How can we write what the characters are unable to say without violating the (helpful) rule of “show, don’t tell”? Let’s look at that problem with the added problem of doing it through a novel that has informed a drama, which we then view through a translated, subtitled television series: Wisting.
The 2019 opening season of this Norwegian detective series started with the texts of novels by Jørn Lier Horst, a detective-turned-writer. By the end of twenty-two episodes running over three or is it four seasons (2021-24; but that’s a puzzle too unimportant to explain), the writing is in the hands of others, but the main characters persist and their relationships to each other deepen and grow more complex.
In our house, the front stories for each held our attention well enough that we watched them avidly start to finish. Twists, turns, misstarts and authorial mis-directions of plot lead to a satisfying resolution of tensions. The lead character – William Wisting – is a diligent policeman, not overly clever, though, and often slow on the uptake. But he gets there in the end. We thank him for that. His need to grope through the tangled weeds of the stories makes us feel better about ourselves. He’s no better at this than we are.
It’s the single back story, however, that presents the real problem to write. How do you tell the story of characters that won’t talk about their stories, won’t listen to each other when they try to say something important? Every so often the front story stops and because something personal, and definitely not procedural, elbows its way into the script. It’s not part of the plot but the most important reason we keep watching?
In viewing Season 3 (or is it 4?) recently, we groped through the tangled weeds of memory of the 2019 broadcasts to piece together basic facts of the family. The sometime journalist named “Line” is Wisting’s daughter, but who is “Thomas” and why is he living with Line – his sister? – and why isn’t she in Oslo, where she said she was taking up a new job Season 2B (or perhaps 3)? And who is this guy “Tommy”? Yes, he’s Line’s old boyfriend, we soon worked that out. But thankfully the writers of Season 3 (or 4) eventually give us a hint that Tommy went to prison for something that in fact Line had done, which is why he seems a lost cause to Wisting, who wants nothing to do with Tommy. Nothing, that is, until Tommy seems to know something about a suspect in the front-story case, and suddenly he is interesting again, procedurally and personally.
The Wistings – father (William), daughter (Line), and son (Thomas) – share their few moments together, in pairs and all three at once, not saying whatever it is that is obviously on their minds. But it’s not obvious to the viewers whatever that “whatever” is, either. William (played by Sven Nordin) has granite-like face, a strong jaw and high cheekbones. Ravines rather than mere lines run deep across his forehead. The cinematographer captures them in long, steady close-ups. An eyebrow might rise at the end on one of those shots just before the director cuts to a different camera, a visual cue as the actor-cum-character changes the subject from the painful personal back to the impersonal procedural.
These layers of unspoken meaning, created through small movements of face and camera, through gaps in sound and the absence of speech, carry over without language, or at least not the language that needs to be subtitled.
But what I have done is to “tell” the unspoken story of the storytelling and not “show” it. Showing it isn’t easy, however. It’s part of the collaborative act of creation of actors, directors, camera crew, and viewers. If you haven’t already, watch it for yourself.