How two ancient story forms dominate popular and political culture in America — and what journalists can learn from them.
Years ago, I worked with a high school student who had
written a story for the school paper about a wheelchair bowling league. A group of students met with the bowlers and
had the chance to see what it was like to overcome a disability. The student wrote a short but inspiring story
about the triumph of the human spirit.
Later, she revealed to a class that it had been a horrible
experience for all the students at the bowling alley. Some of the wheelchair
bowlers were cranky, dismissive, angry, horny, obnoxious. I asked why she hadn’t written that. “I wanted to write a good story,” she said, “about people overcoming obstacles.”
The idea that all people in wheelchairs who bowl are noble
is what Don Murray would call a “cliché of vision,” a distorted picture of
reality based on the requirements of a story form. Tool #38 in the book “Writing Tools” advises
writers to “Prefer archetypes to stereotypes.”
But even archetypes can be dangerous.
In this essay, I will explore two such archetypal story
forms. Together they represent the yin
and yang of American storytelling, with profound implications for how we come
to understand our world.
I’m not sure when it hit me. Perhaps it was during an
episode of the reality TV show “The Swan.”
The grotesque premise, you may remember, involved taking a group of
women who suffered from physical deformities and, through extensive
reconstructive and cosmetic surgery, transforming their ugliness into beauty. If that wasn’t bad enough, the women were paraded
through a competition to earn the crown of the fairest swan of all.
This show was the most transparent example of the use and
abuse of an ancient story form, one that precedes its popularization by Hans
Christian Andersen. That story, of
course, known to children the world over, is “The Ugly Duckling.” In its purest version, the story is about
patience and persistence, a lesson that one’s early condition need not become
destiny.
For reasons I don’t quite
understand, “The Ugly Duckling” has become the dominant story form of American popular
culture, especially so-called “reality” television shows, perhaps because the
narrative fits snugly into a celebrity culture in which every person dreams of
being a star.
- Consider the enormous popularity of “Extreme Makeover,” and
all the makeover shows that entertain us by transforming the ordinary and
grotesque, people and houses, into the stellar and fabulous. Think of “The Biggest Loser,” “Queer Eye
for the Straight Guy” and even “Pimp My Ride,” which takes junky cars and
transforms them into customized chariots of funk.
- Think of the ways in which “American Idol” has dominated the
entertainment industry. Consider how
character story lines generate interest in the show. Yes, Simon, it is a singing competition. But it helps that Kelly Clarkson was a cocktail
waitress in Texas, that Fantasia
was a single mom, that Taylor Hicks sang in college bars and honky tonks.
- A more subtle example, but proof of the pervasive power of
the form, can be found in the 11-year PBS series “Antiques Roadshow.” Folks line up at regional antiques fairs to
have their old stuff appraised. First, the owner tells a story about how the
object was obtained: “It’s been in our attic since Aunt Bessie died in 1959.” Or, better still, “I bought it at a garage
sale for $30.” Then the expert tells the
story of the provenance of the antique and opines: “Would it surprise you to learn that this
ashtray would go conservatively at auction for $30,000? That $30 was a good investment.” The piece of junk is now treasure, the
duckling a swan.
The recurrence of the ugly duckling story would be no more
than an annoyance if that bird had not managed to flap its wings into American
politics. It turns out that, whatever
their personal stories, American political figures need to establish their
duckling credibility (call it “duck-cred” for short) in order to qualify for swan
status in the eyes of gullible voters.
In other words, Lincoln
probably cursed American politics forever by being born in a log cabin.
When Bill Clinton ran for president, he could not present
himself to voters as an egg-headed, draft-dodging, womanizing Yale graduate and
Rhodes Scholar. He had to become the Man
from Hope, Ark.,
the aspiring son of a bad daddy and a troubled mother. Stories don’t
work unless there are obstacles to overcome.
Even political figures with billions of dollars of personal wealth must
reveal their humble origins, or their immigrant roots.
During the last presidential campaign, Stephen Colbert, as I
recall, satirized this tendency by declaring his own suitability for high
office as the son of French “goat turd farmers.”
It turns out that for every story there is a
counter story. For every build-me-up
story, there is a tear-me-down narrative.
It turns out that the antidote to “The Ugly Duckling” is another ancient
story form, “The Emperor’s New Clothes.”
In the various versions of this old tale, a group of con men
fool the emperor by displaying to him the most beautiful cloth in the world,
ready to be woven into the most splendid garment. But only the truly worthy can see it. So the emperor falls into the trap, not
wanting to reveal his unworthiness, and parades through the town thinking his
body is magnificently draped, only to be humiliated by a little child who calls
attention to his nakedness.
As political candidates build themselves up from squalor,
truth squads on the other side shout that they are wearing no clothes. The greatest example, perhaps in history, is
the Swift Vets and POWs for Truth campaign against John Kerry. Having
portrayed himself as a Vietnam-era war hero, Kerry faced a group of detractors determined to tear down his
story, to show that he was unworthy of wearing the garments of a true hero and
patriot.
In the coming months, journalists will encounter competing
stories about the presidential candidates.
Are they swans, or are they naked?
Is Rudy Giuliani America’s
mayor, a hero of Sept. 11, or someone, in the counter narrative, responsible for
his city’s vulnerability? Is John
Edwards an advocate for the common person or an unscrupulous ambulance chaser?
That’s the problem
with ancient story forms. They have
strict requirements that force us to select some details but reject
others. Real life — unlike reality
television — is not scripted and staged.
In real life, the swan was pretty cute as a duckling, and the emperor
may not be dressed in gold, but at least he’s wearing a golf shirt and Bermuda
shorts.
“Use archetypes,” argues Tom French, “just don’t
let them use you.”
