The Exquisite Storytelling and Structure of "Over the Garden Wall"
The following article contains spoilers for "Over the Garden Wall"
My favorite episode of Jessica Jones is Season One, Episode Four, “AKA 99 Friends.” It’s an unusual episode of the series, the only entry in that first season which breaks away from the season-long story and villain (Kilgrave), and that ends up being exactly the point — Jessica suspects her new clients of working for Kilgrave, but in a fun little twist, they’re trying to kill Jessica for entirely unrelated, utterly inane reasons. It’s not necessarily the series’ best singular episode, but it’s the one that stands out to me the most because — in a series where every episode starts to blend together, each an arbitrary piece of a longer story — it has an identity, an individual plot of its own. It was a rare episodic treat in an otherwise heavily serialized series, and while I liked Jessica Jones — it was leagues above any of the other Marvel Netflix shows — it could have used some more episodic, stand-alone installments like this one.
Most scripted television can actually be divided between those two kinds of storytelling. Serial storytelling is when events, continuity, mount from episode to episode; soap operas are probably the most pure distillation of serial storytelling, with every episode leaving you on a cliffhanger and demanding you tune in to see how the characters deal with this newest twist tomorrow. Episodic storytelling, on the other hand, follows the same characters in the same situations every episode; many sitcoms, especially early ones, fall into this category, with every conflict resolved at the end of 22 minutes and never mentioned again.
For much of television’s history as a medium, comedies have been episodic while dramas have been serialized, but there’s always been more nuance to it than that. Even the most episodic of sitcoms have some level of serialization; near the end of The Brady Bunch, for example, Greg moved out of the room he shared with his brothers and made his own bedroom in the attic, and this change lasted until the end of the series. Meanwhile, there are dramas like Law and Order and its assorted spin-offs that do have minor serialized elements that follow the detective’s lives, but are otherwise purely episodic, with a different case following the same formula every week.
Over the last couple of decades, though, most shows have become more and more serialized, even sitcoms, and for the most part I think that change has been to their benefit. Parks and Recreation, for example, is still rather episodic, with most episodes having their own plot that’s resolved by the end of the episode, but it’s the heavily serialized elements — the season long arcs like Leslie’s run for City Council or the long-term relationship and character growth, such as with April and Andy — that gives the series its soul.
The problem with this march towards serialization has come with the streaming model, with shows designed to be “one long movie” that’s binged in one or two sittings. These have created some excellent series and seasons, but rarely individual episodes that are memorable in their own right — and that’s best case scenario. Worst case scenario is that the series doesn’t have enough story to fill its episode order, leading to a string of similar feeling, padded episodes that also have no identity of their own. The aforementioned Netflix Marvel series suffered from this, though one of the absolute worst offenders was Netflix’s Bloodline, which felt like being trapped in a Florida fever dream where events happened at one fourth the speed of real life. I couldn’t finish it.
As far as I’m concerned, the best series — including “Prestige Television” and shows designed to be binged — are the ones that manage to find the perfect balance between serialization and episodic storytelling. The first examples that jump to mind are the likes of Mad Men, Bojack Horsemen, and GLOW. All tell complex stories across multiple seasons, with numerous characters all with their own subplots that grow and evolve throughout the series, yet each episode also has its own distinct identity, never feeling lesser than the sum of their parts. “Oh, this is the episode where Lane punches Pete in the face.” “Oh, this is the episode where Bojack visits the underwater city.” “Oh, this is the episode where the girls get lost camping.” It’s a kind of writing that gives a series depth and variety, makes it more entertaining to watch on an episode-to-episode basis, not just as an intimidating individual monolith of programming.
Recently I discovered another series to add to this list, one which perfects the blend of serialization and episodic storytelling: Over the Garden Wall.
And yeah, I know I’m pretty late on this one. Over the Garden Wall has been a beloved Fall tradition since premiering back in 2014, and it’s immediately clear why. The tale is full of wonder and terror in equal measures. It’s a touching coming of age story, with all three of its leads growing up and learning about responsibility, family, and community in believable, natural ways, but it’s also a bit of a folk tale, unstuck in time, worth watching for the gorgeous environments, silly humor, allusions to classic animation, and especially its wide variety of unique, memorable songs. There’s a lot of rich stuff here to dig into (and no doubt better writers than I have), but I wanted to talk about an aspect of the series that’s a little less flashy and obvious, but absolutely vital for its success: its perfect blend of episodic and serial storytelling.
As a ten episode mini-series, Over the Garden Wall has a complete story to tell, but the way it tells that story, and specifically how it breaks that story down into individual episodes, is incredibly impressive to me. Not only does each episode tell a complete story, but those stories never feel like they’re blending into each other. They’re each distinct in their own way—oh, this is the episode where they go to school with the animals, or oh, this is the pumpkin village episode—yet they never feel disposable or unessential, as every episode helps drive the overarcing story forward and develop the characters. As eleven minute episodes, they’re also incredibly economical, with just about every moment used to develop character or move plot forward; even the moments that don’t at least do something interesting and unique, be it introducing a new song or indulging in a silly little sight gag or taking a few seconds to establish a mood, to lull viewers into a sense of unease.
Given its roughly two hour run-time, Over the Garden Wall would seemingly be perfect for the “one long movie” treatment, but instead it embraces its nature as a television show, using the episodic nature of the medium to tell a much broader story in the same amount of time. Wirt and Greg’s story is told as a series of smaller adventures that add up to something greater, something that fits together like a puzzle. If you were to remove the opening and closing credits and just air these episodes in order as one unbroken bit of footage, it wouldn’t work nearly as well. It would feel more jarring and perhaps even meandering without those built-in breaks.
