---

Stories shape us, and sometimes, they shake us. If you’ve been anywhere near a news source lately, you’ll know the world is awash in announcements: policy U-turns, surprise firings, reboots, and “game-changing” updates. But if you’re feeling more exhausted than enlightened, you’re not alone. It’s a kind of narrative fatigue, where the noise of unearned decisions drowns out the power of real, authentic change.

When Stories Try Too Hard

Let’s start with a recent TV example that left fans reeling: the death of Peter Krause’s Bobby Nash on 9-1-1. After eight seasons as the show’s anchor, Bobby’s abrupt demise (trapped in a lab with a deadly virus) was intended to be a big, emotional moment. The network called it “a great night of television” for sparking conversation and ratings. But for many viewers, it felt less like a bold creative risk and more like a headline-grabbing stunt. The backlash was immediate and fierce, with fans protesting, ratings dipping, and a lingering sense of betrayal. The decision was big, but was it truly earned?

This isn’t new. Remember Arwen in the first Lord of the Rings movie? She was introduced as a warrior princess, riding into danger and saving Frodo. But in the subsequent films, she reverted to a more passive, background character. The shift felt jarring, as if the story couldn’t decide what it wanted Arwen to be. The initial attempt to make her an action hero seemed designed to tick a box, while the later retreat left her character feeling inconsistent and unsatisfying.

Or take the infamous Game of Thrones finale, where years of careful plotting gave way to a rush of shock twists and abrupt endings. The backlash was overwhelming, rooted in a sense that character arcs and stakes had been sacrificed for spectacle.

The Flip Side: When Change Feels Right

Not all big decisions are doomed. Sometimes, a radical shift is exactly what a story needs, if it’s done with care and conviction. The 2004 reboot of Battlestar Galactica made the bold choice to reimagine Starbuck, originally a swaggering male pilot, as a woman. The result was transformative. Katee Sackhoff’s Starbuck became a fan favorite, precisely because the character’s essence – flawed, brilliant, rebellious – remained intact. The change felt like a true evolution, not just noise.

Or think of Friends: Monica and Chandler’s romance was never part of the original plan. But when it happened, it felt so right that both the audience and the writers embraced it, letting the story breathe and grow naturally. The decision was surprising, but it was earned, rooted in years of character development and chemistry.

Hamlet and the Perils of Noise

So what’s the lesson? Hamlet, Shakespeare’s great procrastinator, is often held up as a warning against indecision. “Any decision is better than none,” we’re told. But in our current climate, where every day brings a new “decisive” announcement, and every story tries to outdo the last with twists, maybe the real danger isn’t inaction, but inauthentic action. When decisions are made for headlines, not for heart, they lose their meaning.

The audience should know the difference. They react passionately to the loss of a character like Peter Krause’s Bobby Nash, but when it comes to the endless stream of breaking news, the noise becomes so constant that it’s hard to tell what matters and what doesn’t.

The Balance: Earned, Not Just Announced

In storytelling, as in politics and life, the best decisions aren’t the loudest or the most shocking. They’re the ones that feel true: earned by what came before, and meaningful for what comes after. When storytellers confuse noise for substance, they risk losing the very people they’re trying to reach.

So next time you’re tempted to kill off a beloved character, announce a new policy, or shake up the status quo, ask yourself: is this moment earned? Or is it just another headline in the endless scroll?

Because in the end, the stories that matter are the ones that respect their audience – and themselves – enough to make every decision count.

What if the scruffy outsider, dismissed by the elite, was the only one who could see through their lies? In an era where the divide between rich and poor is wider than ever, television’s favourite detectives are once again reminding us that class matters – and that sometimes, the underdog is the sharpest mind in the room.

