Every media writer has her favorite theme to dissect, and as I recently realized, mine is morality.
I am fascinated by storylines that force moral quandaries on their characters, luring them into rock-and-a-hard-place situations—those that make viewers really think about how hard it can be to do the right thing, or even better, to question what "the right thing" even is. And sure, most shows build to some sort of watershed moment for their main character(s), where notions of betrayal/loyalty, deceit/honesty, and selfishness/selflessness, as well as the generic but important “what type of person do I want to be?” question come into play. But the shows I’m talking about are those in which both plot and character development hinge on a series of ethical choices, forcing viewers to wade through entire seasons of uncertainty and discomfort, but also to mentally engage in the search for resolution. In these shows, it's just the pure tension, drawn out with potentially never-ending consequences, that makes the morality arcs so intriguing to dissect.
In fact, this theme came to the forefront in my post on The 100, wherein I called the season 2 finale "one of the best moral dilemmas I’ve ever encountered on TV" because of its three-way, consequence-laden, kill-or-be-killed showdown. But when I think about it, morality is not only among the most common themes to have attracted me to various shows over the years—it also plays a role in most of my blog posts, from debating vigilante justice to complaining about Westworld. So I suppose it was high time that morality got a post all to itself. Here goes…
For shows that boast morality as a main theme, writers tend to set up the plot in one of two ways: as good characters in bad situations or as antiheroes in murky situations. In other words, they tend to play up the good/evil contrast, or they muddy the moral waters in terms of both the plot and characters. In the latter group, we have shows like Jessica Jones (and by extension, all of the Marvel-Netflix series), Dexter, and Ozark. The main characters in these shows don't necessarily have the moral compasses of, say, Lost in Space’s Robinson family, but they more often than not try to help those around them, even if through unconventional methods.
Ozark, for example, is essentially one long morality crisis. In the pilot, we are introduced to a not-so-morally upstanding family, with a mother who’s committing adultery and a father who’s laundering money. Soon enough, these lies are brought to the surface, and after the cartel accuses Marty of skimming, he vows to move his family to the eponymous Missouri resort region and launder an astounding $5 million. We watch as Marty, with his signature deadpan style, miraculously solves one logistical problem after another, all while interacting with suspicious, territorial, or downright homicidal locals. Forced to contend (or even join forces) with an oftentimes morally corrupt and selfish world, Marty has little time for good intentions—he must constantly manage the lies he’s told, the new dangers he’s facing, and the tension with the family he’s uprooted. Unfortunately for him, he can only seem to bury one threat by digging his own hole deeper, which is why he’s no better off at the end of the season than at the start (familial bonds notwithstanding), trading money laundering for drug smuggling. Point being, this show is a treasure trove for those of us that like to watch characters squirm, to navigate impossibly tough spots, forced to go to new lengths to protect themselves and their loved ones, and using all their spare energy just to keep the moral darkness at bay.
As a more in-depth example, consider Jessica Jones. Her brand of misanthropic and reluctant heroism fulfills this moral murkiness wonderfully. Now, I’ve written about Jessica Jones before, but one particular element stands out in this discussion. For though she’s compelling in her own right—powering through her guilt, fears, and doubts to help those around her—Jessica, and her sarcasm-laced sense of morality, is made all the more interesting when placed in the same room as Kilgrave. (See my discussion of the AKA WWJD episode halfway through this post.) This is because Kilgrave is not just her enemy but her foil—he, too, has a tragic backstory and super-abilities that enable him to overpower other people, and he, too, spends his days rooting through other’s secrets. As a viewer, you can’t completely blame either character for becoming this sort of soured version of themselves; it makes sense that the silver-tongued Kilgrave has lost all concept of consent, just as survivor’s-guilt-ridden Jessica has lost faith in other people. What makes them foils, then, is their opposing senses of morality: Kilgrave has been corrupted by his power, unable to resist selfish urges (the least of which is stealing kidneys), whereas Jessica still seeks justice and redemption, and is willing to sacrifice herself for others to achieve it. For two seasons, Jessica’s struggle with how to forgive herself and others, and whether (and even how) to do good has been the core of the show. In other words, for two seasons, the core of the show has been Jessica’s struggle with morality.
And that very struggle is the reason I find shows like Ozark and Jessica Jones to be compelling. Maybe it’s the desire to see our worst urges overcome, or to be reminded of the consequences of following those urges, but there’s just something fascinating about morally impure characters operating in a temptation-laden world. Whether it’s Marty scrambling to stay relevant (and thus alive) and make up for a self-serving decision in his past, or Jessica trying to restore the good in herself and humanity even as she doubts whether either deserves the effort, we, too, struggle with which lines we think we want them to cross. (Should Marty join forces with the Snell family? Should Jessica stay with Kilgrave to keep him on the right path?) Sure, we watch for the drama, but we’re also rooting for our protagonists to ultimately succeed, no matter how many times they teeter on the edge of disaster. In those pivotal moments, we want them to choose right but we want that choice to be hard.
Nevertheless, I also appreciate the more unambiguous TV series about morality, those that replace the intense moral angst with straightforward messages of positivity and goodness. This isn’t to say that these series don’t contain drama and tension, rather that such elements derive less from the protagonist’s angst over which path to choose, and more from the community’s reaction to the protagonist’s steadfastly moral choices. Most often, these stories are those that depict an unequivocal "nice guy" prevailing against corrupting forces (i.e., the good/evil contrast mentioned above).
