The Bowdoin Orient

I can guarantee that if you are a fan of “Game of Thrones,” you know at least one person who constantly compares the show to the books it is based on. Unfortunately for my show-only friends, I am that person, arguably more obnoxious because I binged all five books after watching the last season. To those who are endlessly frustrated by the incessant “Well in the BOOKS…,” I extend an apology. “A Song of Ice and Fire” is finely-crafted, introspective and an incredibly engaging narrative, and because the novels are of obscene length, it’s easy for the reader to become invested in the story.  But that doesn’t mean that “Game of Thrones” is an unengaging story, or even that it’s a bad adaptation. It’s an excellent TV show with quality writing, production and acting. The adaptation process itself is why critique is so readily available.

The novel is a purely conceptual medium. All imagery and perception from reading happens within the confines of the consciousness. This means readers can get inside the heads of characters without overt voice-overs. One of the most gripping facets of “A Song of Ice and Fire” is the internal dialogue of the chapter characters. Each chapter is told from the point of view of a different set of protagonists, and much of the chapter is their internal narrative and perspective. It’s a fascinating way of understanding the implication of these massively dramatic events on a personal scale, and it allows for some of the most compelling characterization I’ve ever read.

“Game of Thrones” has to tell a different kind of story, as film is a visual experience. The novels it’s based off of thrive not just on internal narrative but also rich exposition and history. It’s difficult to make these things visually compelling, which the show pretty much has to be if it’s going be an entertaining filmic experience. Thrones justifiably sacrifices much of the lore in the literature in favor of spectacle and combat. In doing this, the show maximizes its visual pleasure; the costuming is extravagant, the fight scenes are brutally choreographed and environments are breathtaking. It also succeeds in adapting the books’ compelling dialogue and characterization, helped along by incredible casting. Picking and choosing is always a tough way to adapt, but smart choices make “Game of Thrones” something fans both fresh and old can enjoy.

As a series and not a film, Thrones also has a huge advantage in the adaptation process. One of the largest obstacles standing in the path of the adaptation process is length. Novels are long and meant to be tackled over time. Movies are a one-time, 90-to-200-minute commitment. How do you fit 600 pages of intricate storytelling into a two-hour experience? The short answer is that you can’t, and you just have to show the best possible filmic narrative in those two hours. This often ends up with fans of the original material being disappointed in whatever version of the book ended up on the screen. The series is a simple solution to this problem—by quintupling the time you have to work with, you can track much more of a novel’s plot. Subsequently, the more time audiences spend with characters, the more invested in and knowledgeable of these characters they will be. This also makes television a prime candidate for adapting character-rich novels.

As a fan of both works, it is simultaneously difficult and imperative to refrain from comparison. They are two separate entities, and at this point, their narratives are becoming so far diverged that it’s much more fun to embrace the stories than to try and hold one to the standards of the other. Sometimes I may be frustrated with the show killing off a cool book character who never got his or her due, but at the end of the day, David Benioff and D.B. Weiss are still putting out the best fantasy on television. 

My long and complicated relationship with television finds its roots in my childhood and Saturday morning cartoons. Long before I would binge “The Sopranos” into the wee hours of the morning, I was waking up at 9 a.m. to catch the next episode of “Jackie Chan Adventures.” I’ve always had a wild imagination that was drawn to fantasy, and these cartoons were all fantastical in one way or another. As an adult, I still have a spot in my heart for animation, and I think it’s a very special category of television. From this, I’d like to recommend three shows that rise above the rest and showcase the best that animation has to offer.

Even if its writing and acting are top notch, high concept television instantly becomes campy when its production value cannot realistically fulfill its vision. Perhaps the largest advantage that animation holds over live-action television is that its only limits are in the realm of imagination. 

Through this lens of boundless potential, the creative geniuses of Dan Harmon and Justin Roiland converge into the best science fiction on TV: “Rick and Morty.” Animation allows this show to be about as high concept as it gets. It follows the adventures of super scientist Rick Sanchez and his grandson Morty. It vacillates between outlandish sci-fi adventure, absurd comedy and genuinely introspective moments. Some plots are domestic and grounded, some are action-packed with science fiction and others parody movies and television. The best part about this show is that in two seasons, its versatility demonstrates that it has nowhere to go but up.

“Rick and Morty” is targeted exclusively to adults, but in terms of universal appeal, there is no title that supersedes Cartoon Network’s one-off series, “Over the Garden Wall.” Between its network and limited run, this 10-episode animated miniseries managed to slip under almost everyone’s radar. Each episode is only 12 minutes long, but in just 120 minutes, showrunner Patrick McHale tells a beautiful and gripping story. The tale follows two brothers’ journey to escape the mysterious and nonsensical realm known as “the Unknown.” It’s filled with wondrous visuals, musical numbers, sinister plot twists and genuinely lovely moments. 

Both this description and the show’s beginning episodes may make it seem juvenile, but do not be fooled; this is in every way a story for all ages. It is another excellent example of how a self-contained series can use each episode to build more and more into a plot that concludes in one, cathartic finale. Every pair of episodes raises the stakes of the narrative, and by the sixth, it’s practically impossible not to rush through to see how the story ends. “Over the Garden Wall” captures pure youthful wonder with a cast of charming characters; if you have a couple of hours, I cannot recommend this adventure enough.

