“Utopians believe in progress; dystopians don’t. They fight this argument out in competing visions of the future, utopians offering promises, dystopians issuing warnings.

[But there’s] one problem with dystopian fiction: forewarned is not always forearmed.”

—JILL LEPORE, THE NEW YORKER PROFESSOR OF AMERICAN HISTORY AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY

Chapter 4

Dystopias, Multiverses and Magic Realism

Dystopias are all about the end (or the impending end) of civilization—whether humanity realizes it or not. In many cases, the dystopian world is defined by lack of natural resources, contamination, lives lost, hardcore survival against insurmountable odds—and/or rampaging zombies; it’s kill or be killed.

In other cases, the dominant race or class is living in deep denial about the future of humanity. The Gilead setting in The Handmaid’s Tale, the Wild West-themed amusement park in Westworld and the Woodbury, Terminus and Sanctuary cities from The Walking Dead each depict unsustainable apocalyptic societies disguised as new beginnings. Of course this is all a matter of perspective. On The Leftovers, the Guilty Remnant cult is under no illusions, and its members have chosen to stop talking, abandon their loved ones and take up chain smoking—which seems extreme but also perfectly reasonable when we consider the context: the inexplicable, simultaneous disappearance of 140 million people, 2% of the world’s population, on October 14, 2011—a/k/a the Rapture, or “Sudden Departure.” The chain smoking is to help them remember, as one GR member puts it, “that the world ended.” Their aim going forward (if you can call it that) is not to go back to the status quo. To them, there is no new normal, and trying to adjust is a total waste of time. Their prevailing philosophy is explained to a confused Kevin Garvey (Justin Theroux) by GR cult leader Patti Levin (Emmy-winner Ann Dowd), a parallel-realm Senator in the standout “International Assassin,” Season 2, Episode 8:

What pulls us into Damon Lindelof and Tom Perrotta’s The Leftovers and other dystopian series are their universal themes of family, community, forgiveness and atonement. The best dystopian series take an abstract, unimaginable global event and make it concrete, hyper-specific, personal and relatable. And that’s what makes them so foreboding, creepy and irresistible. We’re invited to empathize and judge and ask ourselves: What if this really happened to me?

Every technological advance is designed to make our lives easier, faster and more efficient. Except, of course, the health care industry, which is designed to prolong life and slow things down. We live and die in a paradox. Everything in between is entertainment. Alas, the reason we’re so drawn to TV series about dystopian civilizations is because we have devolved into a dystopia. Science fiction used to make the impossible seem possible. Today, many of our dystopian shows are no longer merely science fiction; now they’re based in real science and social situations. Netflix’s Emmy-winning technological thriller series Black Mirror gets it right by playing its dystopian settings as the new normal; the scariest, most portentous episodes are also the most plausible.

In this new realistic dystopia, Darwinism has also taken the next step, and we’re not just fighting to survive against other humans or beasts; the enemy now is artificial intelligence (A.I.), and we inexorably edge closer and closer to the singularity. In HBO’s Westworld, we find ourselves rooting against the humans, and our sympathy lies with the androids. And yet paradoxically by doing so, it reinforces our humanity and compassion.

Sir Thomas More coined the term “utopia” in his satirical book of the same name, published in Latin in 1516. It described a fictional island society in which everything was perfect. But perfection is in the eye of the beholder. One man’s treasure is another man’s trash or folly. Perfectionism can be a gift or a curse in our imperfect world. If we’re liberal and open-minded, we think of utopia as a place of freedom, equality and community. But cynics might consider these ideals naïve and untenable. For every positive, there’s a corresponding (potential) negative. Build an open, democratic society, but then who’s going to lead it? What about laws? Could an argument be made in this hypothetical utopian society that a criminal act is nothing more than freedom of expression? Does our utopian world have bridges to connect us, or walls to keep out those deemed undesirable? Is there a socioeconomic and/or political hierarchy? What are they teaching kids in schools? Is Truth the most valuable currency, or is it the number of likes you get on Facebook? Is your idea of utopia the same as mine? Who’s right, who’s wrong and what does justice look like when we’re all equally idealistic on our own terms?

The role of paradox is paramount in drama and in life. When we look at a battery, with its +/− (positive and negative) charge, it’s literally the way energy works. So it stands to reason that, if there is the potential for utopia, then there is also the potential for the converse: dystopia, in which everything is FUBAR (fucked up beyond all recognition). This devolution may have been intentional—the master plan of a powerful madman or terrorist group. But even when it comes to terrorists, it’s important to consider perspective. Remember, the terrorists believe that we’re the terrorists.