For example, though it's since been cancelled, I quite enjoyed the premise of Kevin (Probably) Saves the World: the protagonist starts out as a wayward, down-on-his-luck guy, who, after being anointed as a "righteous soul," begins a quest to do good deeds and ultimately save the world (though the mythological backstory was never fully explained). Through the course of the show’s only season, Kevin finds purpose and direction in his life, and learns the value of helping others, making himself and those around him all the better for it. He's not always sure-footed or eager to tackle a new challenge, but through the sheer force of trying to do good, he always benefits a fellow human, whether it's by giving away his clothes, his time, his money, his secrets, or his appearance of sanity. In sum, I can’t say anything other than it was heartwarming to watch these episodes, likely because they put forth the power of humanity’s potential for goodness and kindness, and the positive outcomes those values bring about.
Designated Survivor (also cancelled on ABC, but since revived by Netflix) also drew from this do-gooder well, standing out as a morally positive show about politics in the modern age. The problem is, he's constantly penalized for doing the right thing. Soon after he unexpectedly ascends to the Oval Office, Secretary of Housing-cum-President Tom Kirkman repeatedly reveals truths for which the media or citizen groups attack him (e.g., the fact that he was asked to retire days before becoming president by default), trusts those who betray him (e.g., various congressmen and a former president who try to oust him), and just in general does what he believes to be right even as the bipartisan forces demand that he choose sides or compromise his judgment for the sake of "the office" or public perception. Kirkman walks an unenviable, arduous path on the high road, but again, he prevails at each turn because his honest and well-meaning leadership style engenders loyalty from his staff, the citizens he has vowed to serve, and, more often than not, even those who oppose or challenge him (most recently on display during an impeachment hearing).
Both this show and Kevin (Probably) Saves the World are a far cry from the moral complexities of Jessica Jones, Ozark, or even The 100. And yet, they are still compelling, for they are inspirational in their simplicity—in watching a character hold onto his morality in the face of temptations to do otherwise, and ultimately triumph because of it. They’re basically the TV equivalent of a Jason Mraz single. In fact, given the rest of the TV landscape, I actually find the overwhelming presence of optimism and lack of jadedness in these shows to be refreshing (even if I do sacrifice some character complexity for it).
This trade-off was recently explained by YouTuber JustWrite in his video “Writing Characters without Character Arcs.” In this video, he explores the storytelling potential of “flat arcs”: though in most stories, we expect the main character to undergo a change by embracing a new truth (like Jessica Jones in the season 2 finale), characters with flat arcs retain their fundamental beliefs in order to generate change among their communities. These arcs tend to work well for politically minded characters or inspirational rebels “who spend their lives spreading a positive message in the hopes of transforming the people around them and the world at large for the better,” like the protagonists of Gladiator, Hunger Games, and Paddington. “One of the reasons we enjoy stories is that they reassure us that we can change,” he summarizes, “but movies with flat arcs assure us of something else—that we can change the world without sacrificing our beliefs.” And though he speaks exclusively of movies, there are plenty of TV series that fill this flat-arc role as well: Xena, Legend of the Seeker, and Supergirl all feature eponymous warriors who fight for justice no matter the cost, while the optimism-fueled The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt and Leslie Knope from Parks and Recreation (not to mention Amy Poehler’s reality show, Making It) can’t help but motivate and inspire the characters around them. Like Kevin and Kirkman, these characters’ raison d’être is to spread positivity and hope—an influence that, I’d like to think, can extend beyond the screen.
So if I had to distill a single conclusion from both types of morality-themed shows herein discussed, I suppose it would be that it’s never too late to be better. No matter how dark or complex the situation becomes, if you choose to be your own light in the world, your situation will improve. (Another show I didn’t have time to discuss, The Good Place, demonstrates this idea constantly, as this video so wonderfully explains.) But more important to me than this rose-colored worldview, is that these shows make me think. They make me picture a better world and consider how it can be achieved, day by day, choice by choice. I only hope this is the same for other viewers: we judge characters for the choices they make, the morality they display, and the consequences they face, and then we go out into the world and make our own decisions.
Allow me to finish with a plug for another show, the latest incarnation of the morality theme: CBC/The CW’s Burden of Truth. Following a similar plot to the movie Promised Land, Burden of Truth depicts Joanna, an up-and-coming NY lawyer sent to small-town Millwood to defend her firm’s client, only to switch sides when she realizes that someone needs to be held accountable for the mysterious illness befalling young women in the town. Of course, this plot is made more complicated by the fact that Millwood was once Joanna’s hometown, and the longer she is there, the more she uncovers about her father’s sordid past—not to mention the dramatic ups and downs of the legal case itself. Joanna has to navigate an onslaught of personal and professional pitfalls, all while being alternately treated as a traitor, savior, and pariah; the show is as much about her search for the truth as it is her (and others’) decision to embrace it. And as the “burden” of these truths begins to divide the town, I for one appreciate how the show positions characters all along the morality spectrum, and features subplots that run the gamut of people doing the right/wrong things for the wrong/right reasons. Not as dark as Jessica Jones or Ozark, but not as clear-cut as Designated Survivor or Kevin (Probably) Saves the World, this show engages the question of “how to do what’s right even when it hurts” on many fronts—making it a great addition to morality-infused shows herein discussed.