Hmm, so a couple of days back I posted about my favourable first impressions of Firefly having watched the pilot episode. Since when I’ve watched…well, after writing this piece I’ll be onto episode three of disk three, which will be my tenth of the fourteen installments that made up the series. After which I’ll give renewed attention to the Serenity feature film spinoff which I will view again with added insight into it all.

Last time I watched that much of a show in a short space of time was when I got into The Shield. Which raises the question of exactly what Joss Whedon has done to give his show such a strong pull. Firefly maintains my attention throughout, more so than Buffy even, which had more than its share of off-centre episodes. (Interesting, the distinction between off-beat, which can be good, and off-centre, which isn’t.)

Part of the skill is in getting the audience to root for the characters. As with Buffy, they’re an interesting bunch — and rather than go for obvious conflict between them, as so many shows do, what bonds them is just as important as what pulls them apart. Conflict for its own sake can be dull, but with characters who play valuable roles in each others lives, and depend on one another, those bonds are just as important as the potential for breaking them. And those bonds run deeper than the technical function of the character roles.

Look at the interaction of Captain Mal Reynolds and Companion Inara for instance. At first sight, he seems to look down on the interplanetary escort girl. Look a little further, and you realise Mal has a touch of insecurity about sexually independent women. And their relationship is more than professional. It’s all beautifully depicted in the episode Our Mrs Reynolds, written by Whedon himself. Mal is duped into marriage by a woman who first seems a naive farm girl, but turns out to be a sophisticated con artist who knows exactly which buttons to press to get the results she wants. She uses a toxic lipstick to knock Mal out, and Inara kisses the captain in an attempt to bring him round, which sends her woozy too — a kiss born of genuine attraction as much as for medical reasons. Only, Mal goes for the easier conclusion that Inara was affected by the lipstick since she kissed the conwoman — his edginess about Inara being bisexual, and more sexually sophisticated than he is, won’t allow him to see that Inara really is drawn to him.

Fantastic stuff, beautifully played — but the above sounds like soap opera more than science fiction. Well, truth is that the science fiction aspects of the show are very much to do with the environment and trappings. This is not drama that comes from scientific concepts — science is not one of Firefly’s drivers at all. Not in the sense of episodes being based on stuff that the writers have picked up in New Scientist anyway. But there’s a rich story universe here, with the characters flitting between planets that mostly resemble the wild west because they’ve been terraformed to look that way. And there’s a backdrop involving a semi-evil Alliance that won the war against the Independents Mal fought for. You can tell they’re the bad guys because of their love of red tape, and they’ve done something unspeakable to the doctor’s strange sister, River.

Firefly proves that all a series needs to work is interesting and well-played characters. Sure, the fact that they flit about in a spaceship is fun — but a lot of that stuff is set dressing. More than anything, this is a series about how people get on in their very different ways, and how enjoyable it is to see that when those people are more or less functional and typically inclined to look out for one another. As such, it’s a more human and compelling future than those offered by most tv science fiction shows.

Sometimes a show’s central metaphors are obvious to its creators. Other times, they’re so embedded in the show that they pass unquestioned. With Star Trek, you can’t get away from the sense that what you’re watching is American foreign policy in outer space. Uniformed men patrolling the frontiers in a heavily armed vessel claiming a non-interventionist stance but forever imposing their values on the foreigners they encounter — yeah, that feels about right.

So powerful is that notion of space as a military domain that it affects other science fiction shows too: it’s a rubric that also shapes Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, Battlestar Galactica and Babylon 5. Which is fine as far as it goes. Interesting that British tv science fiction, coming from a country that’s through with its imperial past and questioning that legacy, is more sceptical — Dr Who is a maverick pacifist, and the heroes of Blake’s 7 were political radicals fighting against the state rather than on its behalf.

After the success of Buffy, Joss Whedon wanted to make a science fiction show, and it’s typical of his scale of vision that he looked beyond predecessor shows and came up with his own rough and ready version of a universe to have adventures in for Firefly. The protagonist is Malcolm Reynolds, who is established in the pilot episode as a soldier on the wrong side of a war, now turning his hand to shifting cargo round the cosmos to make ends meet. He does so in an outdated Firefly class spaceship with the assistance of a crew of misfits. Their roles — pilot, engineer, medic — are familiar from Star Trek, but without a uniform or code of conduct to bind them together, the captain relies on leadership skills and an understanding of the bigger picture to guide his crew. Tension about where the ship goes, and how, is an important part of the fabric of the show.