In Season 3 of Black Mirror, which I described in my last book as “The Twilight Zone on digital crack,” creator/showrunners Charlie Brooker and Annabel Jones continue to hypothesize worst-case scenarios in both the present day and the near future. In its Season 3 opener, “Nosedive,” a young woman who’s only rated 4.2 out of 5 on social media becomes so desperate to boost her rating that it ends up plummeting to an unimaginable low. According to its star, Bryce Dallas Howard, we’re just a step away from this kind of people-rating system becoming a reality.¹ In the Season 3 finale, “Hated in the Nation” (written by Brooker), when a London journalist publishes a blunt piece disparaging a disabled activist who committed suicide, the reporter finds herself the target of public shaming via social media and hatred. Later she’s found brutally murdered. Chief Inspector Karin Park (Kelly Macdonald) and her new cyber savvy partner Blue Colson (Faye Marsay) investigate; when more mysterious murders occur, they suspect a serial killer.

So far, this could be an episode of CSI or Law & Order, but then, in perfect Black Mirror fashion, the narrative expands into a creepy dystopia: It turns out that each victim was executed by killer bees. Well, not exactly bees—micro bee drones—invented by a bio-engineer to pollinate. Brooker takes a current environmental issue and puts it on steroids by positing: What if we created drone bees to help solve the inexplicable disappearance of real bees—but then their programs were hacked by cyber terrorists to swarm and kill? Given that each victim was publicly shamed and “hated in the nation,” Brooker presents this scenario in the morally gray areas of vigilantism (think Showtime’s Dexter) and government surveillance. Like almost every Black Mirror episode, it’s a grounded depiction of technology turned against humanity, akin to Frankenstein’s creature turning against his creator; what had originally been designed as a boon to civilization becomes a nightmarish curse.

The Constructive/Destructive Power of Ideas: The Handmaid’s Tale

Which brings me to the main question at the core of utopias/dystopias: What’s more dangerous than any weapon or nuclear bomb?

Answer: An idea.

Weapons and bombs are inanimate. It’s up to human beings to decide what to do with them. They can be used for offense or defense, as deterrent or attack. Utopias/dystopias are based on who believes what and why, and it’s all messy and subjective.

The multiple Emmy Award-winning The Handmaid’s Tale, created by Bruce Miller and adapted from the 1985 novel by Margaret Atwood, became the first streaming show (it’s a Hulu Original) to win for best drama series. In the atrocious world of this story, the “handmaids” have been brainwashed and/or beaten into submission to accept their roles as baby makers—even if it involves ritualized rape repackaged as celebratory monthly “ceremonies.” The obedient ones have drunk the proverbial Kool-Aid and embraced their roles as a blessing, as a means not only for their own survival, but also for the salvation of the human race. Gilead is a hellish police state, regulated by secret police (a/k/a the Eyes) and bands of roaming uniformed soldiers. It’s a world in which pollution and STDs have rendered most women and men sterile. The Commanders justify their actions with a scientific fact: If human beings don’t continue to procreate, they’re doomed to extinction.

We bear witness to the atrocities in Gilead, primarily from the POV of “Offred” (née June, played by Elisabeth Moss). Offred is literally now the property of her master, Commander Fred Waterford (Joseph Fiennes). To see her and the other handmaids, who were chosen for their fertility, being treated as sex slaves by their otherwise Puritanical masters and their consenting, barren wives is to see the worst in human nature. And those who resist are exiled to The Colonies, remote work camps in which prisoners are forced to clean up toxic waste, a certain death sentence.

The Handmaid’s Tale and other dystopian series demonstrate how the “greater good” is never good for everybody, as depicted in Episode 5, “Faithful”:

The “for some” aspect takes on more gravitas in Hulu’s game-changing series, as it departs from Atwood’s 1985 novel that depicts a whitewashed Gilead—a literal white supremacy. It is worth noting that Margaret Atwood is Canadian; her objectivity on the US is key to the fictional creation of Gilead. Atwood was able to diagnose problems from a distance that Americans inevitably find harder to wrap our heads around. The racial diversity on the TV series has been the target of criticism, with skeptics incredulous that such an oppressive place could be racially integrated. In the series, June’s husband Luke (O-T Fagbenle) is black, their young daughter Hannah is biracial, and her closest ally from her previous life in Boston and in Gilead, Moira, is also black. Moira is played by the African-American actress Samira Wiley (Poussey Washington in Orange Is the New Black). But whether you agree with adapter/showrunner Bruce Miller’s racially inclusive approach or not, the bottom line is that all nations, including the United States, have the potential to turn into horrific dystopias. The show has helped break down barriers not only via its commentary, but when Reed Morano became the first woman in 22 years to win an Emmy for directing for a drama series in 2017.

