“A moral decision is not the choice between wrong and right—that’s easy—but between two wrongs.”

—DAVID MAMET, SCREENWRITER, PLAYWRIGHT, DIRECTOR

Chapter 8

Choosing Between Two Wrongs

Characters Trapped by Limitation

The expression “Between Two Wrongs” evokes a quote I read in an interview with the great playwright, screenwriter and director David Mamet in New York Magazine in early 2008. It was when he was working on The Unit for CBS, with co-showrunner Shawn Ryan (The Shield ). The interviewer, Boris Kachka, asked Mamet whether he’d sold out, because he had recently directed a Ford commercial and admitted it was for the money.

• “And you needed the money that badly?” asks Kachka.
• “Well, it’s nice to have, because you can buy things with it,” replies Mamet.
• “So the whole business of ‘selling out,’ you think it’s bullshit?”
• “No, of course it’s not bullshit. One is faced with that every day. All of us. What’s a moral choice, what’s not a moral choice and so forth. Somebody even more pedantic than I might say that that’s the whole question of drama: How does one make a moral decision? And further, that a moral decision is not the choice between wrong and right—that’s easy—but between two wrongs.”

In this chapter, we’ll discuss character development and plotting as it applies to the moral, gray areas in life and the choices we make. Our decisions define us in terms of our moral compasses and the lines we don’t cross—or say we would never cross—in the complexity of life, which is rarely black and white. Extenuating circumstances, intentional and unintentional ripple effects, inform every choice we make. The decisions we make define who we are, as we move forward in our lives.

Now more than ever, great drama and great comedy series are about putting characters in situations where both choices are wrong, or potentially have strong, negative consequences. These are not clear decisions to make; it’s about picking the lesser of two evils. If we present a character—any character—with a simple choice or a difficult one, few would pick the latter. Most take the easy way out, and there’s little dramatic interest for our audience. On the other hand, if the character is the sort of person who doesn’t take the easy way out, or doesn’t naturally do the thing that seems so right versus what’s plainly wrong, we as audience find our patience tested. It’s frustrating, as we know the other choice is clearly favorable and causes far less heartache and strife. Forcing our characters to decide between two wrongs generates great story and puts the audience in their shoes. As screenwriter/director Audrey Wells (Guinevere, The Truth About Cats and Dogs, Under the Tuscan Sun) once said, “We go from being overwhelmed by an infinite number of choices he/she could make, to the one choice the character must make.”

Creating the Dilemma

Characters cannot unlearn what they already know. We’re all held accountable for what we know about ourselves and others. Once we cross the threshold into a situation based on information, or learn the true nature of a person and what they’re capable of (whether they’re the person who, when the chips are down, proves to be trustworthy and on our side, or they’re the person who eventually betrays us), we make subsequent decisions based on this experience. Such experiences create a history for each character. Some are relegated to backstory and maybe in the distant past before the show even begins. But much is the character in living history: the accumulation of their choices and behaviors, as the series progresses. Audiences watching a serialized show recall the characters’ choices and their histories; we start to anticipate what choices they will make, based on decisions they’ve made in the past; there are patterns. We begin to chart the course of a character and feel we know what they’re capable of, as well as their limitations. Often, great TV series end up subverting our expectations over time, or even transcending them. Perhaps they take a character and put him or her into a situation they’ve never been in, so we have no idea what they’ll do. A challenge the character has never faced before is going to elicit a different response from them. These are engrossing, captivating moments to play in a show.

When plotting, many writers, because we’re terrified of the blank page, feel we need to fill up all the space with words. When we outline, we’re tempted to include an overabundance of plot. If we do an outline with index cards, or use a whiteboard, we tend to want lots of stuff all over the cards and board. As a result, we create more and more plot events. What can happen is, besides burning through story too quickly, a plot starts to flatten out; “this happens, then this happens and then this happens…. ” The writers of the best television shows that sustain (one of the tests of a great series is that it sustains over multiple seasons), instead of adding more plot that will flatten out, dig in and go deeper into a small amount of plot. We have one main event for the A story and dig deep, in terms of how that event affects one character, the decisions they have to make and the ripple effects to others. And, not just emotionally, but logistically and physically. What kind of danger are they in, what’s the physical impact on the surface level, what are the emotional underpinnings? The emotional and logistical always go hand in hand. In a true moral dilemma, both choices are extremely difficult. Even our reaction as audience is, “Hmm, this is a tough one.” Then, we’re in the gray areas, where we have to make lists, as writers, between pro and cons.

