In 1928, the Russian folklorist Vladimir Propp published a book entitled Morphology of the Folktale. In it, he argued that all Russian folktales use one or more of up to 31 different plot elements. These include such narrative events as someone goes missing, there is trouble in the kingdom, something surprising takes place, the two protagonists get married, and so on. Inspired by his example, narratologists have since searched for a set number of patterns underlying other narrative genres – or even, in some cases, all of narrative taken as a whole. A recent example, for instance, is Christopher Booker’s study The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories, which was published in 2004. As his title suggests, Booker argues that all stories ultimately conform to one of seven basic plot types, each of which has its own bespoke list of narrative elements. One of these plot types, for instance, is called ‘the quest’ and it involves one or more people leaving home in search of something and having to overcome a variety of obstacles in the course of doing so.
We do not need to accept the contention that all stories must conform to one or other basic plot type in order to recognise that many narratives do belong to a recognisable genre and do evoke a number of standard characters and/or situations associated with that genre. A detective story, for instance, would not really be a detective story if it did not contain a crime and/or an attempt to solve that crime. The same is true of romantic comedies: without two (or more) people who fall in love, encounter a number of mishaps in their attempts to get together, make it through in the end and (in the older variety at least) marry one another, they could not really be considered romantic comedies at all.
When we start to read a detective story or a romantic comedy, we do so with a set of expectations already in place about the sorts of things that are going to happen in the course of that story. These expectations on the part of the reader are therefore something that works written in specific genres can play with as they go about their business, sometimes to dramatic effect. We are taken aback, for instance, when in a detective story the detective fails to solve the crime, or when in a romantic comedy one of the two lovers runs off with someone else instead.
For the most part, works written in specific genres play with our emotions and expectations by making it look as if the anticipated ends will not be achieved – the girl will not get the guy or the detective the criminal – before finding a way of bringing about those ends in a surprising and unforeseen manner. This is why reading or watching some narratives can feel like a ride on a roller coaster: if we did not have any sense of what to expect next, we would not feel so taken aback (surprised, overjoyed or disappointed) when things take a different turn from the one we anticipated.
Quite a few narratives, meanwhile, put on the appearance of conforming to the standard plot structures of one genre before switching unexpectedly to those of another. William Shakespeare’s play Romeo and Juliet is a good example of this. Its first half bears all the hallmarks of what was expected of a comedy at that time: Romeo is introduced to us as a stereotypical (and stereotypically ridiculous) lover; he and Juliet fall in love; all kinds of obstacles are placed in their way; but they overcome those obstacles, stay true to one another and marry. Curtain closes. Except it doesn’t – the play next switches to the plot structure of a tragedy instead, in which both lovers swiftly progress from a state of utter bliss to one of utter despair, and ultimately end up dead. The tragedy of their deaths is made all the more intense by the expectations of happiness and joy the play’s opening scenes seemed to promise instead.
For some guidelines on how to interpret the way the narrative you are studying plays with the expectations generated by its genre, click here.
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