To me, the most compelling aspects of the creative approach to The Handmaid’s Tale TV series are its use of voice-over to articulate what our protagonist June/Offred is forbidden to speak aloud and the intermittent flashbacks that show us June’s relatively “normal” life in Boston prior to the transition from democracy to totalitarian/theocratic rule.

The Republic of Gilead began via a coup d’état that killed the President of the United States and most of Congress. A Bible-based fundamentalist movement known as the “Sons of Jacob” has staged a revolution and created new authoritative/theocratic laws superseding the US Constitution (under the pretense of maintaining law and order); women’s assets have been erased, along with their basic human rights (except for “Wives” and “Aunts”), putting men in charge of everything. Women are now forbidden to speak directly to men, to read, or to speak freely/candidly to their male and female superiors. Even OB/GYN doctors are complicit in the rape ceremonies: When Offred intimates that her master rapes her each month to get her pregnant, the doctor suggests that the Commander might be the infertile one and offers to “help” his patient by impregnating her himself. The consequences of white male privilege dominate all aspects of The Handmaid’s Tale.

These ceremonies were conceived as a solution to infertility and espoused by former televangelist Serena Joy Waterford (Yvonne Strahovski) to help save the human race. Then the patriarchal males intensified their authority, and Gilead became a totalitarian state. No woman in Gilead is free, not even the wives. But we also discover that outside of Gilead, other women are still in leadership positions, including a female Ambassador, and still live relatively free—but not for long. Dystopias tend to be contagious, even though Gilead was doomed from the start.

Gilead (dys)functions as a caste system with a strict dress code. At the top of the hierarchy are Commanders of the Faithful (a/k/a Husbands); their devoted Wives (in solid blue dresses) are all presumed to be infertile (while men are beyond reproach); below the married couples are “Aunts” (teacher/mentors/enforcers, who dress in brown); “Marthas” (housekeepers/cooks, who must wear drab green smocks); “Jezebels,” who are glammed-up sex slaves in a posh, illegal Dionysian whorehouse; and Handmaids (who must wear formless red cloaks and white “winged” hats that resemble nun’s habits to shield their faces—the Gilead version of the burka).

In Offred’s orbit are the Commander and his intelligent but jealous wife, Serena Joy, who’s been stripped of her TV fame and relegated to (allegedly infertile) submissive trophy wife, as well as “Aunt” Lydia (Ann Dowd), the officious headmistress who seems to possess actual mercy for the obedient girls and keeps the rebellious girls in line with a cattle prod. Indeed, in a KCRW interview with Kim Masters, Dowd shared that her character has a genuine fondness and compassion for the handmaids. She sees her role as protector and mentor. We witness Aunt Lydia as a monster, but Dowd shrewdly plays just the opposite. As handmaids are forbidden to go out in public alone (a misogynistic buddy system), they’re each assigned another handmaid as a companion—and they’re trained to report any indecent thoughts to their superiors—or face harsh punishments. Offred’s “buddy” is Ofglen, played by Gilmore Girl Alexis Bledel. It’s Ofglen who provides Offred with her first ray of light: Ofglen reveals that she’s working for the Resistance. But later, unbeknownst to Offred, Ofglen is arrested—and circumcised!—for her covert actions. In Episode 2, “Birth Day,” when Offred approaches the gate to meet Ofglen for their usual shopping day (plus a bit of plotting against the regime), Offred gets a rude awakening when she realizes that Ofglen has been replaced by a new, brainwashed handmaid (née Rita, played by Amanda Brugel). The final lines of the episode hit the “sweet spot” of this addictive series by juxtaposing June’s thoughts with Offred’s reality:

When Serena Joy suspects that her husband is the infertile one, she arranges a tryst between Offred and the Commander’s handsome, young chauffeur Nick (Max Minghella), hoping to save her marriage by getting Offred pregnant at all costs. You might call her the Dystopian Desperate Housewife.

The Commander was integral to the coup of the US government. In the name of procreation, he and his entitled male cronies believed they had no better choice than to segregate, persecute and exploit fertile women: a radically inhumane, fascist version of an endangered species act. Offred has learned to trust no one and must exercise extreme caution while trying to tap into/join the rebels known as the Mayday Resistance. But we see her determination in “Night,” the powerful season finale, when she says, “They should have never given us uniforms if they didn’t want us to be an army.”

