Escalation
Like many people, I am loyal to some writers, buying or borrowing the next book as soon as it appears. It is almost a blind loyalty, as I set aside my grumbles about a previous title I’d read as soon as I see a new book has just been released. Blind loyalty, or easily sucked in? Did he or she recover from the shooting, the murder of a child, or, at long last, finally reveal true feelings to the partner who had been kept at a distance? Among the authors I love, the capacity to keep me reading ranges over a continuum, from the gentle development of a detective and his life, as in the delightful period detective stories featuring Charles Lennox, by Charles Finch, to the excruciating and painful complexity and apparent irresolvability of complications in Karin Slaughter’s series of investigations centred on detective Will Trent. Right now, I am waiting, still, for Julia Spencer-Fleming to return to her small-town series and the evolving character of the Revered Clare Fergusson (it’s been a wait of six years, as nothing has appeared since, very sadly, her husband fell ill and died a few years ago).
Yes, I am easily hooked. While new complications occur in the books of all the three mentioned above, they are small scale, personal, even if they can make me ache for resolution. However, there are other writers whose books I also almost always read, where I see a rather different trajectory. In these cases, the pattern is one of escalation, as if each book must address bigger themes, more disastrous scenarios, each time pushing credibility a little further towards improbability. I found this with a new book I have just finished, where a detective working with the FBI on a murder case ends up uncovering a plot in which Russian agents had been placed in cities all over the US. Hundreds of spies scattered through cities across the country. Really? Russians? Loyal to the author, but that strained my credulity beyond normal, reasonable levels.
What drives this desire to escalate? Agatha Christie might be weak on character development, but her murder mysteries remain contained, realistic, and almost everyday. She offers a masterclass on how to write a detective story, where the emphasis is on ‘the people who live next door’, with easily missed clues, and acute insight into behaviour. Even though his characters are a little larger than life, Jeffrey Deaver’s Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs deal with wily criminals who are eminently believable, (though often also very clever indeed). His approach in involving, putting all the information in front of the reader, with the accumulating evidence written up to study: it’s all there, if only you can think it through! Both illustrate one of the key elements of a good detective story, which is that an intelligent reader should be able to solve the mystery for him or herself based on what is in the book.
In another world from these authors, others tell us about plots to blow up the White House and Congress, take over the world, and enslave the west. Not just once. Some writers have us confront the same global scenarios in book after book, with only minor variations on how this disaster is likely to take place. The current favourites seem to be immensely powerful yet small atomic bombs of one kind or another, or biological agents released into the air or the water supply. Oh, and capturing heads of state is still quite popular. Many also involve super-human characters, capable of bouncing back from gunshot wounds and violent attacks in a minute, able to race across the world for days chasing criminals without sleep or much help from anyone else. Strangely, these are stories which eventually become tiring as you struggle through the next fifty pages of non-stop action – as it seems there’s no end in sight!
The same problem also appears in crime on television, and with serials more generally. A nice and tightly told story spread over a season is acclaimed. The producers decide to film a second series. Immediately, two things change. The personal lives of the characters become more central (and often more outlandish). At the same time, the story becomes bigger, more momentous, and, if we allow ourselves the opportunity to think about it, more improbable. There is a sense a good story is not enough. There are many series running out of steam – and sense – long before they are eventually cancelled.
Now here’s a funny thing. The word escalate derived from escalators, and concept of raising up; now the word escalator came from an earlier term, escalade, which was a term from warfare, describing scaling or mounting using ladders, especially in an assault on a fortified place: nothing to do with magnifying something, but rather just a steady process of getting to another physically higher location. Now it is a metaphor, moving something to a higher level of emotional appreciation, up high enough that normal life is left behind.
Is this a clue? Do we see many examples of stories and television programs escalating, because this moves us to another, heightened emotional plane? Escalation certainly has one benefit: as the emotional temperature heightens, so we are more involved in the inner life of the characters, and the cold hard facts of the unfolding events take second place. We often don’t even notice that they have lost credibility or common sense. That was certainly the case in that book I referred to earlier. The main character’s emotions were in turmoil, his relationships under strain, the past confusing his focus on the present. By the time we reached a denouement, anything would do, whether it was tracking down Russian spies or recreating dinosaurs to run around the Mall in Washington.
