James Ellroy, Superman, Dept. Q, and the Power of Character Over Plot

Or, I Got a New Rejection!

A few days back, my agent forwarded me notes from an editor who’d just passed on my latest novel. These usually consist of boilerplate, “not for me” filler; cordial, but unhelpful. Also, they’re usually prepared by screeners who pre-read submissions for overworked editors. My agent saw some value in this two-page doc, though, and I can’t argue with some observations. Namely, the reader’s belief that I have too many characters. Fair; the novel’s a dense mystery. This reader also took issue with a depiction of how the FBI operates, declaring it “unrealistic”. Never mind I spent most of my cop career working alongside feds of all alphabeticals, and the plot point is possible and has happened—to me. That’s a fight I’m not gonna win. Back to the notes.

Upon a reread, I noticed the doc only references plot. Over two pages, it contains no mention of theme, tone, setting, dialogue, prose, or—crucially—character. It’s basically a Wikipedia synopsis: this happens, then this, then that, then this… This realization floored me. Established authors have told me for years how readers value character over everything. They will, broadly-speaking, endure a lame plot in order to spend time with characters that resonate. Likewise, they’ll trash an enticing premise if the people filling that fictional world are flat or dull or stereotypes or too familiar. There was a time I disagreed with this notion; no one read The Da Vinci Code for Robert Langdon. But a recent novel reread, a new movie, and a Netflix show offer proof of my evolved position.

James Gunn’s Superman nails a modern, hopeful version of a character we all know. No more square-jawed, Cavillian stoicism; David Corenswet’s Kyrptonian embraces his desire to do good. His Superman’s power is not a weight to bear. Hell, he bugs out during a Kaiju brawl to save a squirrel. This isn’t Zac Snyder’s Metropolis; Gunn’s Supes saves life and property (for the first two acts; the third devolves into standard comic book movie pixel-punching and world-consuming black holes). Add in Rachel Brosnahan’s unapologetic confidence, Nathan Fillion’s proud assholery, and Ed Gathegi’s sarcastic exasperation, and you’ve given me people I want to spend time with. Didn’t matter what happened, which says something, because EVERYTHING HAPPENS. Gunn’s screenplay throws setups and set pieces and ideas at the wall constantly, hoping something sticks. We cover fascism, immigration, scumbag tech bros, journalistic ethics (Jimmy Olson NO!), family, obligation, social media, and what it means to be American. Not all of it works. The movie’s overstuffed and loses momentum in Lex Luthor’s pocket universe prison (that proton river…). But I still walked out with a smile, because I gave myself over to the characters.

But can a character-first approach work when your protagonist isn’t a well-established cultural icon? Yes—see Netflix’s Dept. Q.

Scott Frank and Chandni Lakhani’s adaptation of Jussi Adler-Olsen’s Scandi crime novels is peak Sad Boy Detective Fiction. Which I’m a sucker for, since I was one. Moody, yeah? Carl Morck is an Edinburgh Detective Inspector returning to work after an attack that left his partner paralyzed and a rookie cop very dead. Gunshot scar decorating his throat, Morck is angry, smug, angry, remote, angry, miserable, and also angry. Dumped in a basement to work cold cases with a pair of cast-offs—one of which isn’t even a police officer—Morck exhibits Sherlockian deductive brilliance and unrepentant egotism. This’d be a turn-off—if Matthew Goode didn’t infuse him with glimpses of legit vulnerability. In fact, the entire cast of Dept. Q—the recovering, formerly-suicidal DCI Rose Dickson; the conflicted, flinty Superintendent Jacobson; Rachel, the spicy, Department psychiatrist, Morck’s rebellious stepson; his philosophy-spewing lodger; and, most of all, Akram, the reserved, weary, extremely dangerous former Syrian secret policeman—fills out a world I very much want to live in.

And thank God, cause Dept. Q’s pathologically-convoluted plot irritated me with regularity (the story’s relentless sprawl made a little sense after learning Scott Frank was writing the series as it was being shot). Morck, Akram, and Rose, somehow made me forgive astoundingly stupid decisions made by tertiary characters. Decisions taken to, I presume, fill out the Netflix-mandated episode count. That’s saying something.

Dept. Q is imperfect; the solution to the central mystery (central cause there’s like, I dunno, fifteen?) flat-out enraged me. But the finale, with an extended coda that touches everyone we’ve developed an interest in, earned back all my goodwill. Even The Sopranos had some narrative missteps—the Juliana Skiff character comes to mind—but we kept tuning in to learn just how horrible Tony was (spoiler: very) and hope maybe he could be redeemed (spoiler: nope).

The same goes for the three terrible men at the heart of American Tabloid, James Ellroy’s fever dream, alt-history of the Kennedy assassination. Pete Bondurant, Kemper Boyd, and Ward Litell have moral compasses—they all just point to themselves. Cash, hatred, salvation, lust, relevancy; these are motives going back to the Old Testament. Ellroy leads readers on an bullet train of unrelenting plot. The story is massive and confusing and Ellroy refuses to hold your hand—keep up or get the fuck out. Over 573 pages, the trio pull truly heinous shit. But I dare you to look away. Ellroy’s thesis, that real versions of these creations have influenced American history since tea flooded Boston harbor, is alluring and endlessly readable. Still, I dare you to summarize what happens in AT. I sure as shit can’t. But that doesn’t matter—Pete’s maniacal violence, Boyd’s Camelot aspirations, and Littell’s fall, redemption, and murderous rebirth keep you hooked. Ultimately, we hope they will find humanity. Or a version of it with which they can live. Characters can be many things, but never boring.

Which is why those editor/reader’s notes confuse me. I suppose my main character’s omission might be a statement in itself; she is a non-entity, unworthy of comment. I’m not so sure. I’m hearing from my agent and published writer friends that, more and more, novels get acquired on their premises: the hook sells books. We live in an attention economy, and “It’s Jaws in Space” is pithy and easily envisioned. That was enough to sell Alien.

Thing is, the movie doesn’t work without Ellen Ripley.