Our World With a Cautionary Twist

The before-and-after depictions of June/Offred are shocking, and show us how a society can change, virtually overnight, unless we’re vigilant. The events in The Handmaid’s Tale seem improbable, even impossible, until we look back to the Nazi occupation of Europe prior to World War II—or today’s Trumpian/draconian policies on and treatment of immigrants and refugees. Each dystopian series, from The Walking Dead and The Leftovers to The Handmaid’s Tale, Orphan Black, Humans, American Gods and the sitcom The Last Man on Earth, is an example of taking an ordinary setting and pushing it to the realm of the extraordinary. We’re living in a world where anything can happen at any time.

How can such horror be entertainment or even escapism? Well, misery loves company, and I suppose it can be somewhat reassuring to see others much worse off than we are. But dystopian series are a popular phenomenon, now more than ever. Are we incorrigible nihilists seeking validation for our pessimism? Or is there something more?

On The Walking Dead, humans can kill zombies by stabbing them in the brains and/or decapitating them. This is an ultra-violent horror/drama, but despite the gore, there is pathos. Like all long-running TV series, it’s based on family dynamics. In this case, it’s a family of survivors. Is there hope? Small victories (finding food and medical supplies) and rays of light (a newborn baby, spiritual faith, romance, friendship) occur amid relentless grief and darkness. Where there is love, community and compassion, there is the possibility for renewal.

Nevertheless, in today’s America, our democratic ideals are currently being encroached on by a new kind of dystopia. Women’s reproductive rights, our civil liberties, and the fourth and fifth estates (the press, electronic media) are all under attack. Truth has been supplanted by “alternative facts” and legitimate reporting is called “fake news” by a misguided conservative patriarchy. Our modern dystopia is also rooted in religious hypocrisy, political corruption and radical wealth disparity, fueled by corporate greed and capitalism run amok (Mr. Robot’s Elliot Alderson refers to the greediest as “the 1% of the 1%” who collectively have more wealth than the bottom 99% of the world’s population, combined”). Mr. Robot and Showtime’s Homeland show us a rapidly emerging dystopia—a work-in-progress revolution—with cyber hacking as the most insidious and pervasive form of resistance and terrorism (again, depending on one’s perspective). We’re attracted to great dystopian TV series because they reflect a version of our own world. And, like George Orwell’s classic 1984 and Paddy Chayefsky’s Network, The Handmaid’s Tale is also a cautionary tale. We’re tuning in, but are we paying attention?

The common denominators among good dystopian TV series are determination, resistance and revolution. We want our equality and freedom back, or at least answers. In the third and final season of The Leftovers, Nora (Carrie Coon), who’s stuck in grief from the inexplicable disappearance of her husband and two children, insists, “I fucking want closure.” Life has become too painful for her to endure, and the show is almost too painful for us to watch. And yet, the crucial element of the dystopian TV series remains hope. The doom and gloom can be overcome by the proactive survivors who band together—and refuse to believe it’s The End.

We have explored how the masters created fully realized fantastical and dystopian realms, but how did they begin? For my students working on supernatural and/or heightened reality series, I strongly recommend that they first construct a world-building mythology document to keep the rules of the special world as simple as possible, clear and credible.

Crafting the Supernatural/Dystopian Pilot

In science fiction, we’re presented with a world that bears some resemblance to our own. But how does this sci-fi world differ from ours?

Here are some basic questions to consider when developing a series’ mythology:

• Are we in the present day or in the near or distant future?
• Is it a post-apocalyptic, dystopian world?
• Is it a space colony?
• Is it overpopulated, or are there very few survivors?
• Is the environment sustainable?
• Is the air toxic?
• Is the Earth burning up or flooding or arid or arctic?
• Do animals and/or other anomalous creatures live among us?
• Are humans the dominant species?
• Are food and supplies in abundance or is there poverty and famine?
• Is this version of the future or this alternative world light or dark?
• Who governs?
• What kinds of laws keep the order?
• Is it a militant state? Anarchy? Somewhere in between?
• Who enforces the laws?
• What kinds of weapons exist?
• What kind of special abilities do the police and citizens have?
• Is there a class or caste system or equality?
• Does artificial intelligence exist?
• Is the world on the verge of the singularity?

Here are some basic questions to ponder while conjuring the show:

• Who has special powers?
• How do they work?
• What is their limitation?
• How are they activated?
• Can they be neutralized or reversed?
• Is there a totem or book of spells or amulet or material device needed to invoke the magic?

