Well, this is quite the little mini-theme of writing terms! First there was “show, don’t tell,” then “kill your darlings,” and today we have “lampshade hanging.” For those of you who don’t speak TV Tropes, this is when a writer handles something that strains plausibility by pointing out exactly how implausible it is. It doesn’t seem like it would work, but it can be quite effective for a certain type of story.
Doctor Who, the long-running sci-fi show about traveling to all the corners of time and space that look suspiciously like southern Britain, is rather that kind of story, though it might not seem that way from the outside. The lampshade, you see, is all about the writers making fun of themselves, so it is a device that by definition deals in the comic and the meta. It is therefore a staple of meta comedies like Archer and 30 Rock, but it also tends to pop up in other works, especially genre ones, that don’t take themselves too seriously. With its long history, savvy and devoted fans, and a sensibility that vacillates between goofy and terrifying, Doctor Who definitely falls into that second category. Hardly an episode goes by without some on-point observation being made, but a few characters over the years have really taken this trope and run with it–probably none more so than Rory Williams, who pretty much acted like this was his full-time job.
Rory’s observational skills are on display from his very first appearance, and are actually what catches the Doctor’s attention, since Rory’s the only one who figured out what’s really weird about the whole alien invasion situation. While Amy gets immediately swept up into the Doctor’s world, Rory stays firmly and intentionally grounded in reality, which makes him quite effective as an audience surrogate. Indeed, Rory (at least, early on, before the centurion business) is probably a pretty good representation of what the average sci-fi fan would be like as a companion, and the Doctor finds his genre-savviness quite annoying since–another lampshade–he keeps his companions around so they can be impressed at how clever he is. Rory’s everyman qualities show off one benefit of lampshade hanging: He finds his situation just as implausible as anyone would in his situation, so it keeps the show grounded even as it starts to strain credulity.
For instance, there’s the little fact that Rory just keeps dying. Hell, he manages to die three times in a single episode. This is not the kind of thing that someone would just shrug off, and so Rory doesn’t. His reactions run the gamut from sardonic annoyance (“We’re dead. Again.”) to his confession to the Doctor that he’s still haunted by the memories of his centuries as an Auton. It helps inspire confidence in the audience that it’s not just a passing gag, but that the writers have a plan and are working it into the story.
Really, it’s the way that a lampshade lets the writer communicate directly with the audience that makes it so effective. For instance, there’s Rory’s response when Amy asks if he can ride a motorbike he’s just stolen:
RORY: I expect so. It’s been that sort of day.
The thing with breaking rules or engaging in lazy writing habits on purpose is that it can be difficult for the audience to know that it’s on purpose and that you’re not just bad at this. A line like Rory’s helps clue the audience in to your intentions. The subtext is, “Yes, this might merit more explanation, but we’re not going to waste the time on it. This is just the kind of story we’re in, so let’s move on and get to the good stuff.” Calling attention to it helps the audience trust that the writer knows what they’re doing, and lets the audience know that the writer trusts them to have spotted the pattern. And it wraps the whole thing in a joke, because the Rule of Funny trumps all.
So, in essence, hanging a lampshade takes a moment that could be a major pothole in the storytelling experience and turns it into an opportunity for us all to have a laugh and congratulate ourselves on being very clever. All around, a good tool to have in your arsenal.