The Best Plots are Left Half Told

There are films, there are bad films, then there are films that are so bad they could be considered good, and then there’s 1977’s The Car. Directed by Elliot Silverstein and written by Michael Butler, Dennis Shryack and Lane Slate; the film is far more than another cheesy horror flick. I first came across it on a late evening when a group of friends couldn’t agree on what to watch, so I championed The Car, hoping that it would provide comedy from its attempt at horror. While some foibles of set design and production were period correct (that is to say, terrible), every other aspect of the movie revealed a great truth to me. It could be boiled down to a low budget or bad writing, but whatever the cause, the resulting canon leaves questions in the viewers mind for days afterwards is far more valuable than realistic explosions and CGI. The Car does something which I have noticed in other works of fiction, but only came to appreciate through its simple story telling. It leaves questions which seem vital to the plot unanswered, only providing hints and allowing the consumer to make their own personal version of the story, which is unique to them and therefore: invaluable. Worlds like Middle Earth are equally valuable, but more for getting lost in than connecting with personally. J.R.R. Tolkien built a world mostly to tell a story in (with the exception of the character Tom Bombadil, who is another fine example of perfection in half-told stories), while others create stories and let the world fall in around them, or even leave that space open for interpretation. These kinds of stories are the ones I have found myself enjoying the most, and the ones which stick with me the longest. Given enough time, I could think of countless examples of when splits are better for being left partially untold, but for now I’d like to compare Silverstein’s The Car and a certain villain from William Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Othello.

The titular character of The Car is described in the subtitle as “what evil drives,” and it is exactly that, a low, black car with a taste for blood. Othello’s antagonist is the infamous Iago, opposite of the car in some ways but highly similar in others. The car is given no more specific name, and communicates only through demonic sounding engine and exhaust noises (the sound design of which is impressively unnerving). The car kills in the most gruesome ways, and is anything but cunning about it. On the other hand, Iago uses his fine control of the language to manipulate and puppet others to achieve what he wants; he does very little actual killing himself. From the surface, more opposite characters might be hard to describe. However, one of the most important pieces of a villain is identical in both. Both motivations are identically missing from their respective stories, so obviously that it can only be assumed that motivation was omitted on purpose. We the consumer are given only minimal guidance as to what possible motivations might be, but we are left to fully flesh out the main antagonist of both stories on our own, making both the car and Iago immortal in the minds of the consumers. In The Car, many characters present their own theories as to who and what the car is, and (without spoiling the film) some imagery is placed in the climax of the film, but never talked about. As the windows are tinted an impossibly dark orange, most of the people of the small Southwest town agree that the car must have a psychopathic driver behind the wheel, and that a supernatural explanation is out of question. One character, as well as us the viewers, are led to believe that the true nature of the car is far beyond what is stated in the movie. As a horror film, this lack of reasoning is necessary to create an effectively spooky mystery, and the side product of an enthralling story comes second. For Iago however, his unwillingness to reveal his ambitions is a fundamental, even dehumanizing, element of his character. Few villains, in story or reality, would refuse the chance to explain themselves once foiled, but this is exactly what Iago does as his final act. The character with lines in most scenes and the master puppeteer simply refuses to speak any further, and he keeps his promise. One could claim that leaving Iago’s motivations unexplained is the result of pure laziness on Shakespeare’s part, but if that were true and the play was authored by someone else, then Othello would only be another story following the now common “Scooby-Doo” style of plot––a mysterious evil who is eventually unmasked and fully explained. However, I believe in Shakespeare’s genius and his conscious decision to leave Iago a mystery, as it allows the consumer to form whatever questions he may over the entirety of the play. Iago, too, gives us some hints in the beginning of the play, saying “I in any just term am affined / to love the Moor.”

Both Iago and the car refuse to outright state their intentions, and to little evidence is left in the works to allow analysts to come to one solid conclusion, but their creators provide us with enough teases and hints to point out the possible paths the story could take or might have taken on its way to the now. The consumer can take any path they choose, and know that theirs is unique and individualized, something that other stories can’t offer with their cookie-cutter characters and plots that tie off every loose end or leave only the most obvious sequel opportunities open. The imagination is possibly humanity's greatest gift, and any opportunity we are given to work it at full strength should be taken, each and every day. So much time is spend consuming and retelling stories, but I see more and more of this precious time being spent on stories that aren’t worth a first thought; stories that exist only make money or for personal gain *ahem Disney’s Star Wars.* There are many things wrong with what we call our society, least of which is our shortening attention spans and shrinking presence of true creativity. Some changes in society are irreversible, we must admit. But as hopeless as it may seem, I am not yet ready to accept that the way my generation seems to consume––and quickly discard––most stories will be the fate of stories for the future. As one person, I cannot make every change I wish to see happen in the world, but I have faith that through my own writing, I can promote stories of quality like Shakespeare’s Othello and Silverstein’s The Car. The simple fact that they are purposefully left partially untold is more than enough to cement them as wholly invaluable in my personal hierarchy of storytelling for one reason. They leave room for the consumer to become the co-author, for the observer to become invested. This investment is what can save the story, and through a long and winding butterfly effect, save us.

Works Cited

Attenberg, Jami. “How Solitude Feeds the Brain.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 12 Nov. 2019, www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2019/10/jami-attenberg-all-this-could-be-yours-dulce-maria-loynaz-absolute-solitude/601117/.

Shakespeare, William. The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice. Literature: a Pocket Anthology, edited by R. S. Gwynn, vol. 4, Pearson, 2009, pp. 877–991.

Silverstein, Elliot, director. The Car. Netflix, 1977.