Silo Drowns Me With Questions, While Describing the Water

Sheriff Becker is sad.

That’s the gist of Silo’s first ten minutes. As intriguing and gritty as the scenery looks, and wonderfully moody as the music is, nothing in the show’s opening episode grounds us in what the silo is, or why, how, or even when.

[note: I haven’t read the books; for fiction reading, fantasy’s my thing]

Sure, we learn a few things: Becker’s sad because his wife is gone. He lives in a giant grey cylinder with a spiral staircase and a precipitous drop into darkness. There are corn fields that suggest self-reliance, and enough light fixtures to make you wonder both how it’s so dark and where all the bulbs come from.

Outside it’s rocky and dead. Asking to go out is a Very Bad Thing.

Becker and his wife were approved for “reproductive clearance” years ago, before he got sad. Their retro-futuristic computer began a countdown that morning to zero, from 365 days.

But none of this gives us real answers. It’s set dressing.

Revelations and Disbelief

Silo asks a lot of me.

I’m not one to get stuck on niggling details. I joke about the light bulbs, but I’m genuinely happy forgiving a made-up world its made-up-ness—I’ve been doing that with stories since I was a kid.

The way I see it, a great fiction story balances two things:

1. Willing Suspension of Disbelief: the audience suspends their disbelief in obvious fictions, in order to get the good stuff — the story and its characters.

2. Rate of Revelation: the rate at which information and relevant answers are shared back with the audience.

As a viewer, every time I watch Silo I hope for a pinky swear: in exchange for my suspension of disbelief, the show will reward me with story development and clarity.

But Silo’s rate of revelation is like the Hoover Dam (sorry, engineers) letting through just a trickle. The tension of unanswered questions keeps rising behind the dam — without the release of enough answers that matter.

My disbelief becomes not worth suspending.

And then I start to nitpick details, like why on Earth a futuristic multiracial society has accents that sound like a bad play on the American Midwest. Just let Harriet Walter and Iain Glen have their wonderful voices, good grief.

More Unfamiliar = More Tension

The tension between my disbelief and Silo’s rate of revelation wouldn’t matter so much if the story were set in a familiar world. But I have to suspend a lot of disbelief here.

And I’ve realized that’s the rock in my shoe about Silo.

The most familiar thing in the show so far is the Pez dispenser.

And this isn’t a novel. It’s not the latest thousand-page book from Brandon Sanderson, whose readers agree by default to spend long hours immersed in a world. We’re viewers, signed up for hourlong episodes (or a binge-watch).

From early on, Silo backs up a big reservoir of questions. And after nine episodes nothing that matters is answered: all I’ve gotten for my significant suspension of disbelief was a great but meaningless episode about a boiler, backstory fluff and a bunny rabbit, and a mean Tim Robbins everyone saw coming.

It’s hard not to think of this zinger from a favorite old movie:

A More Curious Eye

Silo has the unfortunate problem of showing us a world so unfamiliar that everything’s a question. 

Viewers are drowning in why questions, how questions, what-the-heck questions.

And even though we’re almost through the firtst season, it feels like the show’s still busy describing the water: giving backstory and scenic details, and relieving no tension at all (even increasing it).

But I still want to find out how it gets structure from here. It’s still a unique story with great production value.

I’m learning to watch things with a more curious eye, and now that I’ve noticed the link between disbelief and revelation, I can’t look away.

🧠 and ❤️

Lauren