I suspect that the way Firefly works is in large part a function of Whedon’s experience in delivering episode after episode and season after season of Buffy , the captain of his own ship for sure — and up against powers that be in the form of networks, advertisers, actors growing in popularity, and audience expectations. On the basis of the pilot episode at least, Malcolm Reynolds has more responsibilities than the other members of the ship Serenity, and isn’t as readily open to identification as teenagers would have found high school girl Buffy. Which may be one reason for the show having been cancelled after 14 episodes — though the network opening the series with an episode several stories in, rather than the intended pilot, may have a part to play too.

The central metaphor that Firefly uses is that of the western. It’s not hammered home too heavily, other than in the country-tinged theme song, and there are interesting detours from that central notion — such as the occasional use of phrases in Chinese by the characters. But the design aesthetic of the spaceport they visit, and later of a planet where they hope to turn a profit, is one very much drawn from notions of the Wild West. One of the more interesting parallels is the presence on Firefly of a woman described as a ‘companion’, but who Mal charmlessly refers to as a whore. She rents the spaceship’s shuttle vehicle and operates from there, itself a fascinating notion: whoever heard of subletting a spaceship before?

There’s a city slicker on board too, and it’s with his presence that the future of the series lies — the rich boy doctor came aboard, disguising his sister as cargo, and trouble lies ahead: her mind is the subject of experimentation, and she’s an asset that the bad guys want to recoup. It all makes for a healthily eclectic mix, though perhaps too varied for an audience that historically likes its science fiction shows a bit more cut and dried. But the vitality of the concept, and some typically sparkling Whedon dialogue, make for a highly appealing premiere, and a show I’ve got another 13 episodes of to hopefully enjoy.

A little while back, I looked at the theological aspects of how Ashes to Ashes, Lost, and Battlestar Galactica wrapped up. Now, with the conclusion of Matt Smith’s first season as the Gallifreyan gadabout, it’s worth having a look at how Dr Who functions — and its resonance with one of my favourite films, Donnie Darko.

Under Stephen Moffat’s stewardship, Dr Who has been a more successfully integrated series than it was under the guidance of Russell T Davies. Where Russell unified the show was in its themes, and particularly its vision of a future in which polychromatic polymorphous perversity would hold sway over the universe like a camp tentacled version of a Benetton ad. Evil was narrow minded, fearful of diversity, and good would triumph through the power of love.

All lovely stuff, but it got a bit repetitious, and there was rather a lot of handwaving at the expense of credible story detail. Which is what makes Moffat’s approach so interesting, and different. Admittedly, some of the individual episodes — Moffat’s in particular — weren’t as strong as they could have been. But the threads connecting them have really demonstrated the time and space spanning nature of the Doctor’s adventures in a way that the series hasn’t seen before.

As with RTD’s use of Rose Tyler, Moffat’s championing of new companion Amy Pond has been at the heart of the show. More than was the case in days of old, companions provide the critical human dimension to stories that could otherwise be abstract, especially for a show that is — let us remember — rightly aimed at a family audience.

Interesting that there’s been a tonal shift too: under RTD, there was quite a bit of playing to the gallery in the form of farting monsters and other playground-friendly stuff. With Moffat, the connection with children is at the heart of the series in a fundamentally serious way, through the business of why exactly young Amy Pond was living in a house on her own when the Doctor first encountered her. And ultimately it’s through the imagination, memory, and stubbornness of Amy that the series reaches its triumphant conclusion.

What connects Donnie Darko with this series of Dr Who is none other than Jesus Christ. All three sacrifice their lives that we may progress in our own. Which is pretty big stuff for stories aimed at young people, and appropriately so. Kids have a natural fascination with matters of philosophy, and when they’re captured in story form the effect can be very powerful indeed.

There’s even more similarity between Donnie and the Doctor at first glance, when you realise that both intend to sacrifice themselves with the world being none the wiser. Both are more than willing to make that sacrifice, but the distinction between the two is that while Donnie fills that Christ template pretty well, the Doctor has more than a little of the trickster about his make-up.