When Columbo first shuffled onto television screens in the 1970s, he was more than a rumpled detective with a knack for solving impossible cases. As Lilian Mathieu observes in his analysis of the character, Columbo’s enduring appeal lies in his outsider status: a working-class figure regularly outsmarting the wealthy and powerful in their own homes. This was not just clever storytelling – it was a mirror held up to a society increasingly anxious about class divides. The 1970s marked a turning point in Western societies. Economic upheaval, the aftermath of the Vietnam War, and growing scepticism towards authority shaped a decade of cultural change. Income inequality, which had remained relatively flat since the post-war years, began to rise sharply from 1979 onwards. The gap between rich and poor widened dramatically throughout the 1980s, and Columbo’s blue-collar tenacity against elite arrogance perfectly reflected these real-world tensions.

By the 1990s and 2000s, the tone of detective stories had changed. Economic optimism, expanding higher education, and the rise of the aspirational middle class created a sense that social mobility was within reach. Television detectives of this era – think Monk, The Mentalist, or Numb3rs – were defined more by quirky personal traits than by class difference. The focus shifted away from class struggle, reflecting a time when upward mobility and individualism seemed possible for many.

Now, the pendulum is swinging back. The cost of living crisis, stagnant wages, and renewed anger at global elites have reignited class consciousness. This shift is unmistakable in the new wave of cosy crime dramas. Poker Face is a prime example – a modern-day Columbo in both structure and spirit. Natasha Lyonne’s Charlie Cale travels from town to town, uncovering murder and deception among the privileged. Like Columbo, Charlie is underestimated because of her background and appearance. Her outsider’s perspective is her greatest asset, allowing her to see what others miss and outwit the rich and powerful. Similarly, High Potential and its French original, HPI, put working-class women at the heart of their mysteries. Morgane in HPI and Morgan in High Potential are cleaners and single mothers. Their resourcefulness and resilience, shaped by their lives on the margins, allow them to outthink both criminals and authorities. Their class difference is not just a background detail – it is central to their detective work.

The resurgence of class-focused storytelling in cosy crime dramas is no accident. As inequality and social immobility once again dominate the headlines, audiences find comfort – and perhaps hope – in stories where outsiders see what insiders cannot. These detectives are not simply quirky; their backgrounds give them a unique lens on the world, one that allows them to challenge, and sometimes overturn, the established order. From Columbo to Poker Face and High Potential, the greatest trick of these working-class detectives may be to make us believe, even if only for a moment, that in a world where money seems to buy everything, someone like them can ensure the entitled elites do not get away with murder.

As I chuckled my way through the very funny animated series of Asterix And Obelix – The Big Fight on Netflix, I couldn’t help but wonder why a global streamer like Netflix would invest so much money on something that, to me, was completely untranslatable French humour.

I guess I would have to watch the dubbed English version to find out – or perhaps the IP is strong enough to stand on its own without the jokes. But it made me think about what’s funny where, and why.

Some types of humour just click no matter where you’re from. Take La Grande Vadrouille, for example-a French film about British and French characters bumbling their way through Nazi-occupied Paris. It’s been a huge hit not just in France but internationally, thanks to its clever physical comedy and universal themes of misunderstandings and unlikely friendships. Over in the UK, Mr. Bean is another perfect example. Rowan Atkinson’s mostly wordless slapstick is easy to get and funny for everyone, no matter what language you speak. And then there’s Airplane!, the American spoof whose wild, absurd humour has earned it a cult following all over the world. These shows and films prove that when comedy taps into physical gags and shared human moments, it can break down any language barrier.

French, Anglo-Saxon, and American Humour: A World Apart

But some laughs are more culturally specific. In France, humour often hinges on delivery and absurdity. Shows like La Flamme and films like Les Nouvelles Aventures d’Aladin thrive on parody, wordplay, and theatricality. Take the deadpan monologue of the scribe in Astérix et Obélix: Mission Cléopâtre: it’s not just what’s said, but how it’s said, packed with cultural references and subtle irony.

Across the Channel, British humour leans into self-deprecation, history, and wit. Horrible Histories brilliantly transforms the gory and bizarre moments of British history into sketches that educate and entertain. Similarly, Upstart Crow revels in wordplay and the frustrations of genius, all delivered with a whingey, distinctly English charm. Upstart Crow is a favourite show of mine and I have tried to convert French friends, with no success at all. The jokes, the tone, the references, are all too specific.