Escalation has another consequence. The more extreme the events, the harder it is to end the story. There is a common pattern here, as everything focusses on a single individual facing improbable odds. Somehow, with extraordinary feats and survival against the odds, the entire and complex edifice comes tumbling down, the case is solved, and feelings ratcheted back to a more even keel. But surviving those last fifty pages or so is like completing a marathon: whether we can make it to the end is as much a concern as to whether the hero will survive. Some novels have left me both exhausted and unclear at the end. What really happened?
Is escalation about ourselves and our aspirations? Do we want to be continually moving onwards and upwards, earning more, in a better job, living a better life? If a colleague tells us they are going to turn down a promotion, on the grounds “I like what I am doing now”, there is an easy temptation to consider that colleague flawed. “He hasn’t got what it takes”, or “She can’t hack real work”. Surely everyone wants more. Not to do so is to admit failure; success is about escalation.
The escalation I see in books and films reflects that underlying expectation. Whatever happened before, now we must achieve more, demonstrate even greater skills and capacities. Move on, move up. In Agatha Christie’s time, was the pressure to achieve less, and more cerebral success better regarded? Maybe, but if that was the case, what about a contemporary writer like Jeffrey Deaver? Is he immune to the high achievement culture? Solving mental puzzles keeps acrostic crossword writers in business, and they have thousands of happy – and critical – followers. But I fear they are a minority: more are too busy looking for higher remuneration, a corner office, to waste time on mental gymnastics.
Plato had an interesting perspective on this. In his ideal society, people would be ruled by ‘philosopher kings’. Chosen at a young age, these potential guardians would undergo a rigorous education. Until age 18, the would-be leaders would be engaged in basic intellectual study and physical training, followed by two years of military training. Next any further physical training is replaced by studying philosophy for 5 years, followed by ten years of mathematics until age 30, and then five years of dialectic’ training. Guardians then spend the next 15 years as leader in training, trying to help people gain understanding. Finally, upon reaching 50, they are fully aware of what is good for society, totally mature and ready to lead. After all that, they were to receive no special benefits, no high levels of remuneration, no fine clothes or homes. At the end of fifty years, no escalation for them, but rather these philosopher kings would be poorer than most of the rest in physical terms; knowledge being far more valuable than gold and possessions.
Most writers today ignore Plato’s model. Successful characters lead lives rewarded by all that riches can buy. However, the idea of poverty as ‘enough’ can be found intrinsic to some exceptionally clever investigators. Jack Reacher travels around the US with a toothbrush as his only possession, earning money from odd jobs as he wanders on. David Baldacci’s ‘memory man’ prefers to live a simple life, as does Will Trent. If the plots elaborate and complicate, these characters remain steadily based on simple, unextravagant ground.
Perhaps we have just described the formula for the perfect detective story: have a detective who lives a simple life, disinterested in wealth and fame, tackling puzzles everyone else is unable to solve, puzzles that grow in complexity and consequence as one book follows another. I can think of more examples. Even if Inspector Lynley comes from an aristocratic background (he is really Viscount Linley), he works hard to ignore all that. In his case, he has the very down to earth Sergeant Barbara Havers to keep him in his place. Elizabeth George uses a nice inversion of aspiration, with Lynley ignoring his background as far as he can, despite helpful friends and colleagues. Perhaps this is one of the many elements making her books successful, at least for me, despite the fact Lynley went to Oxford (OK: in joke!).
Overall, I would suggest many of the best detective story writers do keep their protagonists and their cases somewhat prosaic, leaving the story to focus on making sense of the clues, in the Agatha Christie tradition, a very different approach from books with action heroes, where the rule is escalate, escalate, and, if in doubt, escalate even further. In those books the usual trajectory commences an initial (simple?) story about aborting the assassination of a film star in Rome or a political leader. Clearly, the next tale will have to be more dramatic than that. Time to track down a terrorist cell in Athens? Perhaps the third book could take us on to a nuclear threat in Hong Kong, a bomb to blow up the European parliament, or a chemical warfare threat in the US. Going well, but what next? The problem with the ever-escalating disasters is to find one that is even bigger and more threatening. I suppose that demonstrates the limits of my imagination, as the books appear to keep on coming, bigger and worse!
