Why Good Writing Rarely Survives Remakes

Avatar: The Last Airbender, the cost of sacrificing story for spectacle, when nostalgia becomes neglect, and how big budgets can never overrule a great script.

There has been a trend in recent years, known to many both in- and outside the media and entertainment industry: the rise of remakes. In some cases, it feels as though the only films and series that are being produced are just old stories being rebooted into something “new”. This has perhaps even become a frustration for many avid moviegoers, who want to be blown away by a great story, but quickly realize that their favorite Disney film growing up has now been remade into a live-action disaster.

But why are these films lesser?

How can they be so bad, considering the budgets that are thrown at them?

What is going on?

Without going too much into the reasoning behind why studios are investing in remakes and reboots, I want to analyze why they are in fact so terrible, based on one of my favorite series of all time — Avatar: The Last Airbender. As a kid, I was an avid Avatar fan, with a collection of all three seasons in a DVD box set, and as an adult, I rewatched this show multiple times. Needless to say, I was both thrilled and terrified when I found out that Netflix had planned to release a live-action adaptation of this animated fantasy action series.

Sidenote: the animated series Avatar is often confused with the Avatar films — a science-fiction franchise with blue people — though both are completely different.

THE SERIES

Avatar: The Last Airbender is set in a world where humans are divided into four nations — the Water Tribe, the Earth Kingdom, the Fire Nation, and the Air Nomads. In each nation, there are certain people called “benders”, who are able to manipulate and control the natural element of their nation. In the Water Tribe benders can move water, in the Fire Nation benders are able to control fire, etc.

In the series, we meet Katara and Sokka, two teenage siblings of the Southern Water Tribe. During their travels, they accidentally find and awaken Aang — the long-lost Avatar — who has been trapped in a century-long wintersleep. The Avatar is a strong being who can (learn to) bend all four elements, and whose duty it is to maintain harmony between the four nations, as well as act as the link between the human and spirit world.

A hundred years earlier, the ruler of the Fire Nation started a world war in order to expand his nation's empire. Realizing that the new Avatar must be an Air Nomad, he decided to carry out a genocide against the Air Nomads to kill the Avatar. What he did not know was that right before te war, the Avatar — twelve year old Aang — had run away from home, as he was afraid of his Avatar responsibilities and wanted to flee.

After Katara and Sokka revive Aang, the three of them go on a journey, where Aang learns how to bend all four elements, in order to defeat the Fire Nation and fulfill his duty of bringing harmony to the four nations.

ANIMATION VS. LIVE-ACTION

An important aspect of storytelling is that films should feel truthful. Stories can never be as realistic as real life, but there is a certain “believability” present in every strong work of fiction. No matter what kind of world writers create, they must stick to the rules of that world. This consistency builds trust between storyteller and audience, as we learn how the world works and can immerse ourselves in it. In other words: verisimilitude — when something feels emotionally truthful, even if it is not realistic.

In cartoons or animation, storytellers can get away with far more, seeing as exaggerated character movements and create absurd situations that still feel truthful. It does not matter that Bugs Bunny defies the laws of gravity, or that Tom’s eyes fall out of his skull when chasing Jerry — these characters simply live by different rules of physics and anatomy. When Bugs walks off a cliff, he hangs in the air and only falls once he notices it. When Tom’s eyes fall out of his head, they eventually snap back into place.

A reason why live-action adaptations might fail is that they use the rules of animation, without the freedom that cartoons permit. A talking crab does not feel strange in The Little Mermaid: he looks similar to the rest of the characters in this world, his eyes convey emotion, and his body is flexible. In the live-action version, however, we are presented with a figure that looks and moves like a real crab, and he’s talking. That’s not cute, it’s unsettling.

In all honesty, I was pleasantly surprised with the VFX work in the Avatar live-action adaptation, as well as the creative visual choices. It appears that a large part of the budget went into visual effects, and it paid off. The bending of the elements looks convincing, the landscapes are visually stunning, and many of the fantastical elements feel photo-real. So this — which usually goes wrong in live-action remakes — is not the main reason why this series performed so poorly compared to its animated counterpart.