Microcosmic Dystopias and the Monster Mash: American Gods

Starz is now a legitimate player in the SVOD (Streaming Video On Demand) TV landscape. Early buzz-worthy series, including Spartacus, Outlander and Power certainly put Starz on the map, but American Gods demonstrates its willingness to take big swings—and this insanely provocative series is a visual orgy that does justice to the global bestselling, award-winning novel by Neil Gaiman (first published in 2001). The size, scope and cost of this ambitious series are tantamount to HBO’s Game of Thrones (albeit without the cast of thousands) and Amazon’s gambit on Lord of the Rings. In fact, the budget and differing visions for the future of the show may have contributed to why exec producers Bryan Fuller and Michael Green departed after Season 1 (at press time, new showrunners were yet to be confirmed).

American Gods enters the semi-grounded/supernatural/digital acid trip canon that includes Twin Peaks, The OA, Stranger Things and The Leftovers. Starz, however, known for pushing the envelope into NC-17 territory for explicit scenes of sex and violence (with buckets of blood), is even more graphic. American Gods features an Egyptian goddess named Bast who has a man-eating (and woman-eating) vagina. The show is literally awesome—a word overused in the vernacular sense—but apt when you consider its etymology. The word “awesome” used to be related to the divine and the feeling of wonder and terror that mortals feel in its presence.

The series has a multilayered approach to storytelling. With its mythic planes, it transcends the rules of time, space and mortality and straddles the line between realism and surrealism. The protagonist is an ex-con named Moon Shadow (Ricky Whittle) and his recently deceased wife Laura (who’s now a pretty, talkative zombie, played by Emily Browning); there’s also an old Slavic god who murders cows and people with a giant hammer. Throw in spiders that can pick locks, violent trees that come to life and a raven that can communicate telepathically.

The central conceit of the novel is that gods and mythological creatures are given strength through people’s worship of them; for example, Bast makes her sexual partners worship her before vagina-devouring them. The idea is that people’s beliefs birthed them into existence, much like the new gods—who didn’t exist before the technology did. In the novel’s ethos, immigrants bring their beliefs with them into the US because the gods are tied to their worshippers. (It could be argued that American Gods was as prescient as The Handmaid’s Tale in predicting today’s political climate.) But the book explores how the belief in and influence of these mythological beings is fading in our modern dystopia. And so, new gods have emerged, heralding the insatiable American appetites for technology, fame, pharmaceuticals and narcotics—part Don DeLillo’s White Noise, part David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest—and so much more.

The story’s hook is: What if ancient gods found themselves dying off and being replaced by new gods in present-day America, including a god that can control the weather and one that controls the media? (The character of Media is played by Gillian Anderson of The X-Files fame.) Media is a shapeshifter of sorts, who can segue from Lucy Ricardo and David Bowie to Marilyn Monroe in her billowy white dress from The Seven Year Itch. The structure of the series can best be described as kaleidoscopic—which is hard to pull off and can be challenging for viewers. Showrunners Bryan Fuller and Michael Green succeed by honoring the source material and finding thematic links to craft each one-of-a-kind episode. What keeps us hooked are empathy and sympathy for what makes each god and demigod human. None of these special effects is worth a damn without emotion.

Like its TV series predecessors (Showtime’s Penny Dreadful, ABC’s Once Upon a Time, AMC’s Preacher and the now-defunct Grimm on NBC), American Gods deftly capitalizes on the idea that multiple gods, fairy tale characters, superheroes, villains and monsters are better than one. The show’s cinematic style evokes Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, Zach Snyder’s 300, the Wachowskis’ Matrix and Cloud Atlas, Fuller’s previous series Pushing Daisies (with its black comedy, saturated colors and surreal yet suburban setting) and the stylized gore of Hannibal. At times we’re in a graphic novel; other times we’re in a superhero comic book. But there are also two-hander scenes: quiet, precise interactions between just two characters, that evoke Kubrick. The style also draws on gaming culture, taking us into special worlds that feel 3D and almost interactive. It’s a mélange of taste and tones that shouldn’t work—and probably wouldn’t have worked, prior to the digital television revolution. It’s niche TV writ large.

In one sequence, the god Mr. Wednesday (Ian McShane) picks up a dandelion and blows it into the wind; its wisps float upward and transform into pinwheels (very Fantasia), then morph into fireworks in the night sky, then into bolts of lightning. It’s just a flourish: Is Mr. Wednesday trying to impress us or maybe just goofing off? Such phantasmagoria is followed by a grounded, mundane scene in a Walmart (or is it Costco?). It’s a show of contrasts in bulk.