British humour, like French humour, can also be very dark – and sometimes downright offensive, something that can be a big barrier. As a movie like Four Lions demonstrates, there is very little that the Brits won’t laugh at, including suicide bombers. In France, films like Delicatessen or the cult Le Père Noël est une Ordure go very far in what you can laugh at.

American humour, as seen in iconic family-friendly sitcoms like Friends, Seinfeld, and Cheers, is distinguished by its reliance on sharp one-liners, observational comedy rooted in everyday life, and carefully structured comedic timing. The jokes are direct, accessible, and often designed for mass appeal, emphasising entertainment and relatability over provocation.

Overall, American sitcom humour is highly formatted, prioritising feel-good narratives and character-driven gags, and typically avoids the kind of provocative or subversive material more common in European comedy. 

Beyond the Anglo-Saxon World: South America, Africa, and Japan

Humour in South America is vibrant and diverse, rooted in social satire, physical comedy, and everyday absurdities. Brazilian comedies mix slapstick with sharp social commentary, while Argentinian humour often plays with irony and national quirks.

Africa’s comedic tradition is equally rich. From the oral storytelling of West African griots to the stand-up scenes of Lagos and Johannesburg, African humour blends satire, parody, and social critique. Comedians like Trevor Noah adapt their material to different audiences, illustrating how humour shifts across cultural contexts. In many African countries, comedy serves as a tool for resilience and resistance, critiquing authority and processing social change.

Japanese humour offers yet another fascinating dimension. Shows like Gaki No Tsukai are famous for their physical, slapstick comedy-elaborate punishment games and over-the-top reactions that transcend language barriers. Manzai, the classic Japanese double act, relies on timing, rhythm, and physical cues as much as words. This style is instantly accessible, much like Mr. Bean, which has made generations laugh without a single punchline needing translation.

What Happens in the Brain When We Laugh?

Recent neuroscience research reveals that different types of humour actually light up different areas of the brain. For example, visual humour (like sight gags) activates high-level visual areas, while language-based jokes engage classic language regions. Despite these differences, both types of humour activate a shared network, including the amygdala and midbrain, responsible for the euphoric, rewarding feeling we get from a good laugh.

Humour is more than just a cognitive puzzle; it’s also deeply emotional. Brain imaging studies show that appreciating humour-whether it’s a sarcastic line, a punchline, or a physical gag-lights up areas associated with both advanced thinking and emotional reward, such as the ventromedial prefrontal cortex and bilateral amygdala. This helps explain why humour feels so good and why it’s so valued in social life..

The Pleasure of Discovering New Humour

Discovering a new style of humour is like unlocking a fresh way to see – and laugh at – the world. There’s a thrill in watching La Flamme or Aladin and appreciating French parody and absurdity, or in enjoying the relentless wordplay of Horrible Histories in the UK. Then there’s the razor-sharp observational humour of Seinfeld or the surreal rapid-fire gags of Airplane! in America. Each style offers a unique flavour, rewarding once you crack the cultural code.

Social media has supercharged this cross-cultural exchange. Platforms like TikTok and Instagram Reels serve up bite-sized sketches and memes from around the globe, making it easier than ever to discover a Brazilian parody, a South African skit, or a British meme that suddenly goes viral worldwide. The algorithm doesn’t care about borders-it cares about what makes us laugh. This instant, global sharing exposes us to new comedic rhythms, references, and even physical comedy traditions that don’t rely on language.

There’s something deeply satisfying about the moment you “get” a joke from another culture. It’s a small victory-a sign you’ve tuned into a different wavelength. And in a world where TikTok can turn a Japanese prank or a South African sketch into a global phenomenon overnight, the boundaries of what’s “funny” are wider-and more exciting-than ever.

So, “funny how?” Maybe the real answer is: funny everywhere, if you’re willing to look.

Why do so many films get women so wrong? 

