Taking narrative capillarity into account

Contemporary audiovisual narratives are no longer perceived in isolation but as part of a network, creating a narrative capillarity where each piece of content resonates with others through the viewer’s experience and their viewing practices. How can we better understand the mechanisms behind this and harness its potential in screenwriting?

The Connections Between Narratives

Today, whether we’re channel-surfing on traditional TV, switching from one series to another on an SVOD platform, or scrolling through videos on TikTok, we are often confronted with narratives that are adjacent to one another, increasingly intertwined. As a result, these narratives become linked in our minds, often without the authors’ control, as no one knows what will come next or which video will follow another. This is what I call narrative capillarity.

I believe it is important to consider this dimension because it is now a concrete part of the viewer’s experience. One could lament this practice and argue that the ideal visual experience is watching a film in a cinema, but we can also, without judging the technologies or their uses, take into account how narratives are received by viewers in today’s media landscape.

The distribution of audiovisual works has always been dependent on technology, and it is entirely normal for technologies to evolve, for viewers’ habits to change, and for the content of these works to transform as part of this ongoing dialectic. From its inception, cinema was a new technology for which specific content was created to suit its modes of distribution. In 1895, the content created for the Lumière brothers’ large-scale cinematograph projections differed from that made for the short films looped in Edison’s Kinetoscopes, viewed individually through a peephole: on one side, cityscapes or natural landscapes reminiscent of paintings, and on the other, boxing matches or stripteases!

Therefore, I see no impurity in considering, at the heart of screenwriting, the context in which an audiovisual work is viewed. We do not have complete control over this context, which makes it challenging to account for, as it is fluid, unpredictable, and volatile. The goal of this article is to shed light on how we, as screenwriters, can navigate this complex space.

For example, we sometimes choose to watch two series simultaneously on the same platform. There may be good reasons for this. In one series, there might be a particularly intense moment of tension that is hard to endure, yet we still want to be entertained. So, we switch to a lighter series to ease the pressure, perhaps returning to the first series later in the evening or another day. When we start the second series, whether from the beginning or midway, we are not mentally absent from the first series we left behind. Connections between the two narratives form in our minds. Sometimes, the same actor appears in both series, and we naturally recognize them. Or there may be similar situations, like a detective investigating a case, or music of the same style.

Series often have a slower pace than films. I believe one of the reasons for this slower rhythm, whether conscious or unconscious, is the consideration of narrative capillarity. The writing pace takes into account that what is viewed discontinuously may be less straightforward in our minds than what is viewed continuously in a cinema.

When a character in a series references another series or the platform it’s streaming on, this is an example of narrative capillarity—a way of acknowledging the place of the work being viewed, the context in which it is watched, and anchoring it more firmly in our reality. This is rarer in films. It’s as if the audiovisual work recognizes us, the viewers, as particular individuals engaging with this specific work through a specific medium: a phone, tablet, computer, TV, or projector—ultimately, a personal device. Thus, each viewer’s narrative capillarity will be entirely different. Some may binge-watch an entire series without interruption, while others may intersperse it with other content.

Accounting for Narrative Capillarity

So, how can we account for such a fluctuating phenomenon, dependent on viewers and their reception contexts? I believe the first step is simply to acknowledge it. This means understanding, while writing the script, that this story, when received, will likely not be the only story in the viewer’s mind. Taking this dimension into account allows us to explore potential echoes and resonances between what the viewer is currently watching and other content they have seen or will see.

I’m not suggesting constant references, as each person’s references differ. But we should consider this additional layer of perception—the relationship between the narrative being viewed and other narratives, whether distantly, through memories of other audiovisual works, or immediately, because we’ve switched from one series to another and almost feel as though a scene from one series continues into another.

Of course, as viewers, we know these are separate narratives, which is why I’ve coined the concept of narrative capillarity. There is a kind of mutual infusion of one narrative into another. It’s not confusion—we know what we’re watching—but rather a deep connection between the two, or three, or four, or even a thousand narratives.

Being aware of this dimension can help us be more attentive to how a film or series is perceived by its viewer. We can account for moments when the viewer might pause and return later, whether by chance or through deliberate design.

This is something we’ve seen for a long time in American series, which are interrupted by commercials at set intervals. When viewed in Europe, where there are fewer ads, we notice the blackouts or narrative pauses and resumptions that correspond to ad breaks, which have been carefully integrated into the narrative structure. This is narrative capillarity, but in this case, it’s about accounting for it to provide a moment of pause in the story before restarting it.