Homeland: The Lasting Effects of Devastating Decisions

In “The Drone Queen,” the first episode of Season 4 of Homeland, Carrie Mathison (Claire Danes) is tasked with quickly deciding whether or not to initiate a drone strike to take down a target in Pakistan. Carrie’s in a bunker in Kabul; the military personnel sit at computers. With the push of a button, a drone will dispatch. Carrie’s job—and moral dilemma—in the episode is to weigh the pros and cons of the operation, as drone strikes are rarely surgical. Innocent people may die, and she must analyze the collateral damage. A tough, though apt, analogy would be a patient who is considering chemotherapy, which has the benefit of killing cancer cells, but simultaneously, the toxicity poisons the healthy ones. The potential cure could be worse than the disease itself.

In The Big C, when Cathy (Laura Linney) finds out she has cancer, she decides not to undergo chemo. Instead, she’s going to party, live out her days and take her chances (at least, that’s her initial choice). But in Homeland, Carrie decides to go ahead and authorize the drone strike. They inadvertently end up bombing a wedding inside the building, killing their target but also 40 innocent civilians, including women and children, which creates further terrorist retribution and hatred against the US—plus, Carrie’s going to be held accountable for what has happened. When she goes to Islamabad, she starts to get more involved with the US embassy there; all her actions are informed by that one, devastating decision she made and its ripple effects. The situation only grows messier.

Homeland isn’t about the good guys and the bad guys. It’s more about, “Who are the good guys and the bad guys—and how do we identify them?” The show’s first season begins right away as a dramatic, suspenseful polemic: Is Brody a war hero or a terrorist who’s been turned? Carrie isn’t sure and neither are we; we don’t know for much of Season 1. Going into the second season, things start to shift, so just as we begin to think we understand what’s happening, we discover we don’t at all. Plus, people are capable of changing. Brody, for instance, starts to evolve as he re-bonds with his daughter and family. It’s not as if we can judge a person based on one action, although we take that into consideration.

By Season 5, Carrie lives in Berlin and is no longer with the CIA; she’s the head of security at a philanthropic foundation. She has an adorable daughter, has met a man whom she loves, seems content and is trying to have a “normal” life. Her boyfriend, Jonas (Alexander Fehling), is supportive of her in the new life she’s embracing. Carrie has also stopped drinking, takes her meds and is stable. Possibly stemming from her newfound sobriety, she has reconnected with her faith; she prays and goes to church. We don’t see her in AA meetings, but we do see that she’s surrendered to her Higher Power, as one might do in a 12-step program. The story of Season 5 of Homeland has an Edward Snowden-inspired, whistleblower plotline: There’s been a major leak of classified information that could potentially put CIA agents and covert operatives in imminent danger. Carrie then finds she’s the target of an assassination attempt. As much as she wants to stay out of the situation, the information puts her in peril, and she’s compelled to step back into the Agency officially, in order to protect both her daughter’s life and her own. This yields another example of Carrie being caught between two wrongs, which crystallizes in Episode 3 of Season 5. She quickly needs to crack open what’s really going on, because there’s a conspiracy, a leak—a mole. She knows she’s in the crosshairs and is risking her daughter’s life, too, but doesn’t yet understand all the components of it. Bipolar Carrie’s dilemma is whether or not to go off her meds, to access her manic super-mind, which has helped her solve cases in the past. But, doing so will cost her, leaving her raw, hostile and agitated.

Carrie’s bipolar diagnosis was established from Season 1, when we see her take lithium. The Wikileaks situation is almost like a series of dominoes that have been lined up. As soon as the leak happens and the first domino falls, things rapidly start to topple and crumble. When Carrie realizes she’s a target, she needs to send her daughter away. She’s not sure she can trust Saul Berenson (Mandy Patinkin), who’s still with the CIA, and she doesn’t know how to resolve the danger. It’s a powder keg, and if she doesn’t contain it, it will end in tragedy. So, this is why Carrie decides that, in order for her to gain insight into what’s going on with this conspiracy, she’s going to go off her meds, and damn the consequences. She chooses to stop taking the lithium, as she knows she’ll have a small window where her manic side comes out, which is what has helped her crack open other cases in previous seasons.

