As narrative elements, villains and pillow talk scenes don’t intersect a ton.
So, as The Vision in the MCU, Paul Bettany has been thoroughly motion captured. Any other issues aside, his likeness could be used indefinitely, in a wide range of capacities. Meanwhile, there’s been talk that Wonder Man, another Marvel superhero, will eventually by introduced as played by Nathan Fillion.
In the comic plots, Vision possessed some portion of Wonder Man’s consciousness.
So, what if we were to eventually get a CGI rendering of Paul Bettany, but motion-controlled based on a performance by Nathan Fillion? Which performer would ‘own’ what part of that performance and how would it potentially impact our own impressions of those two actors and the characters they were portraying as independent/inter-related? How would the performers end up relating to one another? Would Fillion be playing Bettany just by looking like him, even if he were playing as Wonder Man?
What have we already named? What do we not yet have a ‘proper name’ for? In English, we tend to rely on ‘thing’ as a placeholder until we’ve come to consensus on a better term–or, at least, until various parties have submitted their respective names for the subject and one or a few have shaken out in regular discourse.
Here, then, maybe the start of that process. What do/should we call those media products that are made to appear within a narrative? Products that, at some level, are still made for us–the real-world audience–yet which don’t directly acknowledge any intended audience but that of the narrative in which they appear? Should we be calling them full-fledged ‘media products’ in the first place, or does their contingency on the larger narrative somehow negate the fact that they were yet produced and can be independently viewed, at least sometimes? For example, see the comic book that appears in the trailer for Logan, a page of which was released via Tumblr, as well as the newscast that serves as the trailer for Stranger Things‘ second season.
Are these ‘inward facing’? ‘Narrative-bound’? ‘Viewer-blind’? None seems entirely accurate for the unusual position of this type, though I’m not yet sure that the two examples cited above are even the same animal themselves. Specifically, the end of the Stranger Things newscast, in which we see only an empty chair, might be the point at which that product specifically stops being for its own narrative realm and starts being only for us.
Suggestions for tagging this phenomenon would be welcome.
Another attempt to summarize my perspective that will only seem inaccurate later:
At this point, it’s seeming as though the only notable difference between narrative and linguistic subjects (fictional characters and real people) is one of physicality in this linguistic, physical realm (lacanian ‘reality’): we linguistic subjects have bodies, narrative subjects don’t and may or may not ever. But, in discourse–communication via representations that pretty much constitutes all media by definition–physicality is what’s precisely not needed, worked around, obviated. So, the distinction between the subject who has a body and the one who doesn’t, at least in how they’re treated, how their identities are socially understood, how they are defined in discourse, doesn’t amount to much.
Especially since we’re also getting around the lack of fictional bodies by making our fictions more realistically interactive in various ways, such as gaming, VR cinema, and even ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ YouTube series.
So, I randomly wrote a script for an issue of the Batman comic. This is in no way authorized nor endorsed by DC and I have no plans to make any money from it (unless someone at DC reads it and wants to hire me–in which case, screw academia: gimmie that money!).
So, give it a read. It’s short and you might actually like it.
NOTE: This article includes minor spoilers for episodes of 11.22.63, The Man in the High Castle, and (in a footnote) the Quantum Leap episode ‘Lee Harvey Oswald’. You can see the first season of The Man in the High Castle, in its entirety, on Amazon; 11.22.63 is currently airing weekly on Hulu, where you can also view the entire run of Quantum Leap (1989-93).
So, I’m currently watching The Man in the High Castle and 11.22.63, two television series based on historical fiction novels. The Man in the High Castle (1963) is one of the higher-profile pieces in Philip K. Dick’s canon, while 11.22.63 is one of Stephen King’s more recent books, published in 2011. I’m a fan of both authors, but I’ve not read either work before, so I’m coming into these plots fresh, as a viewer. The bulk of each story takes place in the early 1960’s, though 11.22.63 opens in the present. Both are science fiction tales, but their plots turn on dissimilar (though not necessarily unrelated) conceits. The Man in the High Castle is an alternate history with an infusion of multi-dimensionality, while 11.22.63 is a time travel tale whose functional approach to alternate dimensions is, as yet, unclear. The ethos of 11.22.63’s plot, however, suggests that we take the timeline of the moment, whatever shape it may be in, as the sole extant dimension–the only possibility that matters.
