[7.5/10] There’s a good term paper to be written on why we as a culture are so drawn to stories of supernatural occurrences in small towns. Maybe it’s because the distance from big cities gives cover and plausibility to magical or spooky goings on where the public writ large wouldn’t know about them.Maybe it’s because, as shows like Twin Peaks established, they can be a means to process the real life dark things that can happen in these idyllic locales Maybe it’s because we still idealize them as “real America”, so when something goes wrong there, it feels more tragic and more senseless.
Whatever the reason, in its opening bout, Stranger Things channels all the tropes from Stephen King, Stephen Spielberg, David Lynch, and a dozen other cultural touchstones about unexplained happenings in small town America. This is plainly a pastiche, one that’s counting on its audience’s affection for a particular time and place and genre, but also using them to good ends.
It sets up various cliques and interested parties, quickly establishing the different centers of gravity in the town. There’s the quartet of geeks who play DnD in their parents’ basement, get excited about ham radio, and unsurprisingly based on those first two points, get hassled by bullies at school. There’s the older sister, Nancy, who’s trying to stay devoted to her studies but finds herself both excited and made uncomfortable by Steve, the popular boy who’s taken an interest in her.
There’s Hopper, the drinking, smoking, layabout sheriff who’s suddenly faced with a case far more serious than an owl attacking someone’s hairdo. There’s Joyce, the single mother of two trying to make ends meet and understandably devastated and scared by the disappearance of her son. There’s Mr. Clarke, the encouraging science teacher who has a kinship with the nerds in his tutelage. And there’s other parents, siblings, and townspeople the show can pick up or put down as the story unspools.
Most of these characters play on tropes and archetypes: the dorky kids, the good girl sister, the donut-dunking local officer, the single mom scraping by, and so on and so on. But Stranger Things is remarkably efficient in using those tropes to fill in the gaps and get the different corners of the show up and running in one forty-seven minute opening jaunt. Not all of them get as much depth as Joyce in the early going -- and her memories and search for her son is the most emotionally-involving and, not coincidentally, realest aspect of this first outing. But each has potential, and the lines that run between them, or could in the future, are clear and compelling.
What’s particularly striking, though, is how restrained but effectively the show weaves in the supernatural into what could work just as well as a regular missing child story. We see the effects of whatever creature is haunting these woods. We hear breaths and watch lights flicker and watch as panicked scientists are seemingly consumed. But Stranger Things achieves most of this through suggestion, with electricity humming or shorting, mysterious agents preparing for something awful and doing things that are even worse, and a mute little girl who appears to have powers of her own.
Eleven is the most fascinating element of this first episode. Without a word from her, “Vanishing” makes you care about her plight, wonder about her connection to these bizarre goings on, and fear who or what might be after her. There’s some kind of linkage between her ability to stop a motorized fan and the lightbulb-blasting effects that whatever’s really happening at the Department of Energy outpost here. There’s also some kind of experiments or other horrors being visited upon her that makes her so ready to run. With those two elements combined, hers is the right mix of sci-fi intrigue and empathy-inducing character introduction.
The chief move that Stranger Things makes in its first chapter is to get us to sympathize with something or someone and then show it tragically taken away. The audience cares about the titular disappearance of young Will Byers not just because it’s sad anytime a kid goes missing or it's easy to feel for his distraught mom and older brother. We care because he had the opportunity to cheat at Dungeons and Dragons and instead offered scrupulous honesty -- because, as Mike points out, he could have saved himself and instead put himself at risk to protect others. We only get a short amount of time with him, but it’s enough to establish that he’s a good kid and understand why his family and cohort are so anxious to save him.
Likewise, we don’t get much of Benny, the restaurant owner. We just see him looking after a young runaway, giving her free food and ice cream, taking care with the woman he thinks is a social worker because he doesn’t want to scare the child who’s unexpectedly come into his care. We see, in just a few short scenes, that he’s a good person, which lets us know, in no uncertain terms, who the good guys are, who the bad guys are, and what’s at stake when the suits come in, guns blazing, and take him out, sending Eleven running.
Maybe that’s the biggest draw here. The setting of a small town in Indiana gives us potential to have a distinctive ecosystem of kids and adults where mysterious things can go down amid cover-ups and disbelief. But it also conveys a certain innocence, a certain uncorruptedness, within this way of life, that tugs at your heartstrings and makes you that much more invested to see if that innocence can be rescued.
The makeshift heroes and unwitting victims in the stories the Duffer Brothers are pulling from have a mixed record in terms of undoing the evil that’s befallen their friends and their town. We can only hope that Will, and Hawkins as a whole, fare better than Benny did. Either way, I’ll keep watching.