For me, the most satisfying aspect of the series is the stylistic flourishes: A pack of Virginia Slims tumbles out of a cigarette machine. A vintage lighter in extreme close-up sparks it up. The pervasive flash and buzz of neon and fire. The writers give us mythological beings who observe ancient rituals, juxtaposed against 21st-century characters and their modern conveniences, set to a score that mixes classical music with electronica, jazz, hip hop and new wave. The gods of American Gods are truly in the details.

Portals and Multiverses: Childlike Wonder in Stranger Things

Hawkins, Indiana, 1983. In the opening scene of the Stranger Things pilot, “Chapter One: The Vanishing of Will Byers,” a nerdy-looking guy in a white lab coat bursts out of a door and runs like a jackrabbit down a hallway under flickering fluorescent lights. As an alarm blares, the terrified man makes it to a freight elevator and gets in, frantically pounding the buttons to close the doors. But before they shut, he hears an animal-like noise, looks up at the ceiling, and sees—what? The thing he’s been running from sucks him upward, and he’s gone without a trace.

As it turns out, this man is—or was—a scientist at Hawkins National Laboratory, a government facility that’s been conducting top-secret experiments and raising children as slave guinea pigs, for some nefarious purpose. The experiments, we’ll soon find out, seem to have accidentally opened a portal into an alternate universe called The Upside Down. After gobbling up the scientist, the slimy, terrifying creature (who rivals the monster in Alien) will soon kidnap 12-year-old Will Byers (Noah Schnapp), one of a group of four young dudes who happen to be “Dungeons and Dragons” fans. (Chapter 10 includes an excerpt of the boys’ interaction during their game.) On the night in question, Will draws the “Demogorgon” and is later abducted by a tall, thin creature without a face. Coincidence?

First-time showrunners/creators/brothers Ross and Matt Duffer pay unabashed homage to shows such as The Twilight Zone, The X-Files, Spielberg movies such as E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial and cult movies The Goonies and Stand By Me, with elements of All Things Stephen King. Stranger Things managed to rise above the competition in 2016 with its fresh approach to the sci-fi/horror genre.

The funny, irreverent police chief Jim “Hop” Hopper (David Harbour) mentions that, up until Will’s disappearance, the last crime committed in Hawkins was when an owl flew into a local woman’s hair. Hop plays the unruffled tough guy, but we’ll learn that he’s still grieving over the tragic death of his young daughter. He’s still a shell of his former self, understands loss all too well and drowns his sorrows in booze. He and Will’s mom—divorced, single parent Joyce (Winona Ryder)—are both traumatized and broken kindred spirits. While searching hysterically for her son, Joyce even says she’s changed her mind about letting him see Poltergeist—a Spielberg movie that itself features an epic portal. In comparison, the special effects of Stranger Things seem modest: The Upside Down is a sad, dark world that looks just like ours, if life as we know it had been destroyed by a nuclear disaster. It’s an alternate universe that could be hiding behind the bedroom wall. It’s believable, because Will’s young friends, the down-to-earth characters of Mike (Finn Wolfhard), Dustin (Gaten Matarazzo) and Lucas (Caleb McLaughlin) believe it.

There’s more than one portal—the big, gooey one at Hawkins Laboratory, one that briefly opens in the wall of Joyce’s house, and another at the base of a tree in the forest, which seems to open and close at will. The monster itself, a hairless, shrieking deformity with a face that opens up like a flower when it’s feeding time, is scarier than a zombie because he stalks in fast motion and looks like a human whose skin has been peeled off. This creature is destroyed in the Season 1 finale by Eleven (Millie Bobby Brown), a young girl who’s unfortunately one of the lab’s guinea pigs. Eleven has psychokinetic powers and an appetite for Eggo waffles, thus returning Will and the idyllic town of Hawkins back to relative stability … except maybe that skinless mutant isn’t the only monster? There’s also the mysterious disappearance of redheaded high school wallflower Barb (Shannon Purser)—who was abducted by (perhaps) an even more heinous creature that we never see. One minute Barb wanders out of a house party and is sitting poolside under the moonlight, by herself; the next minute we hear horrendous growls and she’s vanished.

Stranger Things is an irresistible mash-up of horror, suspense and coming-of-age drama with healthy doses of humor and nostalgia. But the show’s success relies on the chemistry between the kids, supported by the overarching theme that friends are honest and loyal—no matter what. It’s Eleven who reminds the guys of the importance of their bond. She’s laconic but offers up one enduring piece of advice: “Friends don’t lie.” The thrills and chills wouldn’t add up to much without these bonds and also the power of community and family to overcome crises. Emotion, again, is key. We relate to Joyce over the loss of her missing son and understand how desperate she is to believe in the supernatural in order to find him. When she strings up Christmas lights and tapes the alphabet on her living room wall in order to try to communicate with her son from the beyond, everyone thinks she’s crazy—except us. Finding Will is the driving force of the whole season. And its accompanying emotional stakes keep the suspense taut and our nerves frazzled. Whoever thought a living nightmare could be so much fun to watch?