As we’ve discussed, characters cannot unlearn what they know; Carrie remembers the dangers of stopping her meds. Worried about becoming completely irrational and hostile, she convinces Jonas to supervise her while she’s off the lithium. He tries to talk her out of it, reminding her there’s a good chance she’ll become destructive and self-destructive, but she informs him that she’s already stopped taking them three days ago. He agrees, if this is what she needs to do, he will support her.

Carrie plasters the walls of a room in the house with photos and information. She tries to figure out, of all the people she’s dealt with since Season 1 of the show, who are her enemies, the associates of her enemies, the people most likely to target her—and why? She becomes increasingly unhinged, and Jonas tries to help. He takes notes and tries to assimilate and coordinate all this information, to get to the answer she’s looking for. Because Carrie’s stopped taking her meds, her guard is down and her filter is off. As Jonas learns more about all her past activities, things she’s never shared before, he starts to see who Carrie Mathison truly is—and doesn’t like it. He now knows she’s responsible for the deaths of many innocent people, including women and children.

Although we’re in Season 5, Episode 3, Carrie’s decision to order that drone strike back in Season 4 proves to have long-lasting ripple effects. Although Carrie was caught between two bad choices and had to make the call, she did so based on what she thought was best for the greater good. We see how one difficult choice generates story, conflict and moral dilemma for a whole season, moving into a whole next season. Then, Carrie’s mental illness and ultimate decision to go off her meds is another example of being caught between two wrongs. If she does nothing and stays on the lithium, she’d still have a target on her back. Her daughter would likely grow up without a mother, or, far worse, may be hurt or killed. By stopping taking the meds and going to her manic super-mind, there’s a good chance she’ll solve the problem—but at what cost? She decides to take the risk, again for what she considers to be the greater good.

However, we begin to suspect the price this time may be losing the man she loves, as well as the part of herself she’s been able to compartmentalize. Yet she won’t end up actively going back to the CIA either (let’s face it, every time Carrie is in the field as an operative, something terrible happens). The CIA cannot let her back in, because it would make the agency look completely ridiculous. So, she’s going to have to go rogue. The question now is, will CIA operative Peter Quinn (Rupert Friend) go rogue with her? Is he out to kill her, or will he help her? Carrie’s moral dilemmas generate fresh stories in Season 5 of Homeland, with new territory for the characters (and us) to explore.

Another example of Carrie’s being caught between two wrongs happens in Season 5, Episode 11, entitled “Our Man in Damascus.” After going undercover in a terrorist cell to try and foil an attack, Peter Quinn has been injured and is in a coma. When Carrie and Saul discover that Quinn could have valuable information to stop a terror attack, they urge the doctor to wake him up before it’s too late. But the doctor warns Carrie and Saul that waking Quinn up early could irreparably harm or even kill him.

Carrie is faced with the choice to risk the life of her friend (whom Season 4 establishes is a little more than a friend) or risk the lives of possibly hundreds of innocent people. Carrie has often chosen to sacrifice those close to her for the greater good of humanity. She is a character who harbors much personal guilt about not catching terrorists before they harm other people. Early on in the series, we discover she personally feels responsible for the attacks on 9/11 and feels that she could have done more. But Carrie lives in a world of “what ifs” and “could haves,” this being a crucial one (which makes for a stressful life, but excellent TV). Waking Quinn up could kill him; it could get them information, or it could get them nothing. But will Carrie forever be haunted if she didn’t pursue every possible lead to prevent an attack? The weight of this choice plays out in this scene. You see the desperation in Carrie’s eyes for Quinn to tell her something, anything to make risking his life worthwhile.

Carrie comes out with nothing.

When we’re between two wrongs, both choices are not only bad in terms of the actual choices we make, but both may have negative consequences. Even if we make the choice we think is “more right” among the two wrongs—the lesser of two evils—we will always look back and wonder, “What if I’d made the other choice?” We’ll never quite know—and that also gives us more story to explore.

