Television and cinema are capable, within the single framework of a film, of presenting a multitude of disparate social, cultural and political perspectives. The essential key to the success of these viewpoints, i.e. giving them unbiased presentation within the film and allowing critical debate afterwards, is an objectivity that must be followed and adhered to by the filmmakers. That same objectivity is, however, negated by the currently accepted narrative systems that are taught in universities, books and courses, and adhered to by the majority of mass audio-visual media professionals with elitist zeal. The lack of an objective standpoint can, and does, result in didactic, damaging material.

Narrative processes, as popularised in today’s media climate, minimise objectivity by their very nature. They manipulate the audience through a series of actions or progressions that culminate in a scenario commonly referred to as “climax and resolution”. This finite and irremovable conclusion (in most cases) rounds up all loose ends of the self-contained narrative and leaves the audience with a true understanding of the final value system of the preceding film. (A “self-contained narrative” can refer to one individual film, an episode of a television programme, or a longer narrative stretched over multiples of these. Some works can possess a number of self-contained narratives that must be identified, separated yet held in relation to each other in order to be critiqued). Writers and filmmakers alike tend to mythicize the notion of objectivity in their work by including as many different personal, social and political voices as they can, yet concluding the narrative with a single climax and resolution – i.e. offering in the end not many but a single value system. As they remain unaware of the manipulative nature of the accepted narrative practises, writers who indulge in this form of false-objectivity are even more facile, and ultimately more dangerous, than those who force one perspective on their work and their audience.

The process runs as follows.  The narrative begins by introducing characters and laying the framework for its central concern.  As much information and screen time is given to every opinion or belief as the writer feels it necessary. The plot follows the course projected by the writer towards its inevitable climax and resolution. Plot ends are tied up, justice is dealt out (either symbolically or overtly), and the audience departs with the final images and situations overwhelming all others. This is the main pitfall of false-objectivity writers: they approach their work like literature, or even theatre, not television or cinema. Film is dictated by the act of seeing. What we see is infinitely more concrete than what we read: we remember the passages of a book that appeal to us the most or made the most impact, but the final scenes of a film appear to us, if written as climax and resolution, as the writer staking his flag in the ground. A writer may protest – and many have – but this is an undeniable and unshakable certainty. What happens during these scenes undoes all the different viewpoints that the writer may have carefully built up before and instills in the audience a feeling of the writer’s true beliefs, whether the writer in reality contends to those beliefs or not.

An example: a secondary character is a male homosexual in his early thirties – he has a happy life with a loving partner – he has trouble at work but nothing unusual – he progresses through the narrative as the writer dictates until he reaches the climax and resolution, where he is promptly killed on the sidelines. Regardless of what has gone before, the audience will leave that film with the notion that it (the film and subsequently the writer) believes homosexuality is somehow punishable. This is an inescapable truth of the cinematic spectacle. Writers who ignore it are superficial, self-centered and ultimately dangerous if given enough power within the media.

The writer exists as part of the creative cinematic procedure – just as much as the camera operator or the editor. In conventional, commercial television and cinema, a writer creates the blueprint around which much television and cinema is constructed. In spite of his vigour to create something with honest detachment, a part of that writer remains within the work as an intrinsic component of the finished product. They cannot be separated. Writers who follow the accepted narrative processes are unable to dissociate themselves from their work, and indulge in the narcissistic act of false-objectivity – apologising for a (possibly unrecognised) value system they are party to, inevitably revealed in the predetermined nature of climax and resolution, by fantasizing the impartiality of the preceding narrative structure. Filmmakers must learn to separate the writer and the writing process from the actual method of filmmaking in order to achieve true neutrality in their work. This is made incredibly difficult in a climate that puts writers above nuts-and-bolts filmmakers, especially in television where the writer is held in almost godlike admiration and the practiced filmmaker relegated to mindless technician.

