Ask The Right Question
How to use what Jodi Foster taught me in True Dectective
Last winter, I happily bunked down to watch the long-awaited return of True Detective: Night Country, the HBO dramatic true crime series that launched ten years ago starring Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey.
Season 4 was like seeing an old friend again: Jodi Foster plays the role of Detective Danvers, who teams up with Detective Navarro (played by Kali Reiss, both a professional boxer and now actress). The show is set in “Ennis” a small frozen town, above the Arctic Circle in Alaska.
The pair are called in to investigate a crime that took place at a research station where a group of (male) scientists live and conduct research, in a manner more like a cult than a group of climate-minded scientists. At first, the series, and the crime, uncomfortably pushes the agenda (which mirrors what the town thinks of these men): all scientists are whackos. This is doubly true if they are eco-warriors and climate-minded scientists.
In a plot that has as many twists and turns as an undergraduate thesis, the job of the detectives is to solve the mystery of how, and why, the entire group of scientists died, naked and prostrate, out on the ice, huddled with stricken faces. The end of the series unearths a truism: if you really want to know what happened, go ask the Aunties.
From the outset, the narrative drops cookie crumbs for possible answers
It takes a run at the true crime format, which generally lays out the entire story for you at the very beginning, before you have the clues and the details, so that when you piece it all together later, you say to yourself in a self-satisfactory way: Knew it.
In Night Country, before it asks you how you feel about it all, you get the idea that they are trying to lead you towards the woo-woo. It asks you to consider if you might see this crime as the work of ghosts and demons. Danvers is a straight-edged cop, but even she can’t fully avoid the possibility that supernatural force might have been involved. A straightforward murder plot was never offered as a possibility.
Trauma is a character in the story
The story within the story casts the younger detective, Prior, who doesn’t trust the older detective, Navarro, and thus Prior works on the side to find the answer as to why Navarro was reassigned (demoted, perhaps) to State Trooper. Here’s the primary fact of the case: this happened after a previous investigation, when Danvers and Navarro worked together, and the subject turned up dead.
This was the first time I’ve seen “trauma” become an actual cast member, clearly cast as a gender-neutral pronoun. They were invisible and imposing, next to other characters. Trauma is not based in logic; their actions and outcomes don’t always align. This tension creates a visceral throughline in the story, and it works poetically.
Danvers is a tough boss; the kind of boss who has no separation from life and work and goes deep on every case she works. Prior has a young family and his requirement to be “always on, always available” makes his young wife unhappy. But Prior is ambitious and chooses his career over his family.
Throughout the first few episodes, you see Prior attempting to discover the answer to the question that eats him.
First, he asks his question plain and straight: “What happened with you and Navarro on the [last] case?”
But Danvers doesn’t give in like that.
For one, she’s hiding something. And for two, she’s shielding Navarro, from “something,” you just don’t know what yet.
Sure, she could just tell Prior what actually, and get on with it. But that’s not her end game. What she really wants to do is train Prior on how to solve a murder case, which begins with asking questions. But, to be clear, the right questions. Because the wrong question can quickly derail good thinking. Prior wants to find out what that “something” is, in tangible terms.
At first Prior thinks she’s being coy. He comes at her with the same question: What happened?
This time Danvers looks at him squarely, and instead of answering, she says:
Ask the right question.
On one hand, it’s a plain and obvious statement. But sometimes, perhaps even often, the most obvious question is not the best starting point.
It’s not about trying again, or asking more difficult questions.
It’s about where you begin. And then, the route ahead will determine the paths available to you.
What does a TV series have to do with writing about narrative podcast series from a critical eye?
Quite a bit. Because while the question is plain, the answer is not.
If I’m struggling to figure out how to connect two different ideas, or I’m working to make sense of a story, I stop myself. And I ask myself: Am I asking the right question?
It’s not always evident from go. One way that I approach difficult narrative turns is to begin in reverse. Sometimes I ask myself the wrong questions first.
Do I believe this story?
Do I like the host?
What is the tone of the narration…dry, comical, sarcastic, empathetic?
I answer these questions, dutifully. Usually, the answers pop…which is also a sign to watch for. If they are too easy, they likely aren’t the right questions. But answering these questions first is the first two pages of your journal: word poop.
Here’s a better list to begin with:
What is the motivation of this reporter/narrator?
Does this story get resolved…is there a pay-off?
Have I heard this story before, or is this a fresh take?
The other antidote to this production challenge is: Find some “fresh ears.” After you’ve been in your own tunnel for months (years?), sometimes the questions that swirl in your head are not the ones that your listeners will be asking themselves.
Are you looking for fresh ears for your show?