That trickster element is why the Doctor’s enemies line up to have him incarcerated in the Pandorica — the Doctor not recognising in the description of its captive as the most dangerous being in the universe a description of himself. And it’s that same trickster pluck which gives him the solution to the apocalyptic conundrum that results: he knows that Amy has the capacity to will him back into existence through the elaborate thread that he weaves through her life.

And really, that’s the difference between Donnie and the Doctor — the teenager has humility, where the old man from Gallifrey has the desire to see even more of space and time as he adventures another day, setting off in the TARDIS on another madcap quest like nothing has happened as he whisks Amy and her beau away from their wedding and into the beyond…

I’m so impressionable. A few weeks ago, I saw an excellent Australian comedian called Steve Hughes supporting the just as excellent American comic Reginald D Hunter. They share an edgy approach to contentious material about race, sex, and gender that was liberating to hear, both voicing thoughts that challenged my flabby thinking — revealed under scrutiny to be little more than the received wisdom accrued by an essentially liberal reader.

I was challenged, provoked, excited. And took particular delight in the contention proposed by Mr Hughes that ‘no one has the right not to be offended’. Damn straight, I thought, and filed the thought away along with other half-digested nuggets. And, you know, Steve has a point. When it comes down to it, what’s the difference between someone offended by obscene language, and me taking offence at Oasis for aping The Beatles without the bits that made the Fab Four fab in the first place?

More than that, Steve has a follow-up to his free speech stance…taking offence doesn’t damage your liver, or cause anyone to lose money, so exactly what is it that’s at stake? And I parroted that too, as an impressionable full grown man does when taken with a comedian who seems to have the answers to life. I should have spotted the mancrush for what it was — a recognition that someone is doing something cool that I’d like to do, but frankly lack the nuts for.

Just as Reginald D Hunter doesn’t go through life dealing with bullshit in a pithy baritone without encountering some resistance, nor can I reasonably expect to conduct my business in a frank and vulgar manner without getting feedback that my directness is unwarranted. There are consequences for everything we do, and saying that speaking freely has no side-effects is disingenuous. I choose not to remind my size-conscious female friends about that, knowing that the bad feelings they will experience are as real as the ones suffered by the mother of a Downs’ Syndrome child when Frankie Boyle made jokes about same. Where Mr Boyle is concerned, I feel nothing but contempt: humour used against worthy targets is a fine thing. Kids with Downs’ are pretty much at the bottom of society’s ladder — exactly what is achieved by making them the butt of crude humour?

And yet…and yet…I admire the work of William Burroughs for breaking boundaries in its depiction of sexuality and drugs, and for fucking with language itself. I salute Chris Rock for the bravery and honesty of some of his race-based humour. I can see the beauty in the Serrano photo Piss Christ.

Years ago, I came across a gentleman who called himself Rodney Orpheus. He was in a band called The Cassandra Complex, and one of their songs was called — honest — ‘Pagans are the Niggers of the World’. Which just seemed to me to be trying too hard. The title alludes, as you may be aware, to a John Lennon song where women are ascribed that status…and where women are concerned there’s something to consider when the comparison is made. But pagans? Who the fuck even knows what a pagan is in the modern era? Aspiring to being denigrated on the level that black people have been — on the basis of something they have no control over — when paganism is a lifestyle choice…well, it’s a very special kind of ridiculous.

There’s little more I can say, and there is no one clear point to get across where these matters are concerned. Sorry, but that’s how it is with some things. I find myself caught in a dance between poles, one captured in this clip which splices together performances from Richard Pryor and George Carlin, where both are talking about Mr Orpheus’s favourite N word.

I first encountered Frank Sidebottom when I bought his science fiction themed EP twenty odd years ago as a student in Sheffield. The felt tip drawn cover, the Casio keyboard versions of everything from the Star Trek theme to Laurie Anderson’s ‘O Superman’, the Timperley-centric mythology running through the EP and everything else Sidebottom did…it all added up to a package that fascinated me. Besides, who wouldn’t love a man who performed in a papier mache head, with a handpuppet version of himself called Little Frank, and did unaccountably hilarious versions of everything from Queen to Joy Division?