STORY ELEMENTS

An adaptation can never be exactly the same as its original, which is why I am not arguing that the live-action Avatar — or any other live-action adaptation for that matter — needs to replicate the original. When adapting a story from one medium to another, one cannot expect the exact same experience. Therefore, I do not judge this reboot based on whether it feels identical. Instead, my analysis will be based solely on how the story functions as a whole, in comparison to the original animated series.

THE OPENING

The animated series (2005-2008) opens on a strong note, introducing Katara — attempting to waterbend — and her brother Sokka, who constantly belittles her efforts. This frustrates Katara so much that she accidentally breaks open an iceberg, the one in which Aang has been trapped for a hundred years. The noise alerts a nearby Fire Nation ship, forcing the siblings and Aang to flee together.

On that ship, we meet two crucial characters: Zuko — the banished son of the Fire Lord, tasked with capturing the Avatar — and his uncle Iroh. This is an effective opening, as we are immediately introduced to the main players and their flaws. Katara struggles with anger and being taken seriously, especially by her immature and sexist older brother.

As the trio travels together, Katara and Sokka keep an important secret from Aang. He speaks fondly of his life with the Air Nomads and his mentor, Monk Gyatso, though Aang is completely unaware that his entire people are dead. Katara and Sokka cannot bring themselves to tell him, so they distract him and try to keep his spirits up.

When they arrive at Aang’s former home, the truth reveals itself. Aang learns that his entire nation has been wiped out. His friends, his mentor, everyone. Overwhelmed, he enters the Avatar State, a powerful defensive reaction. Katara ultimately calms him, cementing an emotional bond that becomes foundational to their relationship.

The live-action series (2024) opens very differently. Instead of being introduced to our two main characters, Katara and Sokka, the series starts with an intense fight scene showing how ruthless the Fire Nation is, as they brutally kill someone by burning him alive. Right after this scene, which takes place in the past, we meet the Air Nomads who do not know what is about to happen to them. Aang learns that he is the Avatar and wants some fresh air to process this information, and while he is gone the Fire Nation kill the Air Nomads.

There are a variety of reasons why this opening does not work. First, it spends far too much time in the past, unloading information before we’ve emotionally connected to anyone. The animated series reveals its world gradually, allowing curiosity to build. The live-action version instead explains everything immediately. Second, Aang’s characterization suffers. In the animated series, we meet an energetic, distracted child. In the live-action version, Aang is serious and introspective from the start. His defining traits are stated through dialogue rather than demonstrated. When he says, “I like to play airball and eat banana cakes and goof off with my friends,” it feels like exposition rather than lived behavior. Talking the talk, but not walking the walk.

Twenty minutes into the episode, we finally meet Katara and Sokka, the siblings whose dynamic has been flattened. Sokka is more reasonable, Katara more subdued. The Fire Nation ship arrives without urgency. Aang learns about the genocide through a long monologue by an elderly woman. When he later sees the ruins of his home, the emotional impact is diminished because the revelation has already occurred. His Avatar State feels like an overreaction, and Katara is no longer the one to ground him instead, his mentor Gyatso’s memory does. A key emotional foundation is replaced by a relationship with a character who no longer exists in the present story.

CHARACTERS

Twelve-year old boy, Aang, is the last living Airbender. In the animation series, he is just a little kid who has been given this overwhelming responsibility of changing the world. He becomes scared, so much so that Aang ends up running away, fleeing his responsibilities, and the guilt of having left his nation behind, is something that follows him throughout the series. We see Aang as a whimsy boy who is rarely focused on the task at hand, always wanting to go on side quests, and getting distracted by things that appear more fun to him then saving the world.

In the live-action series, Aang is serious and focused. The character speaks about wanting to have fun, but we never actually see him getting distracted and he is, in fact, always focused on the task at hand.

