In classical drama, the term deus ex machina refers to a plot device wherein a plot problem is suddenly solved by the arrival of a previously unannounced character who supplies the answer or solution. “But don’t you know? That’s your brother!” would be a typical line delivered by a deus ex machina character, thus helping our heroes avert a troublesome situation.
When a playwright or novelist needs to fix an intractable plot puzzle, he or she might resort to the tool, which is Latin for “god from the machine,” or “you couldn’t figure it out for yourself with the characters you’d created, so you punted,” but audiences since ancient times have tended to see through the fix. “Where did HE come from?” More often than not nowadays, it is used ironically, but when you find yourself reading a book and seeing lines delivered by a character that you do not remember being introduced to, your inattentive reading is not to blame. That character really was not there 20 pages earlier.
A more restrained writer might use a deus ex machina-type character to do something simpler than solve everything; the character might supply background information. Or another character might do something like get a character who knows a secret drunk to spill the story, turning that character into the god-machine. In vino veritas, the Latin expression declares, and I do not think anyone needs it translated here.
Any deus ex machina fixes that you might encounter in real life are more rightly known as surprises. Anyone who reveals something that they claim to have known about all along is either a busybody or a breaker of confidences, and you ought to do everything in your imagination to make sure they get stuck with the bill for every lunch for a year.
But what if you could learn something secret from one of your friends by administering some sort of truth serum? (I would hope, for all of our sakes, that if we could learn what our friends truly think of us that we would learn they hold us in higher esteem than we think they do. Nothing worse. One hopes one’s friendships are that open-faced and honest.)
There in fact is a drug that some consider a truth serum. It is sodium thiopental, better known by its Abbott Laboratories brand name of Sodium Pentothal, and it is a barbiturate that is used as a general anesthetic. Because it is such a strong anesthetic, it is more frequently administered to induce a coma than it is to knock someone out for a tooth extraction; further, it is usually the first drug injected into the arm of a prisoner as he or she is being put to death.
On and off for many decades, police in certain countries (including this one) have administered the drug to get prisoners to talk, to spill the beans, to yack away the location of whatever it is the police are looking for but can not find. Nothing would help in crime solving or crime prevention more than a real-life deus ex machina, and in sodium thiopental veritas goes the thinking. More often than not, the beans that were spilled under the effects of the drug were hallucinations and dreams and probably more revealing of a psyche under duress and being put to sleep than the location of an un-apprehended bad guy’s house.
But police forces keep searching: for bad guys and evildoers as well as for the perfect drug that would get the apprehended bad guys to talk and thus create a real life deus ex machina. For some, Steven Spielberg’s film of Philip K. Dick’s “Minority Report” depicts one man’s unnecessary interference with a fine legal system rather than the hopeful end of dystopian nightmare.
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“What’s that, sweetness? Oh, we’re going to dinner? Now? Okay. I’ll finish typing this right about n- -”
The WordPress Daily Prompt for September 30 asks, “You’ve come into possession of one vial of truth serum. Who would you give it to (with the person’s consent, of course)—and what questions would you ask?”