Prison Break and Narrative Structure

In one of his monthly columns for Entertainment Weekly, Stephen King warns viewers who have yet to see Fox’s drama Prison Break, “If you picked up the first three seasons on DVD and watched them all at once, your frakkin’ head would explode.” In other words, King clarifies, since the most devoted fans of Prison Break have only “the dimmest idea of what’s going on,” the newbies are in for a rude awakening.

While I appreciate King’s column as well as most of his monthly contributions to EW, I can’t say that I agree with Uncle Stevie’s assessment that even the most hardcore fans will likely struggle to grasp what’s going on in Prison Break, Season 1 in particular. Not this show. Not with a narrative this tightly constructed.

This weekend I watched the first season of Prison Break–all 22 episodes, all six DVDs, in three days. After such a journey, I feel compelled to report two things:

• first, “my frakkin’ head” is still intact;

• and second, I have virtually no doubts about anything regarding the show’s narrative or characterization.

That is, I have a very firm “idea of what’s going on,” to use King’s words. (Now, if we were discussing LOST, I’d be singing a different tune since that crazy show dodges narrative coherency as much as the directors of the French New Wave. No offense, Truffaut…)

Honestly, the first season of Prison Break reminds me a bit of Casablanca–not in terms of plot, character, or mise-en-scene but its tight narrative structure. Nothing is omitted and nothing is left open. Whether the viewer initially recognizes it or not, everything, every character, every action fulfills its purpose. The warden’s Taj Mahal, Scofield’s “Type-1 diabetes,” T-Bag’s math skills, Westmoreland’s gold pocket watch, Abruzzi’s obsession with Fibonnacci, the 8-inch-long screw from the bleachers, C-Note’s $500 poker winnings, the effeminate inmate’s panties, Scofield’s “wife” and her “credit card,” Terrence Stedman’s fake teeth, Haywire’s crazy presence: at the time they are introduced, some of these things might seem relatively meaningless, potential MacGuffin’s to lead on the audience as the action unfolds. But this never seems to be the case. The writers of Season 1 have carefully constructed their stories so that very little is frivolous.

Prison Break‘s editing echoes this notion, perhaps teasing the viewer at first but always offering resolution. We see this in the drama’s use of crosscutting in particular: is Scofield asleep on his bunk during bed-check or still crawling through the escape route? Is Abruzzi hallucinating images of Christ, or is it just a rusty cell wall? Will Bellick discover Scofield secure in the warden’s chamber working on the Taj Mahal or in the guard’s breakroom digging up the floor? Will the mob locate Fibonnaci in Canada or will he remain safe at home with his family (in Topeka, Kansas)? The parallel editing eventually answers these questions for us but not before taking us on a titillating roller-coaster ride.

In closing, I understand that I might be speaking out of ignorance here since at this point I have only watched the first season of Prison Break. As a result, I very well may have to renege on my claim. But for now, regarding Season 1 at least, I’ll stand by my assertion that the show–over multiple episodes–features one of the most compact narratives on television.

Devouring Season 2 next weekend…

Related posts: