There's Always Money in the Banana Stand

Cult tv phenomenon Arrested Development will return on May 26, and the Bluth family's frozen banana stand is making straight its path.

I immediately loved the show when I first saw it on Netflix a couple of years ago. What's that got to do with writing? A lot, actually. Unlike a lot of contemporary comedies, Arrested Development features nuanced characterization and gets most of its laughs from crafted jokes instead of appealing to the lowest common denominator. But those touches aren't the main reason for the show's acclaim.

Arrested Development is noteworthy as a body of writing for mastering self-reflexivity and intertextuality. It's hard to find another narrated tv show whose narrator supplies a host of genuinely funny moments. It does help when the narrator is this guy.

The seminal nature of Arrested Development's first run is well attested by its imitators. It's not uncommon for other networks to copy a successful show's formula. What's odd about this case is that the show in question wasn't exactly successful. It's also hard to point to a single imitator employing a derivative style. Instead, similar postmodern sensibilities have saturated countless series and films in nearly every medium.

I don't claim that Arrested Development was the first tv series to make extensive use of self-referential and intertextual devices. It is, however, the gold standard for postmodern television humor. And although causality is difficult to prove, I've noticed a strong correlation between the show's initial run and a general increase in self-awareness and pop culture references in tv and film.

Seriously My Final Post on Bioshock Infinite

*SPOILER ALERT*

 

Slate's review of Bioshock Infinite is compelling. It's a great example of a modernist critique of a postmodern viewpoint (modernists believe that scientific and social advances can save humanity, while postmoderns are disillusioned with progress and champion individual autonomy).
 

This article clarified what I did and didn't like about the game. I really liked Ken Levine's decision not to have Dewitt side with either the Founders or the Vox because neither was worthy of his allegiance. The Slate reviewer really seemed to want him to join the Vox Populi and complained that they weren't more sympathetic. This complaint is based on the premise that rebels are rarely as bloodthirsty as their oppressors--a statement that is immediately contradicted with historic examples of revolutions that clearly made things worse. Levine's decision to have everyone turn on Dewitt is called heavy-handed, but so is asking that he change a major theme just to suit one's personal politics.
 

On the other hand, the review pinpointed what's been bugging me about the ending. The Founders/Vox conflict follows the classic thesis/antithesis structure. Levine forgot that for this model to work, you need to supply a third option: the synthesis. He disdains exploring a middle way in favor of skipping straight to nihilism. This tactic contradicts the stated "Extreme ideologies aren't worthy of belief" theme because nihilism is as extreme as it gets.
 

I'm generally opposed to critiquing the game I wish they'd made instead of the game we got, but by way of friendly advice I'd suggest that Levine could resolve the paradox he walks into by subjecting his own systematic doubt to a little healthy critical thought. If he'd paused to examine the content of each ethos instead of judging them based solely on the sins of their fallible human adherents, he might have found room for a second, noble resistance movement like Gandhi's--or because FPS's do need a modicum of physical conflict--one modeled on the American Revolution which was fought with comparatively restricted continental warfare.
 

Or, to invoke my own background, he could've avoided treating religion like a monolith and answered Elizabeth's question thusly: "You're right. We don't deserve to be saved. No one does. Salvation is totally gratuitous." If your conflict hinges on the Christian economy of grace, you should take the time to understand it thoroughly. "Redeem" comes from the Latin red + emptus: "buy back". In this context it alludes to POWs or slaves being ransomed by their king, who buys their freedom not because they earned it, but out of sheer generosity. It's difficult to see how Booker never stumbled across this basic teaching. Elizabeth's ignorance is even more jarring since her theological credentials are solidly established. Thus the characters' frequent brooding over redemption strikes a sour note.

 

But because Levine's one criterion for a movement's validity (Thou shalt not kill.) is rooted in Judeo-Christian tradition, his story manages to illustrate a strongly Christian point. Money can't save us. Technology can't save us. Charismatic leaders can't save us. We can't save ourselves, and what's more, we don't deserve to be saved. Upon making these conclusions, the characters despair; thus committing the only sin that is truly unforgivable because it rejects all hope of mercy. The biblical metaphor that the hopeless would be better off drowned is then applied literally.

 

Thus Bioshock Infinite remains a masterpiece, albeit unintentionally.