This last show is one that uses animation as a tool to blend the worlds of realism and absurdity. In early showings, previewers said it was too dark and not funny enough, so the creative team decided to make half of the cast animal-people, and “Bojack Horseman” was born. Will Arnett voices the titular character, a washed up actor struggling to bring happiness back into his life. I have never seen a show so effortlessly fluctuate between laugh-out-loud comedy and brooding, depressive drama. It starts out slowly, but halfway through its first season, the show explodes into inexplicably compelling writing. The second season follow-up is nothing short of a whirlwind, dealing out explosive and topical plotlines episode after episode. “Bojack” is a gripping journey that hits every emotional target it can find—yet another brilliant mark on Netflix’s increasingly impressive resume.

Crime is everywhere on the television screen. It is seen at its weakest in the still-riveting “Judge Judy,” and at its strongest in what I call The Triad: “The Sopranos,” “The Wire” and “Breaking Bad.” These three shows are far and away the most critically acclaimed dramas of all time, each of them boldly defining what compelling television should be. The series are different in many ways; “Breaking Bad” is an intense, protagonist-driven piece whereas “The Wire” is ensemble driven and breaks up its seasons into distinctive parts. What they share is the intensity brought by breaking the law and the subsequent chase for enforcement that follows.

The biggest thing that crime lends to a narrative is that it is a natural motor for drama. Let’s take FX’s newest anthology series “American Crime Story.” The first season is a miniseries dubbed “The People v. OJ Simpson.” At first glance it may seem, as it did to my roommates and me, that knowing the results of a trial would eliminate the stakes of a show altogether. This proves not to be the case, as “OJ Simpson” is an impossibly gripping thrill ride that takes real-to-life twists and unfolds them before an audience’s eyes. Not only is the viewer invested in the outcome of the trial, but the characters are too. They feel the intensity, and everyone is pressured into making power plays and rash decisions (David Schwimmer aside, who only manages to achieve the emotional range of a sad golden retriever). Crime raises the stakes in our real world, so it’s only natural that it would extend into the filmic one.

Above all of these other deep-diving and masterfully written shows sits the king of primetime: the crime procedural. Existing in many forms for many decades, this is easily the most watched genre on television (discounting the broad umbrella of “comedy”).  Shows like “NCIS” and “Bones” dominate slots on major networks. The best of them possess the quality of every good show. They’re tightly written with a strong focus on character stemming down from a set of established protagonists, and they reward the repeated viewer while simultaneously inviting new ones into their world. In fact, many of these procedurals do that last part much better than say, “Breaking Bad,” because they work in the format of episodic crimeLook at “NCIS,” which is far and away my mother’s favorite show. She likes it because even when it’s a rerun, she doesn’t remember how the plot turned out from the last time, so she can still enjoy it. She can still enjoy these episodes out of order and isolated because unless it’s a special two-part cliffhanger episode, the entire crime is introduced and resolved in the same episode. What my mom is really going back for is the characters, with whom she is very familiar. It’s how shows like this can stay on the air so long; their very nature is individualized episodes that, while more enjoyable when viewed all together, are entirely self-contained. Besides crime, the only other genre with this privilege is medical drama, and what are doctors if not health cops?

In addition to everything else, crime shows are flexible. A show about a young vigilante superhero taking justice into his own hands and a true-to-life showing of Pablo Escobar’s drug exploits both use crime at their axis to create sides and action. Even the most common form of crime television, the “law enforcement unit” show, can take on hundreds of faces: a cerebral look at serial killers or an ensemble comedy starring Andy Samberg. What “Arrow,” “Narcos,” “Criminal Minds” and “Brooklyn Nine-Nine” all share is that their characters are on either side of the law, and sometimes that’s all you need.

I’m tired of making excuses for my “True Detective” poster. You won’t find the nihilistic Rust Cohle or the womanizing Marty Hart on the wall of my common room, but rather Antigone “Ani” Bezzerides, Rachel McAdams’ season two detective. The comment I always receive is “I love ‘True Detective!’ Why season two?” First, it was a gift from a friend who worked at HBO (which is dope). Second, while definitely not superior to its predecessor, I like the second season of “True Detective” a lot. 

But I always feel like I have to excuse the fact that it’s from season two, even though all things considered it’s a good season of television. Sure, it has a trio of complexly intertwining narratives, and the intensity sometimes seemed forced upon the show rather than inherently part of its writing, but it was good. The writing was tight, the characters were well-acted and the dramatic twists kept my jaw dropping. Really, its biggest flaw is that it just isn’t season one.“True Detective” is an anthology show, meaning that every season is a different mini-series connected by themes and sometimes even characters. 

Mini-series are a short and exciting way to exhibit a screened narrative, as they have a predetermined number of episodes. The story starts and ends in the same season. By giving the story a set expiration date (as opposed to the Frankenstein tactic of syndicating series long past their peak), each episode can work towards one spectacular finale. This lends them a filmic quality that allows dramas to empty their fuel tanks in one season.