This example represents a traditional way of accounting for narrative capillarity. Today, however, this phenomenon can occur at any point in an audiovisual work. I’m not suggesting we need to be more redundant to accommodate viewers’ potential inattention in our fast-paced, channel-surfing world! I don’t believe people are less attentive today; they simply pay attention differently. And this is what I propose we consider: knowing that our narrative resonates with others. This seems crucial, particularly in terms of pacing, to perhaps amplify this resonance, using surrounding narratives as sounding boards for our own.

The Phenomenon of Resonance

We’re familiar with resonance phenomena in bridges. A suspension bridge, depending on the length and number of its cables, has a specific resonance frequency. If an army marches in step across the bridge at a certain rhythm, the bridge itself can resonate, causing it to vibrate, sway, and even potentially collapse. But if the marching rhythm changes, the bridge won’t resonate and will remain stable. This is extremely precise: it’s about wavelengths tied to frequency—the number of beats per second—which correspond to multiples of the cable lengths supporting the bridge.

How to Give Your Film the Capacity for Resonance

The same principle applies to narratives. If we manage to incorporate a relatively regular rhythm into our story, it will inherently have a greater capacity to resonate with other narratives. If the narration is rhythmically irregular, it will resonate less with other stories. So, if the narration, whether as a whole or in specific sequences, has a steady beat for a certain period, it will be more likely to resonate in the viewer’s mind with other narratives or fragments of narratives that also have a certain regularity. But not all narratives—only those with a frequency that is a multiple of our own story’s rhythm.

This regularity needs to last at least a minute, or one page of a script. But the frequency of what? It could be dialogue or monologue with moments of silence and outbursts at a relatively steady pace. It could be cross-cutting between scenes at a regular rhythm, lasting three minutes or the entire film or episode. It could be a piece of music, which inherently has rhythmic regularity, but will work better if aligned with the rhythm of the narration and visuals. It could be a sequence of colors or movements, like tracking shots. It could be one or several simultaneous or successive elements.

In short, this trick allows us to give our film or series the capacity to resonate with others, taking into account the existence of narrative capillarity.

Examples of Narrative Capillarity on TikTok

The Hook:
A well-known example of narrative capillarity on TikTok, a platform made up entirely of videos, is the hook. This is when the editing immediately presents an element from the middle of the video, then cuts back to the beginning without transition. This gives the sensation of being plunged into the heart of something, then returning to the start. It accounts for the fact that viewers were previously immersed in something entirely different and need to stay immersed to remain engaged with the new video. Thus, almost seamlessly, they transition from one immersion to another, maintaining their engagement.

Addressing the Viewer:
Another example is the direct address to the viewer in the narration or dialogue of these videos (which are fully scripted—here I’m talking about scripts in general, not just feature films, but also TikTok videos). The video explains why the viewer should stay on this particular video rather than moving on to another, providing reasons to remain engaged. This acknowledges that the video exists among many others, is connected to them, and that for a given time, the viewer will choose to focus on this one.

One could argue this is simply about promoting or prioritizing one video over others. Yes, but it’s also a deeper acknowledgment of its relationship to other videos and what sets it apart. It’s not an isolated video but one that exists in relation to others, drawing from and referencing the broader context of videos.

The Technical Loop:
There’s also the technical loop, increasingly skillfully executed, where the end of a video (since TikTok videos loop) seamlessly connects back to the beginning. When done well, both technically and narratively (in the construction of sentences, for example), it’s hard to detect where the loop occurs. This is a form of narrative capillarity within the video itself, but it’s also an attempt to make the video less miscible with others, like oil on water, giving it a sense of autonomy and circularity.

In writing the video, one must consider this self-referential capillarity—what the viewer takes away from the first, second, or third viewing. Is it a dense video, like a choreography with many details, that we want to watch multiple times to catch new elements each time? Or is it a narrative we perceive differently because we know the ending, altering our initial perception? Thus, the writing must account for these two possible positions of the viewer relative to their knowledge of the story.

Trends:
Finally, there are trends on TikTok, where multiple people create choreographies to the same music, responding to one another. This creates a kind of giant palimpsest—layers of successive creations, each in relation to the previous ones, and so on.

Trends involve viewer creativity, and this dimension of potential audiovisual creativity by viewers must also be considered by the screenwriter, who can design content intended to be adapted, remixed, and recreated by others. This, too, is part of the screenwriter’s role today—to think this far ahead.

Here, narrative capillarity is intrinsic, as content inspires other content, gradually expanding the network that connects all these audiovisual works.