Despite decades of progress, female characters are still too often portrayed as isolated islands: strong, perhaps, but strangely alone. The enduring debate over the Bechdel Test proves just how much this matters. It is not a perfect metric, but it shines a light on a fundamental truth that escapes many male filmmakers: women live in networks, not vacuums.

The Bechdel Test endures because it exposes a persistent cinematic blind spot. Its requirements are simple: a film must feature at least two named women who talk to each other about something other than a man. It is a low bar, yet so many films – classics and flops alike – fail to clear it. Why? Because too often, women are written as satellites orbiting a male protagonist, with no inner life or community of their own. Think of almost any biopic about a so-called “great man”. There is always a woman (sometimes two): the nag, the muse, the long-suffering wife, the alluring distraction. These women exist in a vacuum – no friends, no family, no context – serving only to further the hero’s journey. They are not people; they are narrative devices, non-playable characters in the game of the male lead’s self-discovery.

But the problem is not limited to male-centric stories. Even films with strong female leads can fall into this trap. Take The Banshees of Inisherin: Kerry Condon’s character is rational and grounded, but she is alone. Her only company is her brother and his friends. For anyone who has ever been a woman in a small community, this feels false. Where are her female friends? Her confidantes? The absence is glaring, and it breaks the spell. No woman is an island, especially not on an island. Even in Cassavetes’ Gloria, the central woman is defined by her isolation. She is forced into the role of protector for a child, sacrificing her own life for his survival. The story is compelling, but Gloria’s lack of female support makes her struggle lonelier and more perilous. Her isolation is not just a plot point – it is a reflection of a recurring cinematic fantasy.

This is not about lazy writing – Martin McDonagh and John Cassavetes are brilliant storytellers. But they are also straight men projecting their own ideals of strength: stoic isolation, the lone wolf who needs no one. When these men write women, they often apply the same logic – a “strong” woman is one who stands alone. In reality, most women find strength in connection, friendship, and shared experience. The lone woman is not a fantasy of female independence; she is a projection of male ideals.

Contrast this with films such as All We Imagine as Light or There’s Still Tomorrow, both written and directed by women. These stories are woven from the threads of female connection: friendship, rivalry, solidarity, and survival. All We Imagine as Light follows three nurses whose lives and desires intersect in ways that feel real and intimate. There’s Still Tomorrow explores not just mother-daughter bonds, but the complex, sometimes fraught, always vital networks women build to survive in a hostile world. Pedro Almodóvar’s films are masterclasses in female interconnectedness. His women are mothers, friends, rivals, lovers – spanning generations and social classes. They are all strong in their own way, but they are never alone, and their stories are richer for it. And, of course, Steel Magnolias remains a classic example of strength found not in solitude, but in solidarity, through laughter, tears, and everything in between.

The Bechdel Test cannot tell us if a film is “good” or “bad”, or if it is truly feminist. However, it does measure something vital: whether a film acknowledges the social reality of women, or erases it. When women are shown as islands, it is not just lazy writing – it is a denial of how women actually live, and a projection of a male fantasy of strength that simply does not fit. The Bechdel Test is a shortcut, yes. But sometimes, shortcuts reveal the shape of the road we are still travelling. Until women’s networks are as visible and complex on screen as they are in life, we will still need it.

American movies and series have long dominated global screens, shaping our collective sense of what a story should look and feel like. Their approach is comforting: everything is said, every motive is explained, and the lines between good and bad are drawn with a confident hand. In this tradition, the story is a journey with clear signposts and a satisfying destination. But what happens when the journey is less about the road and more about the shadows between the milestones? When ambiguity is not a flaw, but a feature?

American Storytelling: Comfort in Clarity

The American screen tradition, rooted in fairy tales and gallant adventures, offers a kind of narrative security. Here, the protagonist’s arc is unmistakable, the antagonist’s motives are spelled out, and the moral universe is clearly mapped. This literalism – where everything is shown, told, and explained – provides the viewer with the comfort of not having to think too much, and the reassurance of knowing how the story ends. It’s a tradition that values action, resolution, and the catharsis of a story well and truly finished.