It’s especially neat to be able to watch the two together, then; using their respective conceits as the means by which to express ideological orientations, both shows position themselves in some proximity to ‘the world as we know it’. As narratives, as not real the way we are real, neither story can really disrupt our material existence except by its influence on our discourse. Yet, there are characters in each story who are written to recognize and understand our material reality as, at the very least, identical to some realm they might be able to access for themselves. In other words, there is some significant way (differently in each story) that our own America  is narrativized (and this is the important part) without significant fictionalization.
Both plots are about changing the world–or rather, changing the positions of their characters in respect to our own world, which could be said to stand between the two as a kind of ‘control’ reality. They take dissimilar approaches to different events, but each conceives of our material world with respect to a past that went ‘wrong’ and needs be ‘adjusted.’ The most meaningful difference, then, lies in ideology: how each views that narrative simulacrum of our world that it can recognize–whether it views us as we actually exist as approaching an ideal, or, rather, as in woeful need of revision.
Ideologically, then, The Man in the High Castle presents its own realm as inferior to ours, and we are moved to agree: the Axis won WWII and Germany and Japan co-occupy the US, while the Reich is shown to control much of the rest of Europe and, quite likely, the World. In what we’ve seen in the first season, there is no means presented by which this outcome can be ‘undone’, but there is the tease of an escape from it: a number of filmstrips circulate through the free Underground, featuring footage of alternate outcomes of the war, the most prominent so far being that of the Allied victory. This specific piece of footage is, for us, of course, historical: it need not be synthesized for the fiction of the narrative, but can rather be culled from our own material records. Pieces of footage from other realities also surface–one featuring the Russians as the chief victors of the war, another in which the Germans won even more thoroughly–but our own material realm (or its filmstrip re-presentation) is only made that much better of an option, given how it compares with those moribund outcomes.
But, if The Man in the High Castle sets our world as ‘correct’, as having ‘worked out’ in ways its own history didn’t, 11.22.63 claims that we inhabit the vestiges of a historical mistake nonetheless–a state of being that is, itself, ethically insufficient to the moral standards it itself sets. If The Man in the High Castle could then be said to ideologically (not narratively) ‘end’ at our own world, it is from that same position that 11.22.63 opens and begins its retreat. To that show’s point: what would our world look like if JFK hadn’t been assassinated and, so we’re lead to assume, the Vietnam War had not been escalated by the Johnson Administration? Regardless of how 11.22.63 might use its conceit of time travel as a means to change its own reality, and regardless of how successful that effort proves to be, its opening is still rooted to that nexus of a fictionalized ‘real’ Earth that we’ve already identified as the ideal of The Man in the High Castle–the only significant difference being that, once we pick that realistic realm back up at the beginning of the King story, it’s several decades later and we’ve (still) won the war, but Kennedy has also (still) been killed. But, then, they’re realistic decades, on an Earth that has matched its development to our own, that we can logically, sensibly, in detail, chart from the end of one story to the beginning of another without need of any other interstitial fictions to make it all sensible. It is the world we know because it’s the description of the world we live in.
We could likewise argue that the sci-fi devices of each narrative mean that their renderings of our own world need not even be different from our own world itself, at least in terms of numbers. It can be inferred that, by whatever means, all of the filmstrips of The Man in the High Castle that have been circulated through that realm have come into it from outside of it, from the worlds depicted firsthand in the films themselves: though Nazi America might have a view into the ideal realm, there is no way to make contact with it, touch that world (this world) back. So, for us, since we don’t so far have enough detail of that ideal reality to know better, all that’s left is to assume its sustained verisimilitude with our own history.
Meanwhile, as far as 11.22.63 goes, the exigency of time travel fiction means that almost anyone in such a story can be unmade entirely, especially characters who are complete inventions of the narrative. In fact, in the historical record of a fictionalized Earth, The Allies can always eventually be made to win the war and JFK can always, over and over again, eventually be killed in Dallas; each of these narratives could respectively be made to render–as its primary reality, based on the success or failure of the schemes of each story–worlds so insignificant in their differences from one another or our own history that it might become problematic to know when we’ve stopped telling the story of one fiction or another and started telling our own actual history. Even if such a state of verisimilitude doesn’t stand as the final outcome for any of the timelines concerned, even if the representation of our own state of being is not the final achievement of either of the narratives, the fact is that, for whatever period of those narratives that the situation does exist in which fiction could only point to reality as the best description of itself, the definition of reality as not-fiction is made commensurately murky.
 My experience in consuming these stories is going to be fundamentally different from someone who works it in the ‘right’ order, who reads the books before watching the shows. For instance: Jake Epping will never not look like James Franco for me, from before I was even introduced to the character by name. Juliana Frink will never not have been Juliana Crain (Alexa Davalos). These are only the most superficial differences from how a reader might have initially encountered these stories–how the medium shapes our experience of the narrative–but they’re enough to at least show that such experience does make a difference.
 Dick’s novel is regarded as one of those whose existence prompted the consideration of ‘alternate history’ as a science fiction subgenre in the first place.
 Which does, in fact, lead to all sorts of potential material developments: more books, more shows, more media products, as well as both ‘official’ merchandising and all the events and artisanal products of fandoms. But all of this, still, with the discursive, conversational, even-if-only-implicit understanding of the narrative-as-narrative, as not, itself, fully materializable as itself; not fully possible as anything other than media.
 History as it has turned out for us in the material world; what has lead to the current material moment.
 And, presumably, the rest of Earth, Space, and everything else.
 Don Bellisario’s Quantum Leap provides a great example of a similar problem all by itself; though the plot takes viewers across several decades of American history, whether the objective is to make the narrative realm more or less like our own material world is consistently unclear, since we have precious few views into that show’s ‘now’ or ‘future’. The best hint we have is, rather ironically, the two-part storyline ‘Lee Harvey Oswald’; the series’ protagonist, time traveler Dr. Sam Beckett, leaps into the life of Oswald at several different points in order to stop the Kennedy assassination. Unable to prevent the assassination as Oswald, though, Sam finally leaps into a nearby Secret Service agent (real-life Agent Clint Hill) who was running behind the President’s car as it passed through Dealy Plaza on the day of the assassination (11/22/63). Sam is, again, unable to save JFK, but Al, his holographic partner from the future, eventually informs Sam that he did manage to save Jackie Kennedy, who had been killed in their original, fictionalized, ideologically-unacceptable timeline.
 At least, in part. There are likely to be additions and other edits to any ‘original’ footage, but such is Hollywood.
 King, among many others, especially in science fiction/fantasy/horror, has collected several of his tales within a unified narrative realm, with The Dark Tower series standing as that world’s unofficial center. That realm also includes The Stand, an apocalyptic piece first published in 1978 and set contemporaneously with its writing. Though, again, I’ve not read the text-version of 11.22.63, the television adaptation indicates that the ‘modern-day’ portions are, indeed, set in the 21st C., well after The Stand’s armageddon happens in its own timeline. Of course, this does not resolutely prove that the two realms are separate (nor how separate), but it offers the suggestion of a meaningful distinctiveness. At least, until some considerable gesture is made to change this status, either on King’s part or in some substantial way within the larger conversations about his work.
 The two shows as well as our own, material, linear progression, most neatly and easily assessed in the immense, growing, chaotic tidal wave of our persisting human discourse, as a whole. What? You thought I wasn’t going to get to Hegel?