of a “true story” creates an expectation for all the pieces to fall into place—for “a growing awareness of absolute truth” (Bordwell 159). Yet this is not always the case—true stories may in fact be those most likely to be incomplete and unclear.

The readings from Bordwell and Newman both present key elements and structures within different filmic forms. While Bordwell describes characteristics of classical and art-cinema narrations, Newman describes features of serial television, specifically focusing on the prime-time serial (PTS). The chapter from Abbott explores adaptations of stories to different media and what components of the story can be shifted and exaggerated or are stunted in these adaptations. My synthesis post for this week will be based largely on Bordwell’s and Newman’s articles. Though the articles outline many components of classical narration, art-cinema narration, and the serial, I will focus primarily on character (though there is much to be explored in closures as well).

Before jumping into character, I want to take note of two important terms used throughout Bordwell’s article: syuzhet and fabula. The fabula is the story itself, or the “aerial perspective,” “raw material” of the story. The syuzhet then delivers that story in ways that impact the viewer—creating suspense, intensifying emotions, revealing and hiding information, etc.  The syuzhet can be briefly defined as the plot — the way the story is organized and unfolds. Bordwell describes, “syuzhet represents the order, frequency, and duration of fabula events in ways which bring out the salient causal relations” (158). Two features or expressions of the syuzhet include the scene and montage—pieces that construct how viewers receive the story.

Both articles provide numerous distinctions between filmic narrative forms, namely classical narration, art-cinema narration, and the prime-time serial (PTS). The distinction that stood out most to me, especially in light of watching Fargo (feature) and Fargo S2E1, was character. In classical narration, the character is presented through a “objective” notion of realism. The character is “psychologically defined” and often “struggle[s] to solve a clear-cut problem or to attain specific goals” (157). Bordwell states, “In fabula terms, the reliance upon character-centered causality and the definition of the action as the attempt to achieve a goal are both salient features of the canonic format” (157). We learn within minutes of the arrival of Frances McDormand’s “Marge” on screen in the feature-length Fargo that she is a pregnant police officer in a loving marriage who must solve three murders. Her identity and objectives are defined at the offset and obeyed for the duration of the story.

In art-cinema, the character is presented through a more “’subjective’ or ‘expressive’ notion of realism. The art film aims to ‘exhibit character’…But the prototypical characters of the art cinema tend to lack clear-cut traits, motives, and goals. Protagonists may act inconsistently…or they may question themselves about their purposes” (Bordwell 207). The focus on character psychology as ambiguous and at times contradictory is a divergence from the classical narration. We learn within minutes of the arrival Kirsten Dunst’s “Peggy Blumquist” on screen that initial clues of her contented satisfaction as a homemaker and nearness to self-actualization were misleading: she had hours before committed a hit and run and is seemingly only pretending to share her husband’s dreams of having children and settling in Minnesota. Her behavior is contradictory on different levels, which can leave the audience to wonder if her actions are the result of a recent trauma (committing a hit and run) or extend deeper, illustrating her character as one that lacks clear-cut traits.

Newman mentions the allowance the serial gives in gaining a deeper understanding of the character as we follow the character through numerous events and interactions. He states “the investment in a serial character is based on a more novelistic progression of events over a long duration, with episodes like chapters in an ongoing saga rather than self-contained stories…Characterization in the PTS is more likely to have a certain kind of depth as the audience knows more about the characters’ inner lives in serials than in many episodic shows” (23). Thus, in the serial, the characterization may lean more toward the classical or art-cinema variety, but either way the audience is given a deeper understanding of the character and more time to observe growth and change (or lack thereof). Many questions about Dunst’s character, goals, and future are left unanswered in S2E1 of Fargo, presumably to be taken up in later episodes.

Okay then.

Questions:

• What did you notice about the use of the camera as an “invisible-observer” especially in S2E1? What knowledge about the fabula was conveyed or confused through the lens of the camera and editing techniques?
• What allusions or “citations” are present in Fargo S2E1 of Fargo (feature), in terms of syuzhet, fabula, character, etc.?
• What cause-effect chains were left open in Fargo S2E1 and which ones were resolved?