A “What If?” Exercise

In Sliding Doors, a metaphysical movie set in London in the late ’90s, Gwyneth Paltrow plays Helen, a British girl whose life splits in half after narrowly missing/just managing to catch a subway train. Her life then plays out on two time continuums. In one version, after missing the train going to work, Helen returns to her apartment and finds her boyfriend in bed with another woman, which turns her life upside down. In the other time continuum, she makes it through the sliding doors and gets on the train to work, oblivious to her boyfriend’s betrayal—and her life takes a completely different path. Both stories play out on parallel tracks. If we have a character caught between two wrongs, a helpful exercise is to consider both potential time continuums and where both bad choices might lead. Follow each one and see where that choice takes us, story-wise. And not just for one character, but for the ensemble who populate the show, exploring all the collateral damage of that choice. Continue the logical or likely path of what would happen in both scenarios. This exercise can help us right off the bat when we’re trying to break story and make a decision, because when a character is caught between two wrongs, we as storytellers are also often caught between two wrongs. We need to decide where to send the character next, what he or she is going to be compelled to do and the collateral damage.

Once we make a choice and go into outline and script, there will always be a moment of story where the character will look back with regret at that other choice they didn’t make. As writers, we may feel the same—where could that storyline have ended up? It’s fascinating when life imitates art, and vice versa, which helps make the characters and their stories feel real and relatable. No matter what choices we make, there’s always part of us tinged with regret, because we’ll never know where the other path might have taken us.

Dilemma and Perspectives

Let’s start with a basic, broad question, which is, “Why do we write?” For me, the answer is, “Because we have something to communicate.” But that doesn’t mean we “preach.” Ideally, we take a holistic approach to storytelling, to the entire script, the entire season of the show, the entire pilot episode; all events, characters, dialogue, together as a whole should say something. It’s allegorical. Ideally, we don’t put what we’re trying to say as a writer into the mouth of one of the characters as an obvious moral or message. We risk becoming pedantic and heavy-handed. The most interesting stories are the ones where we present multiple points of view and let the audience draw their own conclusions.

Often, within an episode, especially a pilot where several storylines are unified by a common theme, one character having to make a tough decision will have dramatic ripple effects on other characters. They might question, “How would I make a decision like that? What are the moral implications? How might that apply to my life?” The ripple effect might cause a supporting character to make a decision in reaction to one that the lead character made, with further consequences to the story.

There’s an adage that we should be kind to everyone, as we have no idea what someone else’s experience is or what they’re going through on a particular day. A character caught between two wrongs carries that burden around with them; this will have implications for other people who may at first be much more impatient, even with trivial things. But their awareness of the character’s burden might make them think, “Why are we even arguing about this? It’s a stupid thing to talk about, when people are dealing with life, death, pain and crisis.” Understanding shifts perspectives. The more we can get characters caught between two wrongs, the more that creates those ripple effects, particularly emotional ones, which radiate outward and impact other people in the orbit of that one situation.

Going back to why we write, it’s because we have something to say, but we preach neither to the unconverted nor the choir. In fact, we don’t want to preach or convince people of anything. We would like our work itself to stand for something; we want to show all sides of life and its situations. In our own writing, including multiple perspectives in a script doesn’t mean we’re going to change the audience’s own perspective. They may relate to a person we have demonized or to whom we thought was a representation of evil. We may have a viewer who relates to a person for all the wrong reasons. That’s simply out of our control. All we can do is tell a good story and show multiple perspectives. Then maybe change can happen, but it’s up to the audience.

Politics, Power and Internal Logic: Legion, The Handmaid’s Tale

Crash, Traffic, Syriana and Amores Perros are movies with a kaleidoscopic approach that present several different aspects of one bigger, complicated issue. The same is true of Orange Is the New Black, Legion, The Americans or any show featuring characters with opposing points of view. Legion is political as it deals with opposing viewpoints on power and how to manage it; Empire too is political, though within a family; The Americans is historically political because Elizabeth and Philip are KGB spies who work in the US during the Cold War. Politics ripples to other spheres of their lives: Now that they have a family, it’s more complicated, as they find themselves divided in their allegiance to their country and in their marriage. They inevitably mistrust each other even though they have to pretend they’re aligned, which creates plenty of interesting power dynamics. (I discuss The Americans further in Chapter 3.)