This approach can be seen in the way American films and series handle complex themes. Take, for example, the depiction of predatory behavior in episodes of The Morning Show. The harrowing event is shown, discussed, and dissected. The audience is left in no doubt about what happened, who was at fault, and what the consequences are. The story is yelled, not whispered.

European and Asian Storytelling: The Power of the Unsaid

In contrast, European and Asian filmmakers often embrace ambiguity and ellipsis – the art of leaving things unsaid. Their stories are steeped in the traditions of the Enlightenment, with a dash of Dostoevsky’s psychological depth and Chekhov’s unresolved tensions. Here, the narrative may not end as it “should”; sometimes, it doesn’t end at all – the film simply stops, leaving the viewer to fill in the gaps.

Consider recent French films like Anatomy of a Fall, The Night of the 12th, or Saint Omer: traditional crime or trial movies that resolutely refuse to offer a solution. The viewer is left with questions, not answers. Or take Drive My Car (Japan) and Black Dog (China), where major gaps in the story are left unfilled, demanding that the audience bring their own meaning to the experience. The ellipsis is not just a narrative device, but a philosophical stance: what is left unseen or unsaid can be more powerful than what is shown.

When watching the American film Mass and the French All Your Faces, both wonderful films about restorative justice, it is very obvious: one is powerful in the telling, the other in the showing. The American film lets its characters explore their innermost feelings, verbalise their hurt and suffering. The French film, true to its tradition, leaves more for the audience to infer, to feel in the silences and the spaces between words, most visibly in the heart-breaking scene between the siblings.

The Risk of Literalism: Oversimplification and Polarisation

There is value in the American tradition’s insistence on “yelling your story”—making sure every voice is heard and every truth is told. But the risk is that by making everything explicit, we oversimplify complex realities, reducing narratives to binaries and contributing to the polarisation of everything. The world becomes divided into heroes and villains, with little room for ambiguity or nuance.

In our current world, with its ever-increasing complexity, we must become reacquainted with shades of grey. Start with Claude Sautet.

Netflix’s Adolescence has been rightly praised for its unflinching exploration of modern masculinity – its fragility, its contradictions, and its capacity for violence. The series dissects male characters with surgical precision: the well-meaning but emotionally stunted father, the detective grappling with his own son’s vulnerabilities, the prison guard steeped in performative dominance. These men are neither monsters nor saints; they’re products of a culture that warps their instincts and limits their emotional vocabulary.

But while the male characters are allowed to unravel, the women are tasked with stitching.

The Invisible Labour of Holding 

The women of Adolescence exist in the margins of the show’s central tragedy, yet their roles are anything but marginal. Jamie’s mother (played with quiet desperation by Christine Tremarco) becomes the family’s emotional spine, swallowing her grief to navigate legal battles and her husband’s breakdown. The daughter, already shouldering the weight of her brother’s crime, oscillates between teenage rebellion and surrogate parenthood. At school, the teacher Mrs. Fenumore patches together institutional neglect and students’ trauma, while the psychologist Briony Ariston (Erin Doherty) confronts Jamie’s chilling detachment, even as male colleagues dismiss her expertise.

Even DS Misha Frank (Faye Marsay), the female detective, operates in the shadow of her male counterpart. When she corrects Bascombe’s blind spots, noting for instance how Katie’s humanity is reduced to a “case file”, her insights are treated as footnotes. The series mirrors reality: women are expected to see the fractures in systems built by and for men, yet rarely given authority to repair them.

The Cost of Compression 

There’s a lovely, lovely moment in the fourth episode when Jamie’s mother pauses to hang up her coat. Her face crumples for a heartbeat, then smoothes. The tears are quickly brought under control. By the time she climbs the stairs to comfort her husband, she’s composed. I loved that moment, for what it recognises: women aren’t permitted the luxury of prolonged collapse. The same happens at the end of the third episode, when Bryony’s minute, split-second collapse is swiftly swallowed back in, before she has to confront the prison guard.