Some more examples. 28 Days Later… (2002; dir. Danny Boyle) introduces us to a strong female character early in the film. Later she is reduced to a hostage and potential rape victim. The film even manages to place her in a stylish evening gown amidst a post-apocalyptic Britain. The last over-powering image we have of her as an individual is sitting in a farmhouse kitchen behind a sewing machine. Despite the film’s introduction of her as machete-wielding, courageous woman of the modern age, we are left with the impalpable notion that this film prefers women to be subjugated by men. War of the Worlds (2005; dir. Steven Spielberg) portrays the son of the main character as selfish and hot-headed, twice endangering his family’s life. He leaves the narrative in a reckless decision to fight the film’s alien invaders, endangering them yet again. But he returns unharmed at the end of the film to be forgiven, and in so doing the film perpetuates the myth of the blood-family as a sacred and all-forgiving biosphere. Modern examples of false-objectivity in practice on British television can be seen regularly in Doctor Who (2005-Present), Casualty (1986-Present), Spooks (2002-Present) and Doctors (2000-Present). Likewise the majority of soap operas are party to the same negative process, albeit through ongoing and cyclical narrative structures that place climax and resolution in arbitrary junctions along their run.

The effect of climax and resolution on the audience can be superficial and negligible – if the outcome appears too distasteful, the audience can choose to ignore it. (If this is the case, they usually choose to ignore the entire film as well). But with the mass audio-visual media perceiving itself as a gatekeeper to our cultural and social heritage, the effect can have dangerous results on the portrayal of minority groups within television and cinema. The MAVM can be neatly represented by the Mycelium model of public opinion and interpersonal communication (Brouwer, 1967), gathering up all the important events and viewpoints of the day and broadcasting them to the people. But much media is commercially driven, resulting in a scenario that sees them appealing to the broadest spectrum of public opinion in an effort to bolster their profits rather than reflect and debate important topics of the day. The resulting effects of this are therefore unnecessarily conservative, reactionary and bigoted, and can be seen in the examples given above. This didactic process needs to stop, not only to allow television and cinema to grow as art forms, but before further damage to the public’s perception of key questions troubling us today passes the point of repair.

Naturally there is an alternative to this practice. Citizen Kane (1941; dir. Orson Welles) offers a non-linear narrative that refuses to indulge in climax and resolution (possibly because it was filmed before this practice was advocated), thereby allowing us almost true objectivity in the wake of a commercial film. It’s surprising then that this film is taught on film education courses and championed amongst filmmakers as one of “the greatest films ever made” whilst they themselves have learnt little from it. The only conclusion can be that the film is taught incorrectly – as part of or superseded by the film theorists’ and media professionals’ near-fanatical belief in the modern narrative structure as somehow essential to film production.  Before things can change, we must therefore learn new processes to replace the moralizing old ones. A potential alternative process which may allow recourse to better filmmaking is given in the following exercise.

Take the narrative of a book or short story (find one here). Divide it into its essential, inconsumable narrative sections. (By which we mean the easily identifiable parts of the narrative that are indispensable to the construction of the author’s story.). Now, consider each element of those sections in relation to their author’s persona and personal history, the elements’ social, cultural and political standpoint within their own contemporary setting, and modern beliefs on the same topics. Adapt them with this new knowledge into individual screenplays, one for each section. (Ideally, someone else should do this for you). Mix up the order of the screenplays so that they no longer match the linear structure of the source material. Wait one day. Use a random number generator (available here) to choose two of the screenplays and read them concurrently. Wait another day and randomly pick two more screenplays. Continue until you have read all of the screenplays at least twice. Repeat this process of randomisation with a friend or colleague, and compare readings.

This exercise isolates the writer (the author) in a context that reflects them as a person, and removes the adapter (you) thus negating some of their input into the work. The randomisation of the order and selection of the screenplays removes not only the ego but any preconceived narrative organizations the participant may bring to the equation, whilst also allowing for multiple readings of the finished work. The ultimate debate is an essential, if often ignored, part of the cinematic spectacle. If this exercise was taught amongst media professionals it would be scoffed at and ridiculed as untenable within the mass audio-visual media because the current attitude of media professionals is opposed to open criticism and debate of their long accepted, negative traditions. If, however, it were put into effect amongst students and educators, it may help to turn them against the tide of manipulative narrative structures threatening to overwhelm them, and reduce the facile, masturbatory and dangerous practices of which false-objectivity is a crushingly obvious factor.

From this exercise, and the comparison of its results with examples of commercially-minded cinema and television productions like those given above, we can see that true objectivity in cinema and television – which favours all viewpoints and never resolutely decides on a single, didactic outcome but engages the audience to debate themselves – is only achievable through alternatives to the currently accepted narrative structures and processes.