Katara, the only waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe, had to become an adult very quickly. At a young age, her mother was killed by the Fire Nation and her father fled to war, which meant Katara felt great responsibility of filling her mother’s role. She’s kind, compassionate, and very protective of those around her, which makes her a motherly figure to those she’s traveling with. Still, Katara wishes to become a better waterbender and has to work twice as hard as Aang to get there. She grapples with a temper, fueled by feelings of inadequacy.

In the first season, Katara’s goal is to get to the Northern Water Tribe in order to be taught waterbending, something she never had access to. Only, when she gets there, she finds out that women are not allowed to train.

In the live-action series, Katara is already great at waterbending. She does not even have to try hard, which makes her character arc practically nonexistent. By making Katara a more “powerful” female character, they basically stripped away any of the depth she had in the animation series, where she was forced to work twice as hard, dealing with the anger and frustration of not being taken seriously. When she surpasses Aang in waterbending abilities, this feels like an incredible hard-earned achievement. Instead, live-action Katara’s entire personality is based on her incredible waterbending abilities. No conflict, no struggle, no pay-off.

Sokka is known for being loyal and sharp-witted, though somewhat abrasive and immature. We get to know him as an overly confident and misguided teenage boy. When his father left for war, Sokka felt an immense responsibility to take over his role in the family. He believes that only men are able to defeat the Fire Nation, does not taking his sister Katara seriously even though she is the one with waterbending abilities, and not him.

In the live-action series, the writers decided to take away Sokka’s sexist remarks and belittling behavior, thus completely changing his personality and taking away his main flaws. The reason why is unclear to me, though my guess is that they felt that this way if speaking is not appropriate to a modern audience. However, presenting a character with certain beliefs does not necessarily entail that the show is glorifying this behavior. In the animated series, Sokka makes certain remarks, though he is always put in his place. He belittles the female earthbenders, after which he is taken down by one of them, Suki, who he later even apologizes to. That completely changes in the live-action series, where Suki is — for some reason — unable to train, seeing as she is so distracted by the handsome Sokka. By trying to remove sexism from the show, the show made itself more sexist in its execution.

Lastly, we follow the character Zuko who is the son of Ozai, the Fire Lord. When speaking out of turn at a war meeting, disrespecting all those attending, Zuko is challenged to a fire duel. Zuko accepts this, thinking he will be fighting the general, only to figure out he actually has to have a duel with his father. Zuko begs his father not to have to fight him, which makes Ozai even more angry with his son, burning his face and banishing him from the Fire Nation. Zuko is sent on a quest with his uncle to find the Avatar, and cannot return home until he does so.

In the live-action series, Zuko does end up fighting his dad — the all powerful Fire Lord — and is able to win, but Zuko decides to stop fighting right before he is able to hurt him. Not only does that completely undermine Ozai — the almighty Fire Lord and great antagonist in the series — his powers, but it also defeats the purpose of Zuko’s character. By begging not to fight his father in the animated series, Zuko shows us a side to him which is completely different to his father. He does not want to hurt those he loves. And when he ends up fighting his father at the end for the greater good, it makes his journey so much more meaningful.

EXPOSITION

In storytelling there is the famous “show, don’t tell” principle, which implies that characters will show us how they are feeling instead of writers having to tell us. Audiences are not stupid. They can — either consciously or subconciously — understand subext and even generate meaning from it. In fact, I believe audience like not knowing everything, seeing as that mystery sparks a curiosity that makes them want to keep on watching.

Unfortunately, the live-action Avatar series rarely abides by the “show, don’t tell” principle. There is a lot of expository dialogue, telling us exactly what characters are feeling. Furthermore, a huge chunk information — which the animated series shows us slowly throughout the entire story — the live-action reveals to us almost immediately. Not only that, this information is repeated multiple times, meaning the storytellers believe the audience to have to hear it multiple times in order to understand what is happening. This not only undermines the audience, it undermines the importance of setting things up so that a story can evolve organically.

MISSING THE POINT

Many might blame remakes, reboots, and adaptions for trying too hard to be like the original and not succeeding due to various factors, such as lack of originality, underwhelming visual effects, or miscasting main characters. These are all valid reasons, though I do not believe they are the main cause of the failure of these films and shows. As seen with the live-action adaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender, many of the issues did not arise with visuals, or even — in my opinion — casting. The main problem with the show was that the story and characters were taken for granted.