Only poor Jade, Katie’s best friend, is granted a raw, unfiltered outburst – slamming a boy in the school yard in rage – but even this rupture is folded back into the narrative. Her grief isn’t allowed to disrupt; it’s a detour, not a destination. By the end of the episode, she walks away, standing tall. Like Bryony, like Jamie’s mum and sister, she is allowed a momentary weakness – and then pulls it all back inside.

Why This Matters 

Adolescence isn’t flawed for centering male experiences. Its power lies in exposing how patriarchal systems harm everyone – including the boys it ostensibly privileges. But by rendering its female characters as stabilising forces, the series inadvertently reinforces the very dynamic it critiques: the expectation that women absorb chaos so men can confront (or avoid) their demons.

You might argue that the point is precisely that reversal of trope – the emotional women, the stoic men. But most women will know that that trope was always mostly a male fantasy (just ask Jane Austen or the Brontë sisters), whereas what we witness here is the reality that women have experienced since… ever. Can’t fall apart. The centre must hold.

This isn’t a criticism of a wonderful show that gets so much right. It’s a recognition that even stories about broken masculinity rely on women’s unseen, hidden emotional labour. When we praise Adolescence’s nuance, we must also ask: Who holds the holders?

Adolescence is a masterpiece in dissecting male fragility. But its women remind us that some burdens remain unspoken, and some silences are deafening.

Do you remember when YouTube was just a place to share your holiday videos? I do. In fact, I remember it vividly. It was 2005, and the idea of uploading video content for the world to see felt revolutionary. Back then, YouTube was the scrappy newcomer, a platform that seemed almost quaint compared to the polished world of television. But oh, how quickly things changed.

As I reflect on YouTube’s journey, I’m struck by how it evolved from being a quirky online video-sharing site into a genuine disruptor—and eventually, the dominant force in global media. It wasn’t long before YouTube became much more than a repository for amateur clips; it became the place where creators could tell stories, build communities, and challenge traditional entertainment models. It was raw and unfiltered—everything TV wasn’t—and people loved it for that.

I remember watching this transformation unfold with a mix of awe and curiosity. At first, traditional broadcasters dismissed YouTube as a fad. “People will always prefer professionally produced content,” they said. But YouTube proved them wrong. It didn’t just compete with TV; it redefined what “content” could be. Suddenly, anyone with a camera and an idea could become a creator. And many did—some of them amassing audiences that rivaled those of major networks.

What fascinates me most is how YouTube democratised storytelling. It gave people a voice and an audience they might never have had otherwise. From beauty vloggers to gamers to educators, YouTube became a platform where niche interests could thrive and where authenticity mattered more than polish. For the first time, viewers weren’t passive consumers—they were active participants in shaping what they wanted to watch.

Fast forward to today, and YouTube is no longer the underdog; it’s the heavyweight champion of streaming minutes worldwide. It’s hard to imagine now, but there was a time when this outcome seemed anything but inevitable. What started as a quirky experiment turned into one of the most powerful media platforms on Earth.

As I look back on this journey, I can’t help but feel nostalgic for those early days—the days when uploading a shaky video of your cat felt like an act of rebellion against polished TV shows. But I also feel immense respect for how far YouTube has come and how it continues to evolve. It’s not perfect—no platform is—but its impact on storytelling and media is undeniable.

So here’s to YouTube: the disruptor that changed everything—and reminded us all that sometimes, the best stories come from unexpected places.

---

Reflecting on my panel in November 2023 at the Reykjavik Global Forum, I’m struck once again by how storytelling isn’t just an art – it’s a catalyst for social change. Alongside fellow panelists Caty Burgess, Maria Sjödin and Katja Iverson, I explored how narratives can dismantle barriers and reshape norms. Here’s what I took away from our conversation.

