Cross-cutting in His Dark Materials and how it relates to duality

(Promotional poster for His Dark Materials series two. All rights reserved for the BBC and HBO.)

Picking up Philip Pullman’s first installment of the His Dark Materials series at such a formative age changed the nature of storytelling for me. The Golden Compass (or Northern Lights for the English folk) dealt with themes far beyond the comprehension skills of a twelve year-old boy. Even still, the adventures of Lyra Belacqua captivated me. Her journey took her to worlds far beyond my imagining - down the river with the gyptians, through the skies with Lee Scorseby in his balloon, and traversing the icy wastelands of the Arctic, where talking polar bears were only a secondary danger to the grotesque incisions taking place by far more insidious monsters.

Those monsters were human beings. More specifically, human beings that believed in an authority that paralleled an organization eerily similar to one I had grown up with my entire life.

That organization was known as the Catholic Church, and what the series did for me was offer a glimpse into a parallel universe that questioned the nature of my understanding - my understanding of religion as an institution, my understanding of belief, and ultimately, my understanding of the world around me.

In that regard, duality has always held a pattern in my decisions through life. The church was always a part of my life - bred and raised in the shadow of migrant Italians - and yet, it wasn’t. Though religion was such a big part of my upbringing, I had failed to practise as fervently as my grandparents. But even when religion wasn’t a major force in my life, I still held on to this pattern of duality. On the one hand, I am an occasional teacher, working for a school board in the heart of Niagara. On the other, I write stories. My undergraduate degree is split between a double-major: Film Studies, and English Language and Literature. As a result, I’m constantly working between two very different forms of media - film and literature.

It’s safe to say, then, that themes of duality have always come across more judiciously for me in the media I consume and the media I produce. With Pullman’s His Dark Materials - and now with the BBC and HBO adaptation currently filming its third series - those images are being amplified in new and exciting ways.

Series one of the BBC adaptation introduced us to Lyra Belacqua and her world. The language the filmmakers use right from the get-go is straightforward and direct.  

“”””Add title exposition”””

By introducing us to the concept of parallel worlds before the story even begins, the series makes a point of highlighting this theme of duality and how it will affect multiple people across multiple planes. It’s an idea that permeates the first few episodes of the series, while faithfully sticking to the arc of Pullman’s first novel. And yet, serious changes have been made to translate the written word for the screen. For those who have read the series, artistic liberty becomes apparent with the introduction of a key character saved for Pullman’s second novel The Subtle Knife, midway through the first series. 

Lyra Belacqua (Dafne Keen) and Will Parry (Amir Wilson).

Will Parry is introduced to the audience in episode five, titled “The Lost Boy.” As evidenced by Lyra’s search for her friends Roger and Billy Costa, Will, too, is a lost boy, one that the episode likes to draw parallels in, in ample measure. Father-less, tasked with caring for his ill mother, and straight-up tackling the struggles of bullying while being an outsider, Will feels stuck in a world that doesn’t understand him. It’s a testament to Jack Thorne’s writing ability when the nature of duality works within this series. To add depth to the primary storyline by setting the stage for what comes next is a huge undertaking - it’s one that seems fairly straightforward in the televisual medium, but actually appears harder than it seems.

To ensure the story doesn’t become muddled, Thorne and his team of storytellers employ the use of cross-cutting - an editing technique that further amplifies this theme of duality and parallelism. 

Though the first series uses this technique often, it’s in the finale of series one that the use of cross-cutting transcends a simple visual language to say something about the story being told. Though some fans might find reservation in the BBC’s decision to introduce Will so early, I believe it is a rather poignant move that simultaneously keeps both stories flowing at an excellent pace. This smooth transition into The Subtle Knife is most evident in the beginning of series two, when the fated meeting between Will and Lyra happens almost instantaneously, and without Will Parry’s backstory to muddle up the pacing.

Because Will’s story is so intertwined with Lyra’s - and especially more so considering the events of The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass - it makes sense to have his story parallel hers in the first series, not only to keep the story at a brisk pace, but also because it highlights the grim and often hard-pressed situations they both find themselves in throughout the series. 

Will and Lyra exploring the city of Cittagazze.

Considering this is a story of parallels, it makes sense that Pullman’s original novels pit Lyra and Will’s struggles with detached parents at the forefront. The show is right to capitalize on this theme, and in no better area has the show captured this struggle than in the competing visuals and cinematic techniques used to tell Lyra and Will’s story.