In the original series the writers, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko, carefully crafted a world, where each character had their own flaws making them both imperfect and relatable. Over three seasons, they allowed these characters to learn and grow, struggling and working hard towards becoming the best versions of themselves. Meanwhile, the story had enough breathing room to develop with the writers only revealing things part by part, letting the story unfold by itself.

Many remakes, reboots and adaptations try to jump into the story far too quickly, trying to tell us the information instead of weaving it into a well thought-out narrative. Thus the problem is not simply visuals, casting, or lack of creativity. It’s the negligence of the most important aspect of what makes us engage with a story — the story itself. Not VFX and fight sequences, but characters, what they live through and how they are living through it.

Story is where the money is.

The Good Place: Can Meaningful Comedy Change us for the Better?

On sitcoms, the afterlife, moral philosophy, and what it means to be a good person according to an NBC fantasy-comedy television series.

CONTAINS SPOILERS OF ALL FOUR SEASONS

Some six years ago, the first episode of The Good Place aired. This series takes place in the afterlife, where there is no heaven or hell — instead humans are placed in the Good Place or the Bad Place, depending on how they lived on earth.

The series follows the morally corrupt Eleanor Shellstrop who, after she dies, somehow finds herself in the utopian Good Place. Knowing that there has been a mistake, Eleanor hides her past to avoid going to the hell-like Bad Place, whilst trying to learn to become a better person. What a strong premise for a TV series. Hats off to creator and showrunner Michael Schur.

In its four seasons, the show explores whether humans are inherently good or bad. In the afterlife, Eleanor meets her “soulmate”, a moral philosophy professor named Chidi Anagonye, to whom she confesses that she does not belong in the Good Place. The kind but anxiety ridden professor, finds himself torn between two choices: doing the “right” thing by making her confess that they made a mistake or teaching her ethics and how to become a better person. Chidi chooses the latter.

There are two other important characters in the afterlife. Tahani Al-Jamil, a socialite and philanthropist who raised billions for charity, and her “soulmate” Jianyu Li, a Buddhist monk who took a vow of silence and remains quiet in the afterlife. However, we soon find out that another mistake has been made. Jianyu Li is also not supposed to be in the Good Place, as he is not a silent monk, but rather a naïve DJ and drug dealer from Florida, named Jason Mendoza.

The characters attempt to hide this information from Michael, who is a angel in the afterlife and the architect of the neighborhood in which Eleanor, Chidi, Tahani, and Jason reside. This becomes increasingly harder, as various things go wrong in the neighborhood, and the architect is trying hard to understand where the mistake lies for all these problems. Unexpectedly, Eleanor confesses and Michael is forced to send her to the bad place, but by now she has been learning how to improve and genuinely wants to become a better person.

Through a series of nail-biting and toe-curling events, we are brought to the end of the first season, where the four beings are continuously fighting over what the best course of action is and who actually deserves to be in the Bad Place. Until Eleanors eyes widen and she expresses a pivotal realization: ‘They’re never gonna call a train to get us to the Bad Place. They can’t. Because we’re already here. This is the Bad Place.’

It becomes clear that not just Eleanor and Jason, but all four characters belong in the Bad Place. Philosophy professor Chidi’s anxiety and inability to make decisions has caused huge suffering to those around him, and philanthropist Tahani’s good actions on earth were driven by deep insecurity and fueled by jealousy toward her sister. These four characters have been put together in this mock-version of the Good Place, in order to torture each other for eternity.

And yet… quite the opposite was happening. Instead of simply making each others’ afterlives miserable, these characters were actually able to help each other understand their shortcomings and work towards becoming better people.

Throughout its four seasons, the series never loses sight of its thematic question: What does it mean to be a good person and live a meaningful (after)life? It explores this by weaving philosophy into mainstream media through humor and authentic character development. The writers clearly know how to cleverly use slapstick comedy when tackling serious themes.