If we go back to the classic definition of power by Dahl, “A has power over B to the extent that he can get B to do something that B would not otherwise do.”¹ We can look again at the above examples in terms of power dynamics. Naturally, The Americans has political implications because of the arena it’s set in. But if we look at the power dynamics between characters, any time they have to make a decision, it’s as part of a bigger power structure. In the earlier example from Homeland, Carrie has to seek approval from her superiors to issue the drone strike, because it isn’t solely her decision. Once they say it is down to her discretion and judgment, she is empowered to make that decision. When she has to make difficult decisions that are within her control, such as not taking her meds, she still needs to get approval from her partner. She needs Jonas to be there for her, in case she goes totally off the rails. In every decision we make, we look for alliances and often seek permission. We tend to look for somebody to help us make the decision, for validation and approval, so we don’t have to bear the full responsibility for it. It all depends on the character and how strong-willed he/she is.

In some shows, a character being caught between two wrongs is part of what the story is about, from its very conceptual level. In the sophisticated and richly layered Legion, we have the three spheres of overlapping characters who struggle with dilemmas and power, like a Venn diagram. David/Legion (Dan Stevens) is a powerful mutant who has been the host to a demonic parasite, Amahl Farouk/the Shadow King (Aubrey Plaza) since he was a baby. David longs to rid himself of this parasite, which has been misdiagnosed as schizophrenia for decades, but is torn. Separation is risky and David himself might be lost in the process. Indeed, David discovers he is telepathic and able to host multiple consciousnesses and their powers, in a “legion,” but is only just beginning to understand how. As Amahl blocks him and wreaks mayhem at every turn, feeding off others’ fear of David, we seriously worry for David’s wellbeing and the safety of those around him. Then there is Melanie Bird (Jean Smart), the fearless psychotherapist who runs Summerland, the facility for nurturing gifted people. Her intentions with David seem to be pure, a maternal figure who just wants to help him control his power and find his true potential, but she also needs his help to free her husband Oliver (Jermaine Clement), whose consciousness been trapped in an astral plane for decades. Oliver’s body is in the facility, but it appears as if he’s in a coma. Bringing Oliver back also doesn’t guarantee that he’ll reunite with or even remember Melanie after all these years. Enlisting David’s help puts them all in danger, because Amahl is unpredictable and ruthless. Both Melanie and David clash with Clark (Hamish Linklater), the official who runs Division 3, the sinister government facility that wants to contain mutants and quash their powers. Division 3’s mandate sharply contrasts with Summerland’s, which exists as a safe space where mutants can explore and develop their gifts. Division 3 sees killing as a justified means of protecting the rest of humanity. David, Melanie and Clark all have a history of not trusting anybody else, but by the end of Season 1, they have to learn to trust one another.

David Haller is a mesmerizing character whose own internal logic constantly battles with Amahl’s and those around them. David’s actions lead to killing, mainly of the Division 3 team which threatens the safety of Summerland and who holds captive his sister Amy (Katie Aselton), though some may be unprovoked murders. My knee-jerk reaction to the massacre of Division 3 was that he must have underlying psychopathic or at least sociopathic tendencies—but is this David acting solely, or Amahl controlling him? It can be hard to say. David believes that his ideals are justified when it comes to protecting those he loves, even if the means involve killing. It’s something positive he can do with his extraordinary power, as the end will benefit the greater good. Along the way, there may be unfortunate consequences. But David’s not naïve and at his core, he knows he has to separate from Amahl, even if he risks death. With David’s intrinsic power and Amahl’s knowledge of how to control him, plus Amahl’s own vast strength and unpredictability, David’s choices aren’t just for the good of Summerland; they’re for the greater good of mankind.

Between David/Melanie and Clark; between Summerland and Division 3 there are the classic deeper issues of fear, insecurity and how to deal with the unknown. There are echoes here of the wider political landscape in real life: how fear and insecurity breed more fear and insecurity. Clark and his evil counterpart Walter/The Eye (Mackenzie Gray) truly believe that containing errant mutants, even execution, are justified to protect humanity. It’s their take on David’s concern of protecting those around him. The Eye, a mutant himself, presents a dark version of homeland security. He wouldn’t characterize himself as a hypocrite or egomaniac, because he believes his power and position in life exist for the greater good. In their worldviews, both hero and villain think they’re doing the right thing. We wonder where The Eye’s hatred and repression come from, and look forward to that reveal in future seasons. Meanwhile Clark, having learned first hand in the Season 1 finale that Summerland are the good guys, and most definitely on his side, is set up to clash with his “ally” The Eye in Season 2. Therein lies the excellence of the show; it operates wholly in ambiguity, where powerful protagonists and antagonists are given rich backstories and no character is saintly or blameless. They’re torn, and their worldviews are mutable.