A couple of years later I was working in Hertford, with a fellow Sidebottom devotee called Ben, when we heard that Frank would be playing at London’s legendary Marquee Club. Famed for gigs by Jimi Hendrix and other rock icons, it seemed a curious venue for a slightly macabre childrens’ performer — but exactly where would Sidebottom be at home? Later gigs in museums and galleries confirmed the breadth and depth of his appeal.

I can’t remember details of that Marquee evening, except that it was a thoroughly entertaining show, and that Ben distinguished himself by fainting and breaking his glasses. Oh the fun we had driving back to Hertford, Ben at the wheel and me directing him from the passenger seat as the only person in the car with vision beyond ten feet. I caught Sidebottom live again some years later, but nothing could live up to that special night, where I first encountered catchphrases and props that had me smiling all over again as I watched clips from Frank’s shows on YouTube.

The reason for these reminiscences? Frank Sidebottom, or the man who created him, is dead. I won’t name the person behind the bulbous paper head, and I mean no disrespect by that. Sidebottom will live on in the memories of those, of all ages, who encountered him as a tv show guest, a football pundit, or the world’s least likely purveyor of Smiths covers.

Last year, my friend Niki was arranging a family festivity day for the company she works for. The idea was to have something for everyone, and she asked if I had any ideas. Hmm. I always have ideas, and this one was fun. Niki is an online acquaintance of Independent IT columnist Rhodri Marsden, who as well as being a journalist played keyboards — for Scritti Politti and…Frank Sidebottom.

I suggested Niki use her connection with Rhodri to get Frank to appear as the headliner of the event. What could be better for a day of family fun? Niki loved the idea, and ran it past her boss, who apparently collapsed laughing at the prospect…but pointed out the salient fact that a significant percentage of his business’s employees are from Eastern Europe, and might not get the subtle nuances involved in a bulbous headed Lancastrian doing amateurish renditions of The Beatles repertoire.

In the end, they opted for a petting zoo instead of booking Frank. I can see the sense of that decision, but personally I’d have chosen Sidebottom in the confidence that his dressing up box charisma could win over any audience given the opportunity. Why risk little children being bitten by exotic spiders when the whole family could be entertained by a singalong of ‘Mull of Kintyre’? And I wouldn’t put it past Frank to be familiar with equivalent repertoire from the Macedonian charts, or Bulgarian light entertainment shows, and engage the Eastern Europeans on their own territory.

But hey, that’s all in the land of make-believe, and meanwhile there are people out there who never had the privilege of seeing Frank Sidebottom for real. Here he is doing an unikely take on Love Will Tear Us Apart. Here, a Queen medley. And here, a discussion of his run-in with The Beatles back in the day.

Interesting, isn’t it, that three established dramas have come to muddled conclusions by veering into spirituality that wasn’t necessarily part of the ride that viewers signed up for at the outset of those series. I’m talking here of Lost, Ashes to Ashes, and Battlestar Galactica, all of which took a turn for the religious as the end post came in sight.

There are a few ways to look at this phenomenon. Easiest is to suggest that they’re all a slightly (but not much) more grown-up version of the hastily scribbled ‘…and I woke up and it was all a dream’ that school kids can be relied on for when the teacher has set an essay at the start of class and the bell has just sounded. Which is to say, it’s a cop-out.

But even if it is a cop-out, why that particular one? Hmm. Well, in the case of Lost the series title is probably an accurate description of how the writers felt when they’d got several seasons in and had detail upon detail of accumulated mythology to explain away somehow. You can understand the temptation. Exactly how do you explain away the myriad layers of nonsense that happened on that mysterious island without resorting to the supernatural? And if you’re going to head in that direction, you might as well embrace it wholeheartedly, even if it leaves a lot of peoples’ heads unsatisfied.

You could say that this in turn is evidence of the puddingheadedness of the general public, a good number of whom despite the best efforts of Mr Dawkins and his fellow rationalists continue to consult their stars while having their palms read and auras fluffed. With so many people letting the side down, it’s easy to cynically give them what they want in the form of some vague spiritual pablum that handwaves everything from Hurley’s hair to the invisible monster, which I now assume to be nothing less than the Holy Spirit.