Storytelling as a Tool for Equity

Our discussion, moderated by the wonderful Elise Hufano, emphasised storytelling’s unique ability to operate on three levels – a theme I have explored before here:

1. Awareness: Stories introduce new realities without confrontation. Think of groundbreaking TV shows like Who’s the Boss?, which subtly normalised women in leadership roles long before it was common.
2. Empathy: By humanizing the “other,” stories bridge divides. Tom Hanks’ portrayal of a lawyer with AIDS in Philadelphia shifted public perception of the crisis, proving that emotional connection drives understanding.
3. Norm-Shaping: Media doesn’t just reflect society – it transforms it. When 24 depicted a Black president years before Barack Obama’s election, it primed audiences to accept new possibilities.

Collaborative Insights from Fellow Panelists

While my focus centered on narrative’s role in gender equity, our session wove in perspectives from leaders across sectors. Together, we underscored that inclusive narratives require diverse voices—not just in front of the camera but in writers’ rooms, boardrooms, and policy discussions.

From Conversation to Action

The Reykjavik Forum’s theme, Power, Together, resonated deeply here. Progress demands collective effort. As Iceland’s President Guðni Th. Jóhannesson noted during the forum, societal shifts – like the 1975 women’s strike – begin with stories that galvanize action. Our panel echoed this: policies matter, but cultural change starts with relatable, human-centered narratives.

A Call to Amplify Unheard Voices

Leaving Reykjavik, I was reminded that every story is a seed. Whether through media, policy, or grassroots movements, we must prioritise underrepresented perspectives. As the Reykjavik Index for Leadership reveals, global perceptions of women in power remain stagnant. Changing this requires stories that don’t just inform but transform—ones that make equality feel not just possible, but inevitable.

To the organisers, fellow panelists, and attendees: thank you for proving that when we share our truths, we rewrite the future. Let’s keep the dialogue alive.

---

For more on the Reykjavik Global Forum’s impact, explore their insights on gender equity and leadership here

---

There is a lot of writing being done about how the box office and TV ratings are dominated by reboots and remakes, rather than anything new and innovative. Beyond the obvious economic benefits of a reboot/ remake/ sequel (invested fan base, easier marketing etc), I suspect there is a very important reason why people are drawn to them right now, as they are to murder mysteries (hello, Richard Osman) or Bridgerton: we know how it ends.

Uncertainty is something that we as human beings don’t do well at all with. Not knowing what will happen tends to trigger our cave (wo)man reflexes: flight, flee or freeze. It also raises our anxiety levels. These can be desirable outcomes, which is why haunted houses and scary movies do so well, but right now, with so much uncertainty around us, that’s not what anyone wants.

And so we retreat. A Marvel movie, a rural crime novel, a Taylor version song, feel comfortable and unlikely to surprise us in a stressful and unwelcome way. They are the sweatpants equivalent of our story consumptions.

This is reflected in the BAFTA long list of nominated films for 2022. Last year saw more diversity than ever before. This year? Remakes, sequels and biopics dominate.

We need our stories to stay in our comfort zone. And there is nothing wrong with that, per se. Goodness knows we have deserved a bit of comfort zone.

My question to you is this: while you may be retreating to safe havens in your story consumption patterns, is this influencing how you lead the rest of your life?? Are you prioritising situations, people, topics that make you feel better? As we crave for certainty, there is a risk that we evolve towards confirmation bias – this very human tendency to just seek out information or opinions that reinforce our existing beliefs.

By staying firmly within the safe haven of well known story patterns, of established situations, we fail to develop and grow. After all, it is through stories that we can best apprehend feelings and situations that are alien to us. And the empathy muscle can be trained – and untrained. If we don’t stretch our capacity to relate to stories that are different, or tragic, or unexpected, it will become harder for us to relate to different ways of thinking, different communication types, different management styles.

I rewatched In the Heat of the Night recently, following the death of Sidney Poitier. Here is a 1967 movie talking about race, racism, abortion, and not in a roundabout way. A film created to challenge expectations (as in the scene where Virgil Tibbs slaps back a white man) and make people face what was really happening, as uncomfortable as it might be. These stories still exist, of course; films, TV series, books come out that look to shift the status quo and challenge our way of thinking. And it is only by leaning in towards stories that don’t mirror our experience that we get to expand our perspective.