How can a mere fantasy sitcom be so clever in its execution?

The Good Place never takes their characters for granted. At first glance Eleanor, Chidi, Tahani, Jason — and even architect Michael — can appear one dimensional. In the second season, when we have already found out that the supposed angel Michael is actually a demon, one might assume that a character with this loaded term will never be able to change. And this also appears to be true in the majority of the season, where — even when trying to be better to the humans — Michael still finds himself torturing them and enjoying it. Only when he confronts death, experiences an existential crisis, and truly grasps the meaning of friendship Michael is able to develop genuine empathy for the four humans, beginning to connect with them on a deeper level.

Another character which one could suggest would never change is Janet — a humanlike service provider and guide with all the information in the universe. Sort of like a female-looking artificial intelligence. Whenever Janet gets rebooted, she gains more intricate knowledge on what it is like to be a human, even developing feelings such as anger, jealousy, loss and love.

This series always takes an unexpected turn, with even the most seasoned TV viewers not expecting each and every twist in the show. In the end of the first season, the characters find out they are actually in the bad place, which — though some suggest otherwise — has even been credited as being the best plot-twist in television history. Furthermore, this plot-twist is not just a cheap gimmick designed for shock value, rather it gives a whole new thematic meaning to everything we have seen thus far. We now understand how all four characters were being tortured, with Eleanor being surrounded by people she felt inferior to, Jason being forced to remain silent and not be show his true self, Tahani never being quite “good enough” for her soulmate who does not acknowledge her, and the undecisive Chidi having to ultimately decide the fate of another human being.

The series actually resembles the theatrical play by existantialist philosopher and playwright Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit. In this play, three deceased individuals are punished by being locked into a room together for eternity. As the story progresses, they reveal more and more about who they are, what their actions were on earth, and they even begin to (unintentionally) torment one another with similar actions to what they had done on earth. This play very well explains Sartre’s famous quote: ‘L'enfer, c'est les autres,’ meaning ‘Hell is other people.’ And yet, by the end of the play when the door mysteriously opens, none of the characters leave. They prefer to endure this torture which has become familiar and predictable, then to exit and find themselves in unchartered territory. The others — though bad for them — have become their comfort zone.

This play does not end on a hopeful note. But The Good Place does.

The Good Place shows us a reality in which characters can and want to change for the better, by helping one another. The end of the third season shows us what the Good Place (as they call it) truly looks like and it… sucks. When our characters reach this so-called utopia, they discover that every person who was reached this place is bored out of their minds. Apparently, having every desire fulfilled for eternity can only be exciting for so long.

So, the thematic question: What does it mean to be a good person and live a meaningful (after)life? To answer the second part of that question, the ending of the series argues that death makes life meaningful. But it can only be meaningful when life is experienced with other people. So ‘Hell is other people,’ but this series argues that heaven is too. And this goes hand in hand with being a good person, as it is not about the characters’ past actions, but their ongoing willingness to becoming better people for others, as well as for themselves.

In the end, a new system has been implemented according to an idea of Eleanor in which there is an end, even in the Good Place. Anyone arriving there can enjoy this afterlife for as long as they please, but at a certain point, they can decide to leave the Good Place and afterlife altogether. By this point, every character has changed — and are still developing — into better versions of themselves, whilst also helping others. Eleanor brings in people from the bad place and tries to understand why the made specific decisions on earth which led them there, and Chidi still wants to study moral pilosophy and does so by teaching ethics. Meanwhile when Jason, who always wanted to be known by many and was scared of being forgotten, decides to leave the afterlife, he only cares about one person remembering him: his love the female-looking artificial intelligence — Janet. And lastly, Tahani decides to remain and become an architect, becoming a true philanthropist and making the afterlife a better place.

The TV show does not overstay its welcome, but ends exactly when it is supposed to. In the first season, Michael comically lists various unimportant human things that he wants to experience, such as getting his hair wet, pulling a hamstring, eating a saltine, getting any kind of rewards card, and ending a conversation with ‘Take it sleazy.’ In the last episode, Michael is allowed to become human and live life on earth. One day, a man comes to Michael, giving him a wrongly delivered letter that was actually intended to be for him. Michael thanks the man and finishes by saying: ‘Take it sleazy.’