Chapters Four, Five, and Six of H. Porter Abbott’s book The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative bring in many new elements and terms to narratives that are worth considering. Chapter Four explores narratives’ power, as they drive people to make connections and feel certain emotions, through the terms causation, normalization, and masterplots. Causation means that people will make connections between events told in narratives, while normalization points to a narrative’s ability to make people believe its events are real, at least when it is told in a convincing manner. Masterplots are repeated stories with similar structures and events, some universal but most linked to a specific cultural milieu, and all with the power to evoke great emotion from those familiar with them.

Chapter Five discusses various elements related to closure, meaning when the conflict driving the narrative is solved. Though closure often occurs at the end of narratives, it can also happen at other points or, indeed, not at all. A lack of closure, or suspense, is necessary to keep the audience engaged and the narrative going, as is surprise, wherein the audience’s expectations are disrupted. Narratives must strike a balance between meeting and disrupting some of the audience’s expectations, for they will disengage if the story is too cliché, and answering at least some of their questions. Narratives may even end ambiguously without giving the audience the closure they desire, perhaps to engage the audience and keep them thinking about the story and its themes even after it has ended.

Chapter Six explains different details about narrators. Scholars debate where the narrator’s narration ends, with some saying this occurs anytime a character is directly quoted in either their spoken words or thoughts. This is complicated somewhat when the author employs free indirect style, allowing a character’s thoughts and feelings to bleed into the narration at various points. Voice is another important aspect that refers to who is doing the narration, whether a character in the story (first-person) or someone more removed (third-person). Focalizaiton is “the lens through which we see characters and events in the narrative,” and while the narrator is often the focalizer, this can sometimes switch to different characters, such as with the free indirect style (Abbott 73). Another term Abbott focuses on is distance, meaning how closely involved the narrator is to the story whether in terms of their role in the story or when the story occurred. With narrators, especially in current times, there is always a question of reliability, as it is often unclear if the facts they present and/or their interpretations are entirely accurate, a fact that authors may purposefully exploit to some end.

Though all Abbott’s terms are significant to an understanding of how narrative works, his points on closure can be focused on in more detail. Authors must utilize some level of suspense and surprise to play with their audiences’ expectations, something Aristotle even commented on in Poetics thousands of years ago. As he deciphers what makes a tragedy, Aristotle explains, “tragedy represents not only complete action but also incidents that cause fear and pity, and this happens most of all when the incidents are unexpected and yet one is the consequence of the other” (39). Despite Aristotle’s focus on tragedy, the heart of his words still aligns with Abbott’s explanations of narrative in general: mainly, that it contains events which are meant to evoke specific emotions from the audience by presenting incidents that are unexpected but still connected.

Suspense and surprise are utilized by various authors for different effects. Charles Chestnut uses these techniques in The Conjure Woman and Other Conjure Tales not only through Uncle Julius’ tragic, often magical tales but also by contrasting his sneakier behavior with the happy-go-lucky Uncle Remus character-type Julius satirizes. Jhumpa Lahiri similarly plays with audience expectations in Interpreter of Maladies. “A Temporary Matter,” for instance, leads audiences to believe that the couple is on the path towards reconciliation after the unfortunate death of their child, only to foil these expectations when Shoba and Shukumar reveal a final secret that will hurt the other the most. Lahiri’s presentation of these events fits both Abbott’s and Aristotle’s description, as this tragedy evokes fear and pity through these unexpected yet connected events (IE. Shoba’s plan to move out and Shukumar’s hidden knowledge about their son). Yet expectations can also be played with to other ends, such as in the foiled tragedy of “When Mr. Pirada Came to Dine.” Because the story revolves around the various tragedies that occurred during the Indo-Pakistan War of 1971, both the characters in the narrative and the audience are led to believe that Mr. Pirada’s family is almost certainly dead. Therefore, when Mr. Pirada is reunited with his family against all odds, the audience’s expectation of tragedy is foiled and arguably, their happiness at this reunion heightened.

Closure is a key part of narrative, one that is played with or left ambiguous to produce different audience reactions. Lahiri’s stories all arguably close in unexpected ways, but for what purpose? Why bring together all these tales that purposefully foil audience expectations? Are these foiled expectations at least partially a result of cultural differences? Do they contribute to a larger theme about expectations? Furthermore, does her anthology of short stories give the audience closure with the ending of its last tale, “The Third and Final Continent,” or does this tale too only leave the audience with more questions? Focusing on closure, or lack thereof, in Lahiri’s book reveals how many questions are left unanswered though this, it seems, serves a larger purpose of keeping the reader thinking about at least one of these tales long after they’ve finished reading.