Are you stretching your story muscles? When was the last time you chose to watch or read something unexpected, different, unsafe?

I’m also just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.

(Anna Scott, Notting Hill)

We all know this quote from the movie Notting Hill. It resonates so much because it perfectly encapsulates the immense vulnerability that comes from asking. Asking for help, asking for a raise, a promotion, a new job, asking people to buy your book or to come to your talk… Any time I am in a position when I have to ask for something I feel this intensely.

Asking someone for something puts you in a position where you may be rejected. For most people, that’s a very scary prospect. And for this reason, most of us are really bad at asking.

Movies and TV shows are full of people coming in with crazy demands and somehow getting what they want, like in this really great scene from the movie True Grit. That’s what makes heroes, heroes after all. Or they may get all muddled up (more on this later) and make a mess of their ask, only to gain confidence later in the story. But the Notting Hill quote is exceptional for showing you a main character going all out, asking exactly right, and still getting rejected – basically enacting everyone’s worst nightmare.

I was reminded of this when watching Michael Bungay Stanier’s short YouTube video about asking for help, which I highly recommend. In it, he identifies four steps to asking for help, which I think actually work for all asks, and also match the Notting Hill quote perfectly. I want to go through his four proposed steps today and think a bit more about how to make them work for your story, and whatever it is you are asking for.

• Step 1: Don’t negotiate against yourself!
• Step 2: Make a clear demand
• Step 3: Once you’ve made the ask, shut up
• Step 4: Accept the result, whatever it is

I really love these four steps, and have already started applying them. They help reframe the scary thought of having to face rejection, and focus on what you have control over – the ask, rather than the result.

Let’s look at them individually in terms of story:

Step 1: this is before you actually talk to anyone. This is the moment where you brain is saying: “They will say no! This number is too high. They’ve probably already decided against me. I should just lower my ask. Just ask a little bit less.” Be careful! This is your brain anticipating rejection and trying to avoid it. These aren’t helpful internal thoughts. The real question is: what do you want? That’s what you should ask for. Nothing less.

Look at Anna Scott. She doesn’t go in thinking – I’ll just ask for a coffee and see how we get on. She wants love. And so she asks for love, nothing less. Contrast this with Hugh Grant’s character at the press conference later – who just asks if Anna might stay in England more. Of course, this is a movie, and so she gets the message… but not everyone will!

Step 2 is also super important. Make a clear ask, unambiguous ask! Don’t be Hugh Grant, or Peter Parker asking MJ on a date…. Of course it’s lovely and endearing but in real life there is a pretty good chance the person you are talking to is not going to figure out by magic what you want (or say yes!).

So – state your ask clearly, and avoid any miscommunication.

And on to step 3: You have asked, now stop talking. Let the question sit there. You have done what you can, hopefully stated your arguments clearly – now is the time to shut up. The risk here if you keep going is to end up detracting your ask, or confusing your argument, or like Jack Donaghy here – conduct a whole entire negotiation against yourself…

You have done what you could. And that’s where step 4 comes in: remember you can’t control the answer, only the question. And so, like Anna Scott, you must be prepared to withdraw, dignity intact, if the answer is no. Remember, as personal as it may feel, no is not a rejection. In most cases and despite what movies will make you believe, it’s also not the start of a negotiation. No is simply a no, and if you ask something you must accept the possibility of it, and be at peace with it.

This is why, by the way, I strongly advise against ultimatums of any kind, unless they aren’t an ultimatum but a statement of fact. Ultimatums don’t give a lot of space for dignified retreats. Unless you are absolutely sure of yourself, you must always give yourself the space to walk away, head held high, with pride for having at least tried.

So there you are. Next time you have to ask someone something, remember: it may not go the way you want, but that’s fine as long as you gave it your best shot.  Like Anna Scott, you can feel better knowing you tried. You didn’t win the raffle, but you bought a ticket.

And who knows – it may work!