When “True Detective” premiered in 2014, it rocked the television scene. It was a dark, unabashed look at human monstrosity and the darkness that lurks within us, as well as a wildly compelling story. You can’t tell from his Lincoln ads, but Matthew McConaughey monologuing in a steadily paced car is nothing short of gripping. The sheer quality the show possessed rocketed it to the height of popularity. Unfortunately for season two of “True Detective,” the explosive first season set monumentally high expectations.

In a seeming effort of distinguishing the two, the second season is nothing like its first. Barren backwoods Louisiana landscapes are replaced with the dark and winding maze of Los Angeles. Cults and churches are traded for sex and politics. Instead of a flashback, the season doubles the number of protagonists for more threads. 

Rehashing is not something that season two can be accused of, yet that is where most of the fan base becomes alienated. Concurrent themes of human darkness were not enough for the second “True Detective” to surmount the expectations set by the premiere. The anthology format tarnishes the reputation of an otherwise powerful story.

This doesn’t mean that anthologies always end up as a mix-match of miniseries. FX’s “Fargo” just premiered with a second season that blows the expectations set by the first out of the water. The first season follows a series of crimes in modern day Minnesota and North Dakota, and it balances on the tightrope of black comedy with a deftness familiar to the Coen Brothers.

 The second season is just nothing short of spectacular. The action is insane, and every single character is unique and hilarious (Nick Offerman especially makes for a stellar alcoholic lawyer). But the star of the season is the setting: 1979 gangland North Dakota. Vietnam lingers like a specter over the shoulder of half the show’s roster, and much of the chaos is just fallout from the war. Basically, “Fargo” used a familiar setting and a prequel to expand on its first season and create even more compelling television. 

Which is to say, maybe being too different in hopes of distinction is a bad thing, and if “True Detective” season two had been more connected to its parentage, it might not have been criticized for being an unfit sequel.

Many genres carry connotations of varying positivity, but none seem more exclusively stereotyped as romantic comedy. The genre’s appeal is one of pure catharsis. We love to laugh, and we love to love. Mixing both together is a bubbly concoction of our favorite kinds of happy. 

But despite this, many romantic comedy narratives fall short of compelling. Sure, it’s unfair to measure work solely on the depth of its narrative, but it does seem that a vast majority of films and television shows in this category use their genre as a crutch that supports their empty characters. However, when a romantic comedy series is executed using real characters and grounded stories, the resulting product is a treat for the heart and mind both.

Let’s take a look at FXX’s fresh series “You’re the Worst.” The premise is far from original. Music publicist and giant mess Gretchen (Aya Cash) careens into the life of novelist and misanthropist Jimmy (Chris Geere). They’re both awful people who “don’t do relationships,” and then, naturally, fall hard for each other after their first night together. While this basis sounds tired, the superficiality of the show ends there. In two seasons, showrunner Stephen Falk has churned out one of the tightest shows on television. 

What separates “You’re the Worst” from the pack of its predictably pedantic genre-mates is an ensemble of rich and engaging characters. The romantic leads both find lovable foils in Edgar, Jimmy’s freeloading roommate, and Lindsey, a pampered housewife and Gretchen’s best friend. Unfortunately, these brief descriptions do little justice to the strong character work put forth by the show’s writing. Every member of the ensemble has their own brand of ridiculous humor that is reinforced by its consistency, and that consistency carries over into the quality of the acting. “You’re the Worst” demonstrates that when characters are written well and don’t act against their personalities, a show’s plot clicks into place and fires on all pistons. 

While Falk has managed to create a bold take on an old story, Aziz Ansari doubles down on the romantic comedy narrative in his Netflix hit “Master of None.” This show came out swinging; the 10-episode premier season hits on almost every mark of adulthood. Ansari stars as Dev, an aspiring actor and frustrated adult. The entire tone of the show is refreshing; its cast varies from episode to episode. Dev is the only string tying the ten pieces together. This allows for a broad ensemble comprised of funny and consistent characters, similar to “You’re the Worst.” 

The central arc of the show follows Dev’s search for a relationship and the trials and tribulations of maintaining one. This plot is, again, incredibly common as a motor for comedic television, but for Ansari, it becomes the deep well of emotional material on which his show is centered. The bottom line for this show is that every character matters, whether it’s Dev’s main romantic interest or the taco guy with three lines. Each interaction is meaningful and clever, and the depth to which Ansari dives into the truths about love and cohabitation makes for the most insightful television of this year. 

Both of these series show us that even in the most exhausted of genres, depth of character can push narratives past their potential into powerful pieces. In the case of romantic comedy, strong writing and dismissing clichés allow for a real exploration of some of the things that make us human. It’s TV that we can connect to, and second to all that insanity Walter White pulled, it’s the most engaging. If you want more shows that pull this off, check out “Jane the Virgin,” “Scrubs” and “Parks and Recreation.” (And if you haven’t seen those last two, then that’s probably the only thing you should be doing this weekend.)