As for Battlestar Galactica, there always was a Mormon subtext to the original series I understand. Show creator Glan Larson was a Mormon, and with characters called Cain, Adama and Lucifer it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to pick up some of the show’s subtext. Having God intervene at the finale may have been a shot from left field to viewers interested in the show’s convincing political intrigues, but let’s remember that there are people including recent American Presidents who believe that the Middle East will be a focal point for the fulfilment of Biblical prophecy.

At least with Ashes to Ashes the denouement is in line with what went before. Ever since it started with Life on Mars there’s been an element of karma to what’s going on with Gene Hunt and crew, so it’s only fitting that the series be wrapped up with that aspect to the fore. Besides, how else are you going to resolve the show’s mysteries? In this case at least, getting all spiritual was a fitting finale.

Back to where we came in though: what does all this say about the contemporary viewer? A few years ago X-Files tapped into the then zeitgeist with a series that promised mystery and conspiracy but no resolution. Running from 1993 to 2002, there seemed to be something very millennial about Chris Carter’s series, and the way it pitted a sceptic against a believer, held together only by prolonged sexual tension. Now…what?

Perhaps the 21st century is all about incorporating sprituality into the mix. If robots and Mormonism can go together, a tropical island offer a chance of redemption, and a 70s cop can be a guardian angel, what tv shows will emerge in an era where all-encompassing fundamentalism of various sorts from free market atheism to militant Islam rubs shoulders with the very individual salvation offered by the personal growth movement?

Now that’s what I call a good day.

First, I call a contact who spent a very productive day some weeks back coaching myself and co-conspirator Andy Tudor about our slowly simmering multi-platform project for younger viewers. We had a good chat, I confirmed that we were on track for meeting the deadlines we’d agreed…and she dropped a bombshell. Only, bombshells have unpleasant connotations whereas this news was very good indeed: she indicated her readiness to invest a four figure sum in the project, so convinced is she by its creativity, credibility, and our ability to work as a team. Gosh.

This offer came totally out of left field: Andy and I are aware that we need backers, but we’ve been concentrating up till now on getting the work done. The next milestone is getting a project bible together and having it trademarked by a firm of very cool media lawyers in London. Which is one relevant example of where it’s helpful to have someone backing you to the tune of a four figure sum. There will be many others on this particular road.

That was all sorted by 11am, so it seemed wise to go with the flow and get some writing done. And I’ve — finally — completed a script that means a lot to me, and a few people have already expressed an interest in having heard the basic concept. It’s inspired by my experiences in a mental hospital, when I was sectioned there some years back. But, honest, it’s not a pity-me biographical piece. Not remotely. I instead used the pieces of what happened, to create a…well, I still don’t know what to call it exactly. A gnostic pyschodrama? Sounds good, even if I’m not sure what one of those is. Let’s stick with it for now.

What I can tell you is that it’s called The Devil You Know, and it’s about a cop who cracks while he’s undercover, obsessed by one particular bad guy. When he’s sectioned, and allowed out into the community, he meets a woman he gets on with. They arrange to meet again — but she’s killed. And he’s convinced that the bad guy is responsible. What follows is partly his journey towards accepting that his obsession is bogus. But it’s also about an internal transformation: having failed to achieve what he set out to do, what does he need to become in order to succeed, and is there a penalty to pay for that success?

Sounds fun, huh? Well, it’s pretty dark and intense in places. But there are glimpses of humour and humanity too. Each sheds light on the other. And I’m very proud of it. I wanted to write about the experience of psychosis and have a positive outcome to the protagonist’s experiences, since that’s my own experience. There’s more than enough grim stuff concerning mental health out there already: I’m not at all one for claiming to speak on behalf of a community, but I wanted to make my own feelings clear, even if the story they’re attached to has little to do with my own hospital stay.

So, completing The Devil You Know is a bit of a victory for me. I’m very happy with the way the script has turned out, and have sent copies to several trusted readers. In due course, with rewrites, it’ll become part of a package that’ll hopefully secure me an agent. I’ve deliberately avoided that until now, since I wanted to have not just any old script portfolio, but one which represents me at my very best. And I now have that selection, with which I hope to make some steps forward in the months to come.

