The Red Herring Device

So in this recent blog post, I discussed a storytelling device that I really liked which was to be found in two wildly different stories–Till We Have Faces and The Emperor’s New Groove–and now I want to talk about a different device which also seems to have a similar sort of bait-and-switch quality.

I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I’m just going to call it the Red Herring intro. It’s when the story zooms in on certain character, setting, or culture at the beginning but then subtly turns the tables and by then end of the story you realize that it wasn’t about that at all. An extreme version of this would be where you start with a character and follow them for a while, but a third of the way into the book they die or disappear and someone who you thought was a secondary character becomes the protagonist.

What I am NOT talking about is that sort of thing where you have an intro scene in which some random person is attacked or killed, just to create thrill, but who has no real significance to the story. No, I’m talking about stories where you are led to invest in a setting or character only to find that it was just a tricky way of leading you to something else still more important. The initial setting is still relevant, mind you, but whereas you thought it would be in the foreground, it fades gently to the background.

This works best when the story starts with a recognizable form, character, or relationship dynamic. A guy and a girl start off on an adventure together and you expect there to be a romance, but then the story veers off into somewhat different territory than you expected. It starts out seeming like a rebellious princess story, but it turns out to really be about her long-suffering lady-in-waiting. This is neither good nor bad. Sometimes we want the story to go the way we expect and are disappointed when it doesn’t. Traditional forms or patterns are good and beautiful. They survive for a reason. We like them.

People read romance novels assuming at the outset that the protagonists are going to get together, and they just enjoy seeing how it unfolds. We watch superhero movies knowing that they will save the world and almost certainly survive, but we like watching them do it.

By the same token, it can be really awful when a story veers off its so-called “tracks” and goes where we did not expect. This usually happens when the deviation is extreme and tonally jarring. You pick up something that seems like a fluffy contemporary comedy, and it turns into horror. If the tone feels like cheery, adventurous high fantasy, but it goes into grimdark dystopian gore, few will appreciate that sort of bait and switch.

Whether or not this Red Herring device works depends mostly upon the nature of the preconception that it un-weaves. As I mentioned above, there are tropes we like because we want to see them “completed,” so to speak, or brought to expected fruition. And there are times where we delight to see our expectations thrown out the window. We realized we were making assumptions about what should happen and how things should be, and the author nudges us to some new, strange, untrod ground.

To put it simply, it matters what we are diverting from, and what we are diverting to.

But if the balance is struck–subtlety is best–it can be lovely even as you find yourself saying “This really isn’t quite what I thought this story was going to be about.”

The Black Panther Preview:

This is a somewhat thin example, it being only a preview (albeit an excellent preview), but it shows a miniature version of the Red Herring. The preview starts with two very famous faces in the world of fantasy: Bilbo and Gollum, as it were. These are some guys we like and have seen here, there, and everywhere, so to speak. It seems to be an interrogation, the classic sort, in the dull room with the flickering fluorescents. We know what’s going on. We’ve seen this intro before. Presumably these two guys are important, since we would usually expect our first shots to be of the hero, and of the villain.

But this is not our hero. And this is not our villain. And this cold, badly lit room that reminds you of other interrogation rooms in other films? No, no, no. This is not that story.* Sit here a moment and contemplate this familiar introductory setting for a few moments, because we are about to show you what’s really going to happen here.

Those are the visitors to this story. Let me show you its residents. This is not a story about secret military organizations and aliens and the politics of superhero clubs. This is about a King. A country. A people. A struggle. Ready? Go.

Now, you don’t have to enjoy the preview as much as I did, or even care one whit about superhero movies in order to recognize the subtle way in which the makers of the preview gave viewers something familiar, then switched the camera and said, “yeah, that too, but here’s the main point.”

*There is obviously some presumption here, since I have no idea of the plot of the movie. I’m simply going off of the atmosphere of the preview.

Theeb

Theeb is a film I watched some time ago. Set in Saudi Arabia in 1916, this story is about a boy, the titular character, and a deadly journey he takes. I will take care not to give away major spoilers, but obviously, the story does not quite go as expected.

At the beginning of the story we have Theeb who keeps close to his older brother. They are bedouins and their father, we learn, has passed away but was greatly respected.

An Englishman soon comes to visit and request a guide. Theeb’s brother is assigned the task and Theeb, through sheer stubbornness, loyalty, and perhaps fear, tags along. This is the “familiar territory.” One thinks Lawrence of Arabia. The Jungle Book. An “exotic” desert setting, with a Westerner introduced, and perhaps some cultural clash hijinks, and the little Bedouin boy will befriend the British soldier and everyone will learns some nice lessons, and then, I don’t know, go to boarding school or whatever.

Not. At. All.

This story is it’s own sharp, clever creature. It takes its own wild turns. It is, as the title suggests, a wolfish story. (Theeb, or thi’ib in MSA, means wolf in Arabic. This was filmed in Jordan, and is subtitled)

Wolves, by the way, are not aggressive creatures. They are shy. They will hide. They will wait and avoid danger if they can. They won’t show their teeth until they have been pressed back and cornered. Then, it’s much too late for you.

And that is exactly how this story goes. The Englishman who seems so important in the beginning? He comes to very little in this story, almost to nothing. Because it isn’t his story. It’s Theeb’s. The secret the Englishman carries which so arouses Theeb’s interest? It is a disappointment, to say the least. So many things you think are important in this story aren’t. So many ways you think it must go, it doesn’t.

Intrigue is shown, only to be cast aside for more dire circumstances. Friendships are forged through struggle only to end as abruptly and brutally as they began, never to be restored. This story has a frustrating and unpredictable quality that perhaps gets closer to real life than many stories do.

(Side-note: I definitely recommend this movie)

Further “Reading”

For a weaker example, there is Rogue One. Weak, I say, since it wasn’t so much unpredictable what happened at the end, as it was simply atypical for a Star Wars movie. Usually everyone lives and dances with Ewoks at the end of those movies with the scant few dead coming back as happy ghosts.

Cynthia Voigt’s The Wings of a Falcon is a sort of YA quest Fantasy that really acts nothing like a YA quest fantasy. Calling it that gives you no useful information and no sense of the dark, harsh, unrelenting atmosphere of that book.

Why I Like It

I like this sort of story because it draws me away from comfortable expectations to something else of value, however unexpected. The point is, the redirect has to be to something also relevant, also beautiful, also worthy. This would not work if I was expecting a deep philosophical examination of good and evil, and was diverted to platitudes or a diatribe. The diversion must be from a familiar good (the expected trope/story/scenario) to an unfamiliar or unexpected good. The diversion may well be from something soft to something harsh, but there is value in that if the harshness illuminates or fleshes out the softness.

It reminds me a little of C.S. Lewis’ Perelandra, where Ransom and Tinidril discuss how you might go out looking for a certain fruit in the paradise that is Perelandra, but then you find the one you did not expect. But to reject it for what you expected, rather than receive it as a good, would make for an unadventurous and flavorless life (to say nothing of the theological implications which are the whole premise of the argument!)

Sometimes a story takes you down a beloved path, and you relax in its comfort. And sometimes a story says “you’ve followed me this far because you recognized the road, now come with me where you’ll have to do some climbing and sharp turns, so you can see something you weren’t expecting. I hope you’ll find that it’s worth it.”

And when that diversion is good, it become a fresh perspective and a fresh joy.