Although for anyone of my era, the willing suspension of
disbelief will bring up images of Rowan Atkinson saying, “I’m not having anyone
stare at my willy-suspension in
disbelief”, it actually has a very important meaning in writing and
story-telling of any sort. It is basically saying OK, we know this is fiction,
but we are prepared to suspend our disbelief willingly in order to enjoy a
story. It allows us to believe that Harry Potter can fly, Shaun of the Dead is perfectly
likely to happen and Shrek can write with his ear wax.
However, once you break the pact, and remind the audience that it’s not
real, you make them feel silly for allowing themselves to believe it, and you
take away the magic.
The way this can happen is when the plot becomes
implausible – Dot Cotton marries a twenty-year-old model. Or we are reminded it’s
only a film - we see the boom floating about in the air above the actor. Or the
writer gets a fact wrong – people are sitting in the back seats of a two-seater
car (my usual). It jolts us into disbelief and we feel conned and are no longer
happy to suspend our disbelief.
For this reason, I’m always amazed
that The Archers website has photos of the cast in character: they all look
COMPLETELY different to the people I have made in my mind by listening to the
radio and therefore it reminds me I’m an idiot for caring that David’s having a
hard time, and can’t someone PLEASE see that he’s suffering.
However, tonight was the pinnacle of
stupid (in my humble opinion). In the attempt to be up and with it for the
kids, I pretended to give a chuff about who killed Lucy Beale. I ironed
my way through the live version and even cried as Ian hugged his family close
at the end. “Good on you, Ian Beale!” I wanted to cry. “You’ve taken one for
the family, and we will excuse your sweat because of it!” But as I mopped up
the tears and wiped my own sweat on my sleeve, along pops Zoe Ball with a
microphone and interviews Adam Woodyatt and asks him about his performance!
I threw down my iron in disgust, and
then picked it up again pretty quickly. Suddenly Ian Beale wasn’t a social
hero, he was a sweating actor and I was an idiot who had just wasted half an
hour of my life. Bobby was no longer a murdering monster, he was a kid with
pushy parents, and Jane, well Jane still had our sofa cover on for a dress.
Come on BBC: this is basic…
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