Structurally, Stranger Things uses the Jaws strategy: The greatest suspense comes not from what we see, but rather from what we anticipate and dread. After the initial shark attack in Jaws (we don’t see the shark, by the way, just the carnage), the story earns the right to slow down and orient us before it ramps up again. Stranger Things takes this same approach. The pacing is vital to both the show’snarrative drive and its time period. The Duffers nailed the production design and musical choices of the early 1980s. How great is a wall-mounted landline phone with its twisted spiral cord and limited reach? In case you’re too young to remember 1983, the pace of life was much slower. It could take a whole minute to dial the phone, especially if it contained an “0” or “9,” and if you were expecting a call (like Joyce is throughout the series), you had to literally sit by the phone and wait for it to ring. There were no computers, email, texts, voicemail, Facebook or Instagram. For some of us who remember those days, Stranger Things’ lack of personal technology was a whole lifetime ago.

The Duffer Brothers didn’t let the fact that their show (originally set in and entitled Montauk) was rejected by 15 networks stop them; they kept pitching it because they knew they had something special. Finally, Netflix gave them their chance. Portals and monsters never go out of style, as they add dimension and the unexpected to the mundane. Stranger Things is pure escapism—a thrill ride—since it retains its sense of innocence. Unlike the realistic horrors of dystopian series such as The Handmaid’s Tale and Black Mirror, we cringe at the scary scenes, but none of Stranger Things actually impinges on our world. The 1980s setting provides us with a safe vantage point—from a distance. Some horror series are too real for us to settle in and enjoy. Stranger Things keeps us on the edge of our seats, full of childlike wonder. We laugh, we hide our eyes and we can’t wait to come back for more.

Surprise and Shifting POV: The OA

The supernatural drama series The OA is a masterclass in the unexpected, keeping us guessing, with moments of pure wonder sprinkled throughout Season 1. It’s a show of big existential and metaphysical ideas, told in an intimate, old-fashioned campfire story way. And as bizarre and surreal as it gets, The OA’s tone is grounded and matter-of-fact, more akin to the nuance of The Leftovers than the quirky, often funny, fright fest that is Stranger Things. Here are my mostly spoiler-free takeaways from the journey:

• Tell the story the way you want to tell it. The OA is truly a novel approach to storytelling, with one episode as long as 71 minutes and another just 31 minutes, flexible like chapters in a book. With the freedom of writing for an online platform, co-creator/co-writer/director Zal Batmanglij explains that he and co-creator/actress/long-term collaborator Brit Marling indeed wanted to tackle The OA like a novel, and for it to be a transformative experience over eight episodes.² We not only watch in awe at times; we care: Their slow-burn approach means we get that precious time to go into the backstories of the main characters and to bond with them.
• The unreliable narrator: Nina/Prairie (Marling) was blind before disappearing for seven years; when she returns to her family, she can see, and reintroduces herself not as the daughter they once knew, but as simply “The OA” (which we later learn stands for “Original Angel”). Her explanation of events, which she first recounts exclusively to a group of four disparate teens and their teacher, involves portals and multiverses; for skeptics, it’s hard to believe. Perhaps that’s why she takes time to open up to others outside of this group of five? Her story involves trauma, and we sympathize and empathize. But PTSD may also play a part in OA’s recollections: She even doubts herself at times, wondering if she could have made up Homer (Emory Cohen), her beloved companion during her time away. Is it mind-bending and has she spun this tale from her imagination, with story as a way of processing traumatic events, or … is it real?
• Connecting with shifting points of view. Although most of the scenes are from our protagonist, OA’s, point of view, the show shifts between her POV and those of all the main characters. As audience, we identify with their unique takes on what they experience, which is often startling. Empathy plays a part here. For example, we feel for the five people to whom OA recounts her tale—for lonely teacher Betty Broderick-Allen/BBA (played by Phyllis Smith from The Office, who also voiced the role of Sadness in Inside Out); angry and frustrated teen Steve (Patrick Winchell), trans teen Buck/Michelle (Ian Alexander), whose father refuses to understand him; French (Brandon Perea), who struggles to look after his family because of his alcoholic mom; and Jesse (Brendan Meyer), who’s effectively an orphan. When we see the world through their eyes, we can’t help but feel their pain, general mistrust and also marvel at their displays of courage.
• Push to the extremes, but only when it feels organic. There are several scenes that are uncomfortable to watch or make us wince, involving severe physical, mental and emotional pain or danger for the characters. We’re pushed to the limits, but never beyond; the writers are provocative but set boundaries to avoid scenes that feel unwarranted or a step too far. They understand the importance of keeping the audience in the story, rather than having us snap out of a moment because it feels forced or staged.
• The inevitable ending. By far the most polarizing aspect of The OA is its ending—which critics and audience members either loved or hated. Some appreciated its ambiguity. Others were left scratching their heads in exasperation at what they considered to be a contrived, unearned, anticlimactic resolution. Given the long run-up to this conclusion, it’s always a major challenge to satisfy and manage viewers’ expectations. In the on-demand streaming ecosystem, viewers stamp their sense of ownership on their favorite shows; it’s like an evolving long-term relationship. Even when we’re in love, our mates can sometimes disappoint us, but that frisson can also infuse a relationship with vitality. For it’s in vigorous debate that series enter the zeitgeist and generate heat and buzz. To me, this ending sparked a fruitful, global water cooler conversation—and the controversy has succeeded in The OA’s scoring a Season 2 renewal, in which Marling and Batmanglij have promised answers to a lot of our questions. Stay tuned….

