On Canon

People are noting that in the television show Star City, which is a spinoff of For All Mankind, some details are different between the two. They have re-shot a moon scene with a new actor, for example, that was a significant reveal in the first series, but not in the spinoff. So the moment plays a little differently.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten significantly less patient with and accepting of the idea that storytelling media are like historical records. I mean, I’ve embraced the idea that each person (or writer, or director, or actor) who tells a story makes it their own in some way. The important thing in the telling is that the story is meaningful. The important thing in the listening is that you have found some way to connect to it. And that’s why I don’t expect media to deliver stories as if they’re evidence of real events. Like videotaped security footage.

If I tell you I’m not a child at bedtime ready to throw a tantrum if Mom or Dad read the book in a slightly different way, that probably communicates my slightly unfair characterization of people who are too concerned with “canon.”

As has long been the case throughout human history, we have stories that proliferate into a connected universe of related tales. “Canon” does not refer to the larger body of work comprised of all the tales connected to some work of fiction. Rather, it refers to some kind of officially accepted subset of the work. As in “you can tell whatever stories you like, but this… this is what really happened.” As such, it creates a hierarchy. The larger context of all that has been written in a connected universe contributes to the culture of the work, but only some of it can be used to settle arguments.

The original television show Star Trek is where many fans my age first encountered the idea of an anointed set of events in a shared universe. I’m aware that, for writers of television shows, it’s helpful to have some sort of document that keeps track of the fictional universe. A “show Bible” is a term I’ve heard. After Star Trek went off the air in the late ’60s, people filled the void with everything from questionably official cartoons, to toys, to fan fiction. Fans became aware that some things were just for fun. Others might be more serious, somehow. Or, at least, taken more seriously by the creators and anyone who later inherited the responsibility.

But if you’re not a writer, why do you care what’s canon and what isn’t? Well, yes. A dedicated fan generally doesn’t become a fan by not giving a crap about the fictional universe they’ve become attached to. Fan is, after all, short for “fanatic.” Many of us would prefer to be thought of as simply “enthusiasts.” We are naturally enthusiastic about the things we like.

The origin of the word “canon” stems (no pun intended) from a Latin word for a reed, stick, or rod used to measure or “rule.” “Cane” is a related word. Later on, “canon” was used to refer to the body of rules or writing in a religion. Longtime denizens of Internet forums will not be surprised by a comparison of devotees arguing over religious laws vs. fans arguing over what color Klingon blood is. And they won’t be surprised when canon is invoked in attempts to settle arguments.

Over time, I have come to feel like this function of settling arguments is the most popular use of canon. After all, most of us don’t need a “show Bible.” And while I don’t mind the arguments (although I think discussions can and should be less adversarial), it worries me that this mode of interacting with stories shuts down avenues of enjoyment rather than opens them up. Evidence for this is in the popular term “head canon”: a clear attempt to take back enjoyment of media through personal liberty. One’s head canon is the set of things one personally believes is valid in a shared fictional universe. Even if some of that canon was fabricated in your own head. Some people don’t want to argue; they just want their connection to their stories.

So, how do I look at a television program that unfolds in a way that is different in two separate tellings of the same event?

There are (mild, I think) spoilers in this paragraph for the television show For All Mankind. In the original show, a cosmonaut in a transmission from the moon lifts her visor to reveal she is the first woman on the moon, shocking Americans who are looking on. In Star City, we already know this cosmonaut is a woman because we have had some time to get to know her. But there is also no dramatic reveal on the moon with her visor down until the last moment.

Fans deal with this in various ways. They can criticize the writers for being sloppy, or for not respecting canon. They can wail in confusion as both shows are presumably canonical. They can construct their own head canon: “I assume that the live shots we saw were not broadcast worldwide, and that several takes were recorded by the Soviets, with only one being the one we see on the earlier show.” There are many other ways to go. They could consider the second show an unreliable narrator. They could consider the first show an unreliable narrator. Or they could chill.

Fans are gonna fan. I think discussions about the media you love are another way to enjoy the media you love. But I believe people can enjoy things even better if they recognize that not everyone is approaching the media they enjoy with the same set of assumptions. And in learning about different sets of assumptions, it’s possible that they learn there is a different way to experience their favorite media that is more personal and less contentious. It may even be more meaningful.

It might be disconcerting to some to let the idea of canon slip away. Doing so alters a fundamental aspect of how they think about their favorite media. It’s valid to point out that significant changes to canon events cause a conflict in how we are to understand a story. Retroactively changing the fictional universe’s history can be jarring. And it’s hard to argue “perhaps we just misunderstood… or something was being hidden from us” in the story, as we might when something is revealed at the end of a mystery novel. People can say “BUT WE SAW what happened.”

Imagine that the color of Klingon blood is a crucial plot point in an episode of Star Trek. The whole story pivots on it. Decades later, someone makes a new video game and Klingon blood is a different color. I agree that would be jarring. It’s probably best to keep canon in mind if you’re a creator, and make sure you don’t violate it carelessly. On the other hand, what if you made the change for visual impact in a way that propels your story forward? When I think of this, I think that I don’t want creators’ hands tied. I do think that it’s possible to break the story so badly that it is no longer connected to Star Trek. But I would give creators wide latitude. And I do this by thinking: whatever was significant in the moment was important for the story. It was translated into a visual metaphor so that I could see it. So that I could understand and enjoy the story. If the color of Klingon blood isn’t canon, that feels like open season on a lot of canon. Not treating canon indiscriminately; treating events and appearances meaningfully to what the goals of the story are.

If this perspective allows someone to enjoy the story more frequently, more deeply, or just differently, I think that’s a good thing.