The only episode that really breaks from this formula of one unique adventure per installment is the sixth, “Lullaby in Frogland,” which actually tells two wildly different stories. Despite this break, though, the episode still works better than it has any right to. First of all, both parts of the episode are incredibly memorable, with its first two-thirds devoted to a whimsical, magical adventure on a boat full of anthropomorphic frogs, and its final third devoted to one of the most important plot twists of the series, and the dramatic, painful emotional fallout of the event. These two sequences are opposites in almost every way, yet they work together as a single cohesive episode anyway, despite it all, because there’s cause and effect between them. The events of the first two-thirds naturally lead to the final third; the adventures with the frogs is what finally causes Beatrice to decide that she can’t sell the boys to Adelaide after all, leading to the episode’s climatic final moments. It’s just clever, concise, well constructed storytelling.
I also love the order in which Garden Wall’s story is told. I am not at all a fan of in media res openings. I guess I’ve been burned by one too many Dreamworks movies opening up near the climax of their story then coming to a screeching *record scratch* to allow the protagonist to ask “I bet you’re wondering how I got into this mess, huh?” before rewinding to tell their story, or by one too many comic books opening up with the issue’s juiciest piece of action, not because messing with the chronology makes the story more interesting, but because the writer doesn’t have faith that the beginning of their story is interesting enough to capture their reader’s attention. It’s a real pet peeve of mine.
Over the Garden Wall doesn’t necessarily have a traditional in media res opening, but it doesn’t start at the actual beginning of its tale either, and that makes for a much more interesting story. When the first episode begins Wirt and Greg are already lost in the Unknown, but like the viewer, they don’t know how they came to be there. Immediately it’s obvious that the viewer hasn’t missed any vital information; instead they know that there’s a mystery behind it they can solve along with the characters, and that’s exciting. Eventually Episode Nine flashes back to solve this mystery, and it’s a stand-out episode that fills in so many blanks in the story, making Wirt and Greg’s relationship and character growth much more clear, and finding humor or pathos in minor moments from earlier episodes by revealing new information about them.
What this flashback episode also makes clear, though, is that Over the Garden Wall made the right choice by saving the chronological beginning of its story until the end. The series needed to open with Wirt and Greg already in the Unknown, since it was going to be the main setting of the series. A first episode set in the real world would be a diversion, full of information viewers didn’t need yet, information that wouldn’t prepare them for what they’re about to see. Instead, the actual first episode establishes the setting and tone of the series, not to mention some very important lore by introducing the Woodsman and the Beast right off the bat.
Again, this is all just incredibly smart storytelling, but it’s subtle too. It’s not necessarily what you notice right off the bat, especially when Over the Garden Wall has so many great things going for it already. It’s a nearly perfect series that you should definitely check out if you haven’t already (It’s currently on Hulu, as well as on DVD/Blu-Ray), but as much as I want other series to learn from its tone, its aesthetic, and its characterization, I really want them to learn from its structure. Sure, Over the Garden Wall has the advantage of being a mini-series, but most series are plotted just one season at a time anyway; there’s quite a few writing rooms that could learn a thing or two from the way Garden Wall broke down its season. I’ve always been frustrated when I’ve encountered series that spins their wheels and pads for time, that doesn’t give their episodes any individual identity or put much thought into how their season is paced out, but now I’ll be doubly frustrated, knowing that I could just be rewatching Over the Garden Wall instead.
CHECK OUT
I’ve been enjoying Jeremy Hunter/Skatune Network’s music for quite a while now, but their newest cover is one that hits home for me: their take on “Change Your Mind,” the song that closes out the final episode of Steven Universe.
I wrote about what this song means to me in one of my earliest newsletters (the first one that I’m really, really proud of, if I’m being honest), and hearing it tackled so well, and even expanded upon!, has brought me a lot of joy. I hope y’all enjoy it too!
DESTIEL UPDATE
In last week’s newsletter I went into intricate detail about a television show I don’t watch, Supernatural, and the incredibly poorly handled revelation of one character’s love for another that nearly broke myself and the internet due to sheer amazingly-timed schadenfreude. This week I’m both proud and ashamed to report that the internet has thrust an update to the situation upon me.
This scene is wildly unintentionally funny for so many reasons. How shamelessly it plays into the “dead dog” shtick for quick, cheap sympathy. The fact that Dean is LIVID about this dog being “killed,” showing a million times more emotion over it than he did as he watched his best friend who just confessed his love for him be dragged down to Turbo Hell one week prior.
Yet, the funniest part is how quickly this all happens, how Dean’s entire relationship with this dog lasts less than two minutes. When I first stumbled upon this scene on social media the clip began about 1:11 minutes in, right after Dean put the dog in the car. I’d assumed he’d been with the dog the entire episode, because that would actually make some sense! The fact that he met this dog less than a minute before makes this SO MUCH FUNNIER. Dean’s known the dog for less than two minutes and still has so much more sympathy for it than he does his own friend of over a decade being dragged away to Super Mega Hell for loving him! This is so unbelievably wild to me! I will never be over this!
ABOUT
“Do You Know What I Love the Most?” is a newsletter from Spencer Irwin. Spencer is an enthusiast and writer from Newark, Delaware, who likes punk rock, comic books, working out, breakfast, and most of all, stories. His previous work appeared on Retcon Punch, One Week One Band, and Crisis on Infinite Chords, and he can be found on Twitter at @ThatSpenceGuy. If you like this newsletter, please subscribe and share with your friends!