When confronted with a moral dilemma, what one character might consider to be a clear choice between the lesser of two evils, another with a wholly different worldview and internal logic might make the opposing choice for the same reason. When writing, it all goes back to what the character believes is right or wrong, and what the audience might think is right or wrong, presenting multiple points of view all around to enlarge perspective and focus—and ultimately letting the audience make up its own mind. A perfect example of this occurs in Episode 9 of The Handmaid’s Tale, “The Bridge,” when Offred (Elisabeth Moss) is instructed to talk her friend Ofwarren (Madeline Brewer) down from jumping off a bridge with her baby. Ofwarren has been blinded in one eye as punishment for an offense, and subsequently lost her mind. Offred empathizes with Ofwarren and understands what she’s feeling: Ofwarren would rather die than give her baby up to the man who raped her. In the end, Offred makes the choice to obey these men she hates and convinces Ofwarren to give Commander Warren’s infertile wife the baby. Ofwarren does so and immediately jumps off the bridge.

Any time one of our characters stands on the precipice of making a decision, as writers we need to remember they were not born as an adult facing that decision. Again, what’s their history? What are all the events, relationships and interactions that brought them to this precipice, which are then going to inform their decision? What’s their unique internal logic?

Our characters’ goals also influence their decisions. What are they trying to gain? We need to evaluate the potential stakes. What do they stand to lose? What decisions are they going to be asked to make, either of their own volition, or as something being demanded of them? Our characters’ pros and cons list of all the possible ramifications of each choice needs to be balanced between the two wrongs. Although there may be a potential positive outcome, there’s a lot of wrong, with negatives that could come from either choice. And there can be no easy way out, for then characters are not really trapped in a situation. Having a complex, evenly balanced list of pros and cons for each “wrong” choice helps to generate conflict and sustain more drama.

Jessica Jones: How Late is Too Late?

What if you’ve lived your whole life feeling like an outsider, at last connect with someone who “gets” and doesn’t judge you … but you happen to have inadvertently caused the death of their spouse? When do you tell them—or do you never tell them? Such is the predicament creator/showrunner Melissa Rosenberg has engineered for our protagonist Jessica Jones (Krysten Ritter), in the eponymous Netflix/Marvel series. Jessica, who developed superhuman strength and agility following a terrible car crash which killed all her family except her, only occasionally opens up to Trish (Rachael Taylor), her best friend and loving adoptive sister. Most of Jessica’s days are spent drowned in work and in neat, hard liquor. Men are fleeting and functional in Jessica’s life, until she meets bar owner Luke Cage (Mike Colter). Initially, we have no idea why Jessica spies on him. Unexpectedly for them both, they quickly grow close, become lovers and bond over their mutual superpowers; Luke has unbreakable skin and extraordinary strength. Later we learn that mind-controller Kilgrave (David Tennant) manipulated Jessica to kill and throw Luke’s late wife Reva (Parisa Fitz-Henley) into the path of a city bus. We realize why Jessica has spent time watching Luke; despite being powerless to resist Kilgrave that time, she remains consumed by guilt and finds some solace in knowing that this widower is somehow finding a way to carry on living. Luke has always believed that it was an errant, alcoholic bus driver who hit and killed his wife. He’s just discovered the driver’s name, Charles Wallace (Sean Weil) and goes to confront him. Jessica is close behind.

It’s no coincidence that this episode is titled “AKA You’re a Winner!” It’s a line from a subplot, but is also knowingly ironic as Jessica feels anything but. She was Kilgrave’s instrument and never wanted to harm Reva, however there was never a right time to tell Luke the truth. Maybe she never would have. Of course, she could have avoided getting involved with him, but she couldn’t resist this one good man she connected with. Jessica’s remaining consolation is that Charles lives. It may be too late for her and Luke, but it isn’t too late to save a man’s life.

Guilt, Maturity and Aspirations: This Is Us

Creator/showrunner Dan Fogelman’s This Is Us was a breakout hit for NBC in 2016. It’s about three 30-somethings, Randall (Sterling K. Brown, who became the first black actor to win the Emmy for lead actor in a drama series in 19 years), Kevin (Justin Hartley), Kate (Chrissy Metz) and their parents, Rebecca (Mandy Moore) and Jack (Milo Ventimiglia). The show makes extensive use of flashbacks, beginning with the day Rebecca is about to give birth to triplets, years earlier. It also happens to be Jack’s birthday. Although we don’t know it yet, the present-day sequences occur on the day that their three children are also celebrating their 36th birthdays. It’s not until the end of the pilot that we discover that Randall was abandoned at a fire station on the day he was born. After one of Rebecca and Jack’s triplets dies while being delivered, they decide to adopt the African-American baby who’s displayed right beside their own Caucasian children in the hospital nursery.