Cross-cutting, then, becomes a major technique in their arsenal. Series one is littered with this particular tool, cutting between Lyra and Will’s worlds at moments of great uncertainty and development. The finale, as mentioned, builds momentum by cutting between Will’s window in the park and Lyra’s window in the sky at the top of the mountain. Both children take their advances, both with so much to lose, and both with so much already lost.

Parallels are also drawn in the story elements that foreshadow human emotion and interaction as well. Having read the novels, I won’t spoil the twists and turns expected of the audience just yet; however, the series has already done a fantastic job setting up this duality between parental figures and/or guardians that these children crave.

Mrs. Coulter (Ruth Wilson) and Lord Asriel (James McAvoy) 

reunite at the top of the world.

With Mrs. Coulter and Lord Asriel - played to villainous perfection by Ruth Wilson and James McAvoy, respectively - Lyra’s parents become prototypical archetypes of poor parenting. They are severe with her, brash, ignorant, fixated on the wrong morals and shaded by ill intentions. Knowing what they know about otherworldly prophecies aside, the fact that these two treat Lyra so cantankerously is maddening. It’s cold and distant. Unfair and harsh. We feel for Lyra, and at the heart of it, we want her parents to be agents of good and comfort. Unlike Harry Potter, whose parents we know are mostly good, Lyra’s are infuriating and scarce. They’re, well, human.

Asriel (McAvoy) and Coulter (Wilson) discuss the importance of Dust and exploration (separately) with their daughter Lyra (Keen). Cinematographers capitalize on the use of reflections to heighten themes of parallelism in the show.

But at the same time, to the expertise of Pullman’s interconnectedness and the BBC’s casting skill, we have surrogate parents who step in for Lyra when she needs help most. Lee Scoresby, the famed aeuronut, and Dr. Mary Malone, the physicist, become stand-ins for Lyra’s absentee parents. Without saying too much, it’s to the strength of the show that Lin-Manuel Miranda and Simone Kirby are the perfect counterparts to Wilson and McAvoy’s steely heart. Perhaps this is why the show has come under fire for being “cold and distant” or else “hollow and without wonder” - it’s because Lyra doesn’t have parents who experience that wonder with her. Instead, they’re cold-shouldered and sparse, without remorse.

But as the production finds its footing in series two, it’s no coincidence that the heart of the show is beginning to shine through - people care about Lyra, and if that wasn’t evident enough in series one, it sure as hell is becoming evident in series two. 

The most important scene (and effective scene to be added by the production team thus far) is one between Wilson’s Coulter and Miranda’s Scoresby. Held captive by the Magisterium in series two episode three, Scoresby and Coulter dish out the importance of Lyra’s being. “You love her,” Scoresby says. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t hurt her.” Upon asking Coulter if she loves Lyra, Scoresby receives a terse “Of course,” as if Marissa Coulter’s response is necessitated, obvious. But it’s in Scoresby’s heartfelt response: “I won’t tell you where Lyra is because her life is worth one-tenth of mine,” that the moment truly shines. The parallels are drawn. Scoresby is the father Lyra never had in Asriel, and to the talent of Wilson’s portrayal of Coulter’s ego, the woman notices that this is what it means to love a child. Honestly and truly. It’s the moment, I believe, that breaks her hardened shell. The exterior is fading, and seeing love reflected back at her in such an honest way finally opens her eyes to the possibility of really and truly loving her daughter - no politics, no prophecy. Just love. 

Lee Scoresby (Lin-Manuel Miranda) and Mary Malone (Simone Kirby) act as surrogate parents for Lyra. Their affection is immediately evident; in particular, Dr. Malone shows affection by asking her computer “Is Lyra safe?” following the introduction of the two. 

One can discuss for days about the expert use of parallel editing in the show. Perhaps the most effective use so far, in this reader/watcher’s opinion, is the cross-cutting between series two’s episode two, where the malevolent Magisterium sends an air raid to the land of the witch clans, blowing their island to smithereens. It’s in moments like these where the power of the visual medium shines. Where the political backstabbing of the Authority is delegated to mere exposition in the novel, the show has the liberty to show us the devastation caused by the iron-grip that they wield. Too, because the scene cuts between the annihilation of the island and the voting of the next Cardinal in the Magisterium, the show manages to create a sense of mounting dread. It amplifies the tension between the Church and the witches, and does so by employing the use of a simple cross-cutting technique that really drives the point home.

With much more story left to tell, it will be interesting to see how the incredible team at the BBC and HBO decide to adapt the rest of the series. My prediction: there will be a lot more instances of cross-cutting to come, and though this isn’t necessarily a rare technique, the manner in which it is being used to tell Lyra and Will’s story demands further inspection as themes of duality begin to converge.