I Don't Believe It

I think I take Marvel films too seriously. I just watched Captain America: Winter Soldier. It's the emotional climax. Cap has just fought his old friend Bucky to a standstill. They are hundreds of meters above the ground, in a disabled skyship that is about to crash, and Cap doesn't want to fight his friend any more. He lowers his fists, opening his defences to Bucky's attack, and drops his inpenetrable shield, which tumbles to the distant ground beneath them. And all I can think is, 'well, you're never going to get that back'.

He wasn't the only one. In an earlier scene, Sam Wilson leaves his one of a kind, prototype winged backpack in the boot of a car which promptly blows up. Naturally, in the next scene he's managed to find another one. Apparently, in the Marvel Universe, one of a kind items can be acquired simply by popping to the corner store.

Of course, I'm watching a film about superheroes, people with powers that are patently impossible, so why is it that little details such as these bother me so much? Why can I believe that Superman can fly, but not that he can erase memories with a kiss? That Spiderman can climb walls, but not that he can juggle school, a job, and still spend all night webslinging without a serious case of amphetamine abuse?

The problem comes with suspension of disbelief. When we watch a film, we enter into a contract: I'll go along with whatever your crazy premise is, but in return everything else must be completely believable. The reason for this is simple. When we watch a movie, we want to know what will happen next. More generally, we want to know how the hero will overcome whatever peril or obstacle they are currently up against. If they do so by using a magic wand in a world of science, or deploying a previously unmentioned gadget they happened to have stuffed in their pocket, we feel cheated. The peril was never real. The author was always going to save them and, while we always actually knew that they would do so, we are playing a game that involves pretending we don't know and it's very bad form for the author to shove the unreality of the situation in our face.

Worlds have rules. Fictional worlds doubly so. A writer gets one chance, right at the beginning, to set up rules different to our own. After that, everything must be frighteningly accurate. In fact, the more unreal the original set up, the more accurate the rest of the world must be. Any deviation from reality is a reminder that the story is, in fact, made up and the author can save our beloved hero at any time. The problem with making mistakes about the insignificant details is that they aren't, in fact, insignificant. Every little consistency helps us to build a picture of the world the author is describing to us. Every little inconsistency destroys that world, and let's us know that, if the author is willing to play fast and loose with the little things, they won't be above smoothing over a few troublesome details when the chips are down and our hero is tied to a railway track / jumping out of a burning building / trying to score the winning touchdown armed with only a hockey stick.

The thing is, sometimes the real world lets us down. The hero doesn't always save the day, the littlest cancer patient doesn't always make a last minute recovery, and sometimes the bad guy wins. The job of fiction is to look past all of that. We don't want to reminded of everything that's wrong with the world. We want to know how good it could be if it just stuck to the rules.

So remember this, writers. Next time you think it's okay for the machines to keep humans around as batteries rather than just using Duracell, for a wizard to walk to Mordor when he has giant eagles ready to fly in at a moments notice, or for a man with a time machine to not go back and fix all of his mistakes because of 'wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff' – well, just remember, we've got our eyes on you. Don't be lazy. Give us something to believe in. These days, having something to believe in is worth an awful lot.