In the present, Randall has grown up to become a successful commodities trader with a wife and two beautiful children. On this day—his birthday—he receives an email from his biological father, William (Ron Cephas Jones), who reveals that he’s dying of cancer and needs his support. Soon Randall feels caught between two wrongs—if he takes William in, it may throw the whole balance off in his own family. Mostly, he seems to feel that William doesn’t deserve to be allowed in, since he abandoned Randall as a baby. But Randall wants to be a good person, and will feel guilty if he turns his back on his father. When he first meets his dad, he reads him the riot act for never being there for him, saying, “Screw you!” He then turns on a dime and says, “You want to meet your grandchildren?” It’s a touching scene, and one that demonstrates we can sometimes make a difficult choice quickly when we go with our heart rather than our intellect. Later in the show, though, Randall’s decision will have a cascade of emotional consequences.

Kevin, a hunky actor, is the star of a vapid sitcom entitled The Manny, a job a lot of actors would kill for. But every time he has to take his shirt off, he feels that he’s losing all his self-respect as an actor. (It must be noted that he’s taking his shirt off for This Is Us, too!) He knows how hard it may be to get another job. But in the pilot, when the director asks him for one more take with his shirt off, Kevin loses it and quits in front of a live audience. He goes to give his sister Kate the news, wondering out loud if he’s even good enough to be a “real” actor. This decision may have been a life-changing mistake.

Kate’s dilemma occurs when she meets a nice, overweight man, Toby (Chris Sullivan) at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. He asks her out, but Kate is terrified of intimacy and turns him down. Toby is charmingly persistent, however, and she gives in without too much arm-twisting. After their date she invites him in and is faced with another choice: “Do you want to fool around?” She says she doesn’t but, again, soon changes her mind. She knows that, if she never lets anyone in due to her body shame, she may be alone for the rest of her life.

As I’m all about the slow-burn, I would have loved to have seen the triplets’ “torn between two wrongs” choices take longer and for them to struggle, over time, to come to their decisions. Nevertheless, This Is Us has been hugely successful for NBC; Fogelman and his staff do know how to go for the emotional tug every time. Heartstring-pulling isn’t for everyone; James Poniewozik writes that watching the pilot felt like “getting beaten up with a pillow soaked in tears.”² Yet with its traditional “family values,” smart humor, diverse cast and universal themes, the show holds strong mass appeal for NBC’s multi-generational, broadcast network audience. If “Niche Is the New Mainstream” at the cable and streaming networks, NBC has found the winning hybrid formula, eschewing edgy antiheroes and controversy by delivering a heartwarming yet flawed family. In our tumultuous, unstable political times, the most precious commodity on TV remains laughter and tears.

The Cleanse and Crossing the Line

Mamet once said:

When our characters are caught between two wrongs, we’re making them be honest with themselves about who they are and what each choice is going to challenge them to do, perhaps to cross a line they would have never crossed before. If our character is someone who tells herself lies and lives in denial, she’s not necessarily going to think of “wrongs” in a negative way. But, if we strip away all the lies and the façade that everything is OK, or the idea that the things she did in the past don’t matter anymore because they’re in the past, then the character is not owning up to the truth of who she is and is probably not looking at the situation objectively. Being caught “between two wrongs” involves characters owning up to all they’ve done that has led them to the precipice of making this decision. And even then, although both choices are still wrong, we have more drama and the sum of all that history informs and adds layers to the character. We find a lot of gray areas, nuance and provocations that will hopefully strike a chord with our audience, causing them to continue discussing the show and its story for quite some time after it’s concluded.

The best stories stay with us and pull characters out of their comfort zones, sometimes plunging them into the dark night of the soul. We can only succeed in navigating our characters through the moral gray areas by doing some tough work, which may involve taking a moral inventory on our part. Maybe, on the other side of that, there will be light. Perhaps that’s the cleanse of which David Mamet speaks.