Well-written, cleverly crafted, hilarious, and meaningful, this sitcom had everything needed to explore what it takes to become a better person. It did so through a blend of comedy and philosophical themes. But the reason I believe this series — and stories like it — can truly change us is not just its humor or its thematic questions. It is the characters: the ones we relate to, who embody these themes and live them out in ways that matter to us. That connection, the empathy we feel, and the care we invest in these characters, is what resonates most. Empathy can make us better people. Loving certain characters can too.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

On true crime, Chaos theory, and studio Ghibli; based on true stories.

A couple of years ago I had a conversation with a producer that I was working with. We would often discuss true crime stories which could potentially inspire the next TV show or film project. In this conversation, we spoke about a podcast we were both listening to. In Napleiten, meaning ‘arguing further after the case in Dutch’, each episode the hosts — a crime journalist and criminal defense lawyer — are joined by public prosecutors and lawyers, to delve into extraordinary criminal trials. These cases can range from alleged attempts at manslaughter to incest, from dark web activities to a diamond heist. One thing is certain, the details of these cases make you understand Mark Twain’s quote ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’

Zodiac (2007), written by James Vanderbilt, directed by David Fincher

I believe most of us are aware of the intricacies of the human mind and what people are capable of. We observe this in true crime TV shows and movies based on true events. Just have one look at this list of famous books, films and series:

• 12 Years a Slave

  A free black man from upstate New York, is abducted and sold into slavery. For the next twelve years he is forced to work on two Louisiana plantations.

• The Serpent

  A serial killer murders Western backpackers, who are going through the “Hippie Trail”, exploring Southeast Asia.

• Into the Wild

  A young man gives up everything, including a trust fund and ties to his immediate family, to lead a solitary life in the wild.

• Les Intouchables

  An unlikely friendship develops between a wealthy quadriplegic and his caretaker, just released from prison.

• Hachikō Monogatari (remake — Hachi: A Dog’s Tale)

  A college professor's bonds with the abandoned dog he takes into his home. When he unexpectedly passes away, the dog continues to wait at the station each day for nearly a decade, faithfully hoping for his owner's return.

• The Big Short

  A group of investors bet against the United States mortgage market. In their research, they discover how flawed and corrupt the market is.

One might argue that these stories are indeed partly true, but that they have been dramatized in order to appeal to audiences in its high-end drama format. I cannot argue against this, seeing as — for the most part — these stories do add their own storylines, characters, and even plots in order to create a coherent film or book for said audiences. Still, reality does not owe us coherence.

Zwartboek (2006), written and directed by Paul Verhoeven, co-written by Gerard Soeteman

There is a Stanford lecture by professor Robert Sapolsky, where he mentions chaos theory, and references the book by James Gleick discussing this theory. After listening to a couple of his lectures, I decided to purchase this book to further develop my understanding of chaos theory. Unfortunately, my knowledge of the field is fairly limited and after trying to re-read the first three chapters over and over, I decided to admit to my scientific limitations and put the book down. But this did not weaken my interest in this theory. Quite the opposite.

There is one lesson I did take away from this book. Gleick argues that over time, even the most predictable systems behave in unexpected ways. Scientists often resist chaos, seeing as it goes against intuition and this chaos does not only emerge in grand events, but even in the small and mundane.

Edward Lorenz was a meteorologist who wanted to better understand the weather. He thought that if he were to measure exactly how the air is moving today, he could predict the weather of tomorrow. So he made a computer model of the atmosphere. Lorenz wanted to save time, so he made a tiny difference in his computer by just rounding up a number — typing 0.506 instead of 0.506127 — which completely changed the entire prediction.

This was revolutionary. Instead of sun the machine would for example predict rain. Instead of stormy weathers the wind would be calm. Small and almost invisible differences can generate hugely different outcomes, meaning that we are never able to predict anything seeing as the tiniest detail can completely change everything. Much of the world is governed by this same unpredictability, so it is impossible to know what the future holds. This thought can be both exciting and unsettling.