I got a message earlier from someone I met recently. She’s worked in tv abroad, and is now based in the UK, and is finding her way in the film community in these parts. Somewhere in the process, she came across a director who asked if she’d be interested in producing his low/no budget film. She was interested, and we talked about getting me involved to look at the script. Only, the director has gone ahead and shot some scenes already. Without discussing it with her. And even less without talking to me about the script.

William Goldman’s famous aphorism about the film industry is ‘noone knows anything’. As a generalisation it’s hard to argue with, but I’d be willing to put money on someone knowing something: that films rushed into production before the director and producer have established their working relationship are unlikely to be troubling film festivals for awards. OK, maybe not the benchmark that matters to this particular director — but at the rate he’s headed I think it’s reasonable to predict a downward spiral that will, at best, result in a film that doesn’t get seen by anyone even if it’s completed. The producer is already edging her way out of the situation, and frankly I don’t blame her, in much the same way that I’d have reservations if the first thing I saw after being asked to strap on a seatbelt is an approaching juggernaut. Life in the fast lane can swiftly turn into a way of becoming another highway casualty.

Anyway, the producer is now returning to her original plan, which involves me working with her to develop and sharpen a script for a short film she’s wanting to make. I was offered the chance to script it, but have plenty on my writing plate already and would prefer in this situation to do what I can to help her do her best. Her concept is fascinating, drawing on personal experience and perceptions that I can’t wait to see her put into film form.

All of which stresses the collaborative nature of the medium. Auteur theory is the creation of academics who’ve never for the most part had anything to do with the making of actual films. It’s an extension of the notion that a single creator is responsible for other artworks, such as paintings. Which itself overlooks the extent to which the grand masters of art frequently had studios whose members had input into the finished product. Sure, the maestro may have had a signature style — but that’s just as true of much classic pottery, where designs were painted by hired hands.

Personal experience tells me that collaboration pays off. I’ve been working with one particular filmmaker for over a year, first on a short film and then on the feature script he’s developing from the same premise. It’s been a fascinating experience for both of us, and one that’s paid off: the short film was singled out by — well, let’s just say a Very Big Cheese — as being the best drama at a festival where it was shown, and VBC expressed interest not only in the director, but in me. The filmmaker’s generosity is characteristic of his attitude, and though neither of us can say what the outcome will be of VBC’s attention his largesse is as welcome as it is uncommon.

These things are what make the days go better. I watched a superb series of filmed interviews with writer Alan Moore, and among other gems was him postulating that we should behave as if our actions will resonate through eternity since, mathematically speaking, that may very well be the case. OK, not the sort of arithmetic I remember from my own school days…but a truly beautiful sentiment from a man who consistently acts from the heart, and in doing so has created work of enduring worth.

So, we’ve had a brief look at stories that stress the individual versus the collective, and the individual against the state. Another class of interactions is all to do with the individual who makes their own way in the world — and may be inclined to toss you a bone if you fall in line with their goals. This is the domain of the deal maker, the hustler, the mercurial figure who always seems to come out on top, even if they’re hankering after an even bigger score.

It’s an archetype that has a particular appeal to filmmakers, since it’s the one that has most resonance with what it’s like to conjure a film into existence. I got an insight into how this worked with a director I worked with years ago, who — when I commented that he must be tempted to shout at people sometimes — confidently stated that he got what he wanted without raising his voice. He did too, pulling off all manner of deals from getting a modestly budgeted short shot on 35mm to persuading a well known actor to play a key role in it in his days off from a feature being shot 200 miles away. I spent a day in the production office, stacked full of cans of fizzy drink and crisps as the result of some or other sponsorship arrangement. Sponsoring who, for what, I wondered…a question that was never truly resolved — but the food and drink was welcome on set.

It’s not far from such shenanigans to the heist movie, which I’m convinced filmmakers like because pulling off a heist is an artform close to their own. Look at what’s going on in Ocean’s Eleven and there’s an aura of smugness that comes from people being selfconsciously hip — the same toecurling vibe that afflicts some of the scenes in Swingers, itself all to do with wannabe-cool dudes getting what they want in their very narrow version of life.