Adjoining Realms in: The Man in the High Castle

Diverse arenas exist in The Man in the High Castle, even before the characters start crossing to alternate realities. Based on the Philip K. Dick dystopian novel, the series was adapted for Amazon by Frank Spotnitz (X-Files, Medici) and the current showrunner is Eric Overmyer (Bosch, The Wire). I interviewed both Frank and Eric in my last book, TV Outside the Box. In the alternative history of The Man in the High Castle, the Allies lost the Second World War to the Axis powers, who dropped an atomic bomb on Washington, DC. Now, New York and the eastern seaboard fall under the Greater Nazi Reich; the West Coast forms part of the Japanese Pacific States, with the Japanese controlling from San Francisco; and the middle is a Neutral Zone. The rest of the world is divided between Nazi and Japanese rule, but the two “master races” hover on the brink of war as both vie for supremacy. When everyone’s existence is tightly controlled, down to the music they’re allowed to listen to, and all live under the constant threat of execution if they don’t comply with the rules (and sometimes even if they do), it’s no surprise that many yearn to escape.

Japanese Trade Minister Tagomi (Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa), a gentle pacifist who’s greatly disturbed when his secret plan for peace goes awry, begins to meditate with the encouragement of his assistant Kotomichi (Arnold Chun). Tagomi misses his late wife terribly and longs for a better world. After deeply meditating in the Season 1 finale, he opens his eyes to find himself in what appears to be another San Francisco—another reality where the United States has won the war. Is Tagomi dreaming? Has he found a portal? Does he possess a superpower? It’s a superb season cliffhanger, with a touch of magic. Tagomi learns, devastated, the great cost of the Allies’ victory in this alternate reality: Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He discovers his alter ego in this world is a bitter man (who’s, incidentally, nowhere to be found). His family resents him, wishing he would leave, but this Tagomi finds ways to mend their estrangement. Living in American society, he begins to understand the beauty and possibility of being both American and Japanese. But when Tagomi sees terrifying footage of the US hydrogen bomb tests and experiences the narrow escape of the Cuban Missile Crisis, he takes it as a sign to try again to bring peace to his own world. Upon return, he discovers that Kotomichi too can traverse alternate realities. Kotomichi had escaped the tragedy of Nagasaki by deeply meditating while badly burned, hoping, wishing, longing for his family who were killed in the atomic blast. He then found himself in the reality where Japan had won the war, his family alive and well. So, Tagomi is not the only one capable of traveling between realms, and hope and meditation are seemingly the keys to opening a portal between realities.

The different realities may also explain the depictions in the mysterious films created by “The Man in the High Castle” himself, Hawthorne Abendsen (Stephen Root). At the end of Season 2, Abendsen may have even transported protagonist Juliana Crain (Alexa Davalos) to an alternate reality where her late sister Trudy (Conor Leslie) is still alive. We’re still learning the rules and fathoming the mysteries of this multiverse, but Tagomi and Kotomichi’s experiences show there are shades of gray in both alternate realities. It’s something to take away as writers: We can give our audiences the choices and let them make up their own minds. The show is so on point that, given the current administration in the US and problems across the world, we can’t help but wonder while watching: Could we be living in an alternate reality? Whatever the rules of our own world, hope holds the key here, too.