I’m Thinking of Ending Things (2020), written by Charlie Kaufman

How does this theory apply to fiction?

In storytelling, we are taught to follow a clear structure, which wraps into a more or less predictable ending, but could be understandable due to the nature of the story. We know that Batman will eventually defeat the villain, but we want to know how he will do it. How will he be challenged, and what methods will he use to overcome these challenges? Even surrealist writers such as Charlie Kaufman, [Being John Malkovich (1999), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), Synecdoche, New York (2008)], tend to follow a certain structure that — though more complex in its nature — is still understandable when applied to story theory.

Who does it differently?

There is an exception to every rule. Not every film follows a similar structure to the “Hollywood-esque” type of storytelling we are used to. My first thoughts go to the animation films, produced by Studio Ghibli. In his films — such as My Neighbor Totoro, Princess Mononoke, and Spirited Away — Hayao Miyazaki uses a method of storytelling that date to ancient times in Japan, called Kishōtenketsu. This structure resonates with chaos theory more than our Western storytelling.

Princess Mononoke (1997), written and directed by Hayao Miyazaki

To Western viewers, Ghibli films might appear to be chaotic, structureless, and perhaps even confusing. Kishōtenketsu stands for Ki (起) = introduction; Shō (承) = development; Ten (転) = turn / twist; and Ketsu (結) = resolution. Unlike Western films, these films do not rely on hero/villain characters, a central conflict, huge emotional build-up, wrapped up in a tidy arc. This substack article explains Ghibli storytelling beautifully.

Perhaps we can examine this structure through one of his famous films — Spirited Away.

A 10-year-old girl, named Chihiro, travels with her parents to their new home. When taking a shortcut, they come across an abandoned town with an empty restaurant full of food, which Chihiro’s parents eagerly begin to eat. Meanwhile, the little girl explores the town, finding a bathhouse and meets a boy, Haku, who warns her to return across the riverbed before sunset. But by now spirits have started to appear. Chihiro goes back to the restaurant to discover that her parents have been transformed into pigs, and the river has been flooded. They cannot cross it anymore. The story unfolds as Chihiro starts working at the bathhouse, meeting workers and spirits, life there enters into a routine.

Spirited Away (2001), written and directed by Hayao Miyazaki

In the beginning one might suspect that Chihiro will have to defeat her boss at the bathhouse — the witch Yubaba, who steals workers’ names and controls them through labor and fear. However, in the film Yubaba is not presented as a villain. She is merely a manager who wants what is best for the bathhouse. Thus, he acts greedy when that greed is necessary, but acts with kindness where appropriate. The film is not about Chihiro trying to defeat the '“evil” Yubaba, trying to change this world and overthrow the system. Instead, the little girl learns the rules of the world, slowly becoming more capable, understanding how to navigate it. Even though the system does not change, Chihiro does.

Yes, there are spirits, mysticism, and fantastical elements, but aside from these elements, Ghibli films do mirror real life. And just like in Chaos theory, the films are characterized by structured unpredictability. It unfolds slowly, each small change happening moment by moment — without radically exploding into huge conflict — which in the end reveals how all these tiny details had a big impact. In essence, Kishōtenketsu storytelling truly mirrors real life, where one might not understand the importance of each small moment, though in the end they all make sense after all.

Now back to reality.

The Spy (2019), written and directed by Gideon Raff, co-written by Max Perry

Real life can be both mundane and grandiose. In the podcast mentioned earlier, the hosts discuss incidents which can almost feel surreal at times. As in other true crime we are familiar with, horror stories about pedophilia, murder, war, and so on happen on a day to day basis. Things are constantly changing, though not always happen through meaning and understanding, as in fiction. When it comes to true stories, we cannot always wrap them up in a nice structure, where the grandiosity or chaos is justified.

To continue Twain’s quote: ‘Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t.’

In other words: fiction has to make sense. Reality doesn’t.