In a more mature form, this world of deals and getting ahead is examined in Michael Clayton, Up In The Air and Glengarry Glen Ross. Those stories explore the personal cost of looking to be one up all the time, of edging forward without having a more holistic view of the world that helps characters realise the essential poverty of what they’re engaged in. You could say it’s a theme of Clooney’s, who features in the first two of those films — it’s a dilemma he recognises personally, and has resolved by investing in socially conscious projects like Syriana and Good Night and Good Luck alongside those that make the most of his matinee idol looks.

Not that such characters and stories are restricted to the here and now. Where would Star Wars be without the swagger that Han Solo brings to the story? He’s the urban fox to Luke’s farm boy, and that dynamic is a powerful one — especially when you slap an impressionable young princess in the middle of it. Legal dramas occupy this space to some extent too, at least where the wiliness of the law professionals is emphasised. And there are, of course, hybrids with the other templates we’ve looked at: Phil Silvers as Sgt Bilko up against the rigid rules of the army makes me laugh like few other tv comedies, and some of Woody Allen’s work is about what happens when fast talkers come up against more rooted family structures.

Whatever permutations you can think of, someone will have got there first. But that’s not the point. The idea is that these archetypes can help you develop your story to get the most out of it. To exploit the potential of a religious community setting, a character who likes to get her own way and now inhabits a situation where those impulses have legal consequences…whatever the dynamic, thinking about the way it plays out in the framework explored in these last three posts will — hopefully — be of benefit.

Last time, the focus was on how an individual deals with tribal groups. And that covers a lot of drama — where would soap operas be without conflict between individual and family? It’s a theme that goes back deep in world literature, and no wonder.

A more recent development is a function of industrial society: the rise of the regulated state. Kafka wouldn’t have been able to spin his tales of the machinations of the state without working for an insurance company. The Trial and The Castle are idea-led stories, but there are more visceral narratives to come out of the conflict between individual and government.

Where would your average urban police thriller be without a shouty black captain trying to keep a maverick cop in line, said line being drawn by the assholes in City Hall? There’s a fundamental distinction between community and society, and it’s all about size. A community can regulate itself through subtle influence from its members against those who would take advantage of it. A society consists of communities rubbing alongside one another, needing a consistent regulatory framework to control the behaviour of all.

It’s an impossible task, of course. The subtleties with which a family or religious group deals with wayward members cannot possibly be codified into black and white. But that’s what happens, and the consequence is the emergence of narratives which celebrate the triumph of the individual against the system. Catch-22 is one famous example, and rightly so, Heller’s novel outlining how individuals can triumph against the insanity of the rules that seek to contain them in times of war.

In film, Cool Hand Luke is a classic story about a rebel with a cause, one man up against the bullshit that society throws his way. As societies develop, become more sophisticated, it’s no surprise that there’s a place for a new breed of hero who can stand up to the system. The rise of hackers as heroes is one interesting example — where they were baddies in an earlier generation of thrillers, and then edgy renegade characters akin to the counterculture good guys of Easy Rider, by the time of Firewall even respectable geezers like Harrison Ford get to defend their families by using hacking skills to turn the tables on the badasses who threaten his nearest and dearest.

Project that forward into science fiction movies, and the central metaphor of The Matrix is one of hacking: reality itself is a programme that the savvy can turn to their advantage. Hot damn: bet you wish you’d paid more attention to computing at school, especially since you can’t even use your iPhone properly. In the future then, you can play the system against itself — a trick exploited beautifully in Robocop when one of the bad guys is sacked from the board, so that the Ed-209 robot which has been protecting him can now make him eat hot lead death.

Alternately, you can learn to ignore the rigid strictures of The Man and just, you know, do your own thing. Which is where the ending of the original Star Wars film comes from: Luke eschews the use of the computer mounted in his helmet to take the Death Star down guided by The Force, mysticism trumping rules-based thinking. (At least until the second trilogy, with its turgid revelation that The Force is associated with midichlorians, which takes us all the way back to school biology lessons and rules-based guff.)

Thankfully, humans seem to win in these showdowns with the overly programmed. Another example comes in the interaction of the astronaut Dave Bowman with computer HAL in 2001. When HAL turns on the people it’s meant to serve, Bowman has to act against the machine in order to achieve a mystical union at the climax of the film. All of which confirms that, cool as machines are, you need your heroes to be even cooler for an audience to really be moved by your story.