Review by Andrew BloomVIP 9BlockedParentSpoilers2020-09-28T03:18:48Z
[7.5/10] There’s a good term paper to be written on why we as a culture are so drawn to stories of supernatural occurrences in small towns. Maybe it’s because the distance from big cities gives cover and plausibility to magical or spooky goings on where the public writ large wouldn’t know about them.Maybe it’s because, as shows like Twin Peaks established, they can be a means to process the real life dark things that can happen in these idyllic locales Maybe it’s because we still idealize them as “real America”, so when something goes wrong there, it feels more tragic and more senseless.
Whatever the reason, in its opening bout, Stranger Things channels all the tropes from Stephen King, Stephen Spielberg, David Lynch, and a dozen other cultural touchstones about unexplained happenings in small town America. This is plainly a pastiche, one that’s counting on its audience’s affection for a particular time and place and genre, but also using them to good ends.
It sets up various cliques and interested parties, quickly establishing the different centers of gravity in the town. There’s the quartet of geeks who play DnD in their parents’ basement, get excited about ham radio, and unsurprisingly based on those first two points, get hassled by bullies at school. There’s the older sister, Nancy, who’s trying to stay devoted to her studies but finds herself both excited and made uncomfortable by Steve, the popular boy who’s taken an interest in her.
There’s Hopper, the drinking, smoking, layabout sheriff who’s suddenly faced with a case far more serious than an owl attacking someone’s hairdo. There’s Joyce, the single mother of two trying to make ends meet and understandably devastated and scared by the disappearance of her son. There’s Mr. Clarke, the encouraging science teacher who has a kinship with the nerds in his tutelage. And there’s other parents, siblings, and townspeople the show can pick up or put down as the story unspools.
Most of these characters play on tropes and archetypes: the dorky kids, the good girl sister, the donut-dunking local officer, the single mom scraping by, and so on and so on. But Stranger Things is remarkably efficient in using those tropes to fill in the gaps and get the different corners of the show up and running in one forty-seven minute opening jaunt. Not all of them get as much depth as Joyce in the early going -- and her memories and search for her son is the most emotionally-involving and, not coincidentally, realest aspect of this first outing. But each has potential, and the lines that run between them, or could in the future, are clear and compelling.
What’s particularly striking, though, is how restrained but effectively the show weaves in the supernatural into what could work just as well as a regular missing child story. We see the effects of whatever creature is haunting these woods. We hear breaths and watch lights flicker and watch as panicked scientists are seemingly consumed. But Stranger Things achieves most of this through suggestion, with electricity humming or shorting, mysterious agents preparing for something awful and doing things that are even worse, and a mute little girl who appears to have powers of her own.
Eleven is the most fascinating element of this first episode. Without a word from her, “Vanishing” makes you care about her plight, wonder about her connection to these bizarre goings on, and fear who or what might be after her. There’s some kind of linkage between her ability to stop a motorized fan and the lightbulb-blasting effects that whatever’s really happening at the Department of Energy outpost here. There’s also some kind of experiments or other horrors being visited upon her that makes her so ready to run. With those two elements combined, hers is the right mix of sci-fi intrigue and empathy-inducing character introduction.
The chief move that Stranger Things makes in its first chapter is to get us to sympathize with something or someone and then show it tragically taken away. The audience cares about the titular disappearance of young Will Byers not just because it’s sad anytime a kid goes missing or it's easy to feel for his distraught mom and older brother. We care because he had the opportunity to cheat at Dungeons and Dragons and instead offered scrupulous honesty -- because, as Mike points out, he could have saved himself and instead put himself at risk to protect others. We only get a short amount of time with him, but it’s enough to establish that he’s a good kid and understand why his family and cohort are so anxious to save him.
Likewise, we don’t get much of Benny, the restaurant owner. We just see him looking after a young runaway, giving her free food and ice cream, taking care with the woman he thinks is a social worker because he doesn’t want to scare the child who’s unexpectedly come into his care. We see, in just a few short scenes, that he’s a good person, which lets us know, in no uncertain terms, who the good guys are, who the bad guys are, and what’s at stake when the suits come in, guns blazing, and take him out, sending Eleven running.
Maybe that’s the biggest draw here. The setting of a small town in Indiana gives us potential to have a distinctive ecosystem of kids and adults where mysterious things can go down amid cover-ups and disbelief. But it also conveys a certain innocence, a certain uncorruptedness, within this way of life, that tugs at your heartstrings and makes you that much more invested to see if that innocence can be rescued.
The makeshift heroes and unwitting victims in the stories the Duffer Brothers are pulling from have a mixed record in terms of undoing the evil that’s befallen their friends and their town. We can only hope that Will, and Hawkins as a whole, fare better than Benny did. Either way, I’ll keep watching.