For escalation to work, it must hold our attention. A great detective doesn’t want to work on solving a mystery like climate change. It is far too slow to be gripping. Even Francis Urquhart’s story in House of Cards, which takes place over some twelve years or more, works because it is punctuated by key dramatic moments (like throwing a journalist off a tower in the Houses of Parliament!). However, the reason the three-part series succeeded was as much because it concerned manipulation and political maneuvering, a series about ideas, one for the eggheads. When the US tried to repeat the theme with their version of House of Cards, escalation quickly drowned out any appreciation of the subtleties of politics and alliances (and, yes, personalities began to dominate the story line). Improbability took over, the viewing audience declined, and then Kevin Spacey had to disappear from the cast …
Is escalation just another way of talking about the desire for more? At a personal level, more can be about several things. It can refer to more understanding; it can also be about having more ability. However, in the consumerist age in which we live, more seems to be about things, having more possessions. To read a book or watch a show, the content appears to dwell on an ongoing fascination with winning, a fascination that leads on to television quizzes, talent shows and baking challenges. Here, too, escalation is part of the attraction: how can the challenges be made more exciting, more demanding, more consequential.
I realise not everyone watches these shows to see how much the winner gets. My in-laws love the US television show ‘Jeopardy!’. For my mother-in-law, her interest is in the questions: she tries to answer each one and enjoys hearing about things she didn’t know before. If I were to ask her about James Holzhauer (who nearly beat Ken Jennings’s $2.5m winnings, but lost that challenge at the last hurdle), she might remember who he was, but the money isn’t her interest. She also watches ‘The Wheel of Fortune’, one of the more crassly consumerist game shows on television, but, once again, her interest is in answering the questions, not the rewards for the winners! I suspect she may be in the minority.
Plato had fun in The Republic on this topic of escalation. He had Socrates imagine the establishment of a happy community, with food, clothing and housing. He continued: “And they and their children will feast, drinking of the wine which they have made, wearing garlands on their heads, and hymning the praises of the gods, in happy converse with one another. And they will take care that their families do not exceed their means; having an eye to poverty or war. But, said Glaucon, interposing, you have not given them a relish to their meal. True, [Socrates] replied, I had forgotten; of course they must have a relish—salt, and olives, and cheese, and they will boil roots and herbs such as country people prepare; for a dessert we shall give them figs, and peas, and beans; and they will roast myrtle-berries and acorns at the fire, drinking in moderation. And with such a diet they may be expected to live in peace and health to a good old age and bequeath a similar life to their children after them. Yes, Socrates, [Glaucon] said, and if you were providing for a city of pigs, how else would you feed the beasts? But what would you have, Glaucon? I replied. Why, he said, you should give them the ordinary conveniences of life. People who are to be comfortable are accustomed to lie on sofas, and dine off tables, and they should have sauces and sweets in the modern style … For I suspect that many will not be satisfied with the simpler way of life. They will be for adding sofas, and tables, and other furniture; also dainties, and perfumes, and incense, and courtesans, and cakes, all these not of one sort only, but in every variety.”[i]
Plato, through Socrates, knew all about escalation. You have to believe he was talking about human nature, a desire to always have more that does not seem to have changed over more than two millennia, if not much longer. To keep us reading, watching and striving, we will be wanting to add dainties, and perfumes, and incense, and courtesans, and cakes, all these not of one sort only, but in every variety! Okay, not courtesans in the 21st Century, but just about anything else on Plato’s list, and many more additions he hadn’t imagined.
What can authors do? Some create a familiar world, but others develop something new each time they write, taking us up a level, escalating opportunities and possibilities, in a world which panders to our desire to be like the winners in the story. Yet, thinking about the writers I prefer, while they avoid unnecessary escalation they can still leave me sad or worried by the characters’ complicated lives. At least their detectives solve murders – most of the time!
[i] From the Jowett translation of Plato’s Republic, sections 372a-373e
