Apple Cider Vinegar is part of a trend of ‘true-ish’ TV shows

“This is a true story based on a lie,” declares American actor Kaitlyn Dever, staring straight down the barrel of the camera in the first episode of the Netflix series Apple Cider Vinegar.

Dever speaks this line through her fictionalised version of Belle Gibson, an Australian wellness influencer who pretended to cure herself of terminal brain cancer through ‘clean eating’ – despite never having been diagnosed with the illness.

Her narration continues: “Some names have been changed to protect the innocent. Belle Gibson has not been paid for the recreation of her story.”

This dramatised disclaimer sees an actor pretending to be a real woman who is eerily good at faking the role of cancer survivor. It also shows us the complicated layers of fictionalisation that a ‘based on a true story’ drama can invoke.

By embedding that legal proviso within the work of fiction itself – rather than allowing it to sit cleanly outside the narrative – the show’s creators performatively pull into focus the blurred boundaries that come with adapting ‘true’ stories into ‘true-ish’ ones.

This creative choice comes in the wake of another Netflix series, Baby Reindeer, which became the subject of a high-profile defamation case that was allowed to proceed in part due to the program’s declaration ‘this is a true story’ rather than ‘based on a true story’.

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In the ‘post-truth’ era – and especially with the startling rise of AI and deepfakes – an attentiveness to qualifications like ‘based on’ or ‘inspired by’ may seem a little quaint.

But in Australia – and particularly in the world of semi-fictionalised dramatisations – these distinctions still matter (if you’re not compelled by ethical quandaries, you might still consider a cost-benefit analysis).

As Australian political commentator Annabelle Crabb points out, Australia’s “uncodified, slouchy attachment to freedom of speech has long grappled – often unsuccessfully – with defamation laws that favour individuals with deep pockets and hurt feelings”.

In the realm of film and television production, we saw this play out in 2015 over the miniseries House of Hancock, against which mining magnate Gina Reinhart brought a defamation case.

Channel Nine issued an apology and agreed not to circulate the program further via broadcast, streaming or DVD release.

For a time, this incident struck fear in the hearts of local production companies and dampened their appetite for ‘based on a true story’ programs.

But, hang on, can’t producers and screenwriters protect themselves simply by telling the truth? The answer is a complicated ‘yes, but’.

Australian defamation laws are considered strict by global standards because, unlike countries like the US and the UK where the plaintiff/claimant must prove that the representation was false and defamatory, the Australian legal system requires the defendant to prove that the representation was true or otherwise non-defamatory. 

With these legal frameworks in mind, how can a screenwriter be proactive in planning and executing a project that involves the portrayal of real people?

Well, there are a number of ways.

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The producer or screenwriter (or potential defendant) ensures the representation is demonstrably accurate

One way screenwriters could go about this is to base their story on work by someone who has already done the hard yards in confirming its truth.

In the case of Apple Cider Vinegar, the book The Woman Who Fooled the World by Australian investigative journalists Beau Donelly and Nick Toscano provided exactly this source.

Unfortunately, pieces of investigative journalism are difficult to faithfully adapt into television dramas: the former tend to avoid the techniques of emotional manipulation (or less cynically, the cultivation of empathy) that the latter encourage.

This desire for the audience’s emotional investment tempts the screenwriter towards semi-fictionalisation.

Apple Cider Vinegar’s creator Samantha Strauss has said:  “I think that’s the whole game – finding empathy in the writing of it, but not crossing over the line”.

One technique Strauss and the Apple Cider Vinegar team deploy is the ‘composite character’, one ‘frankensteined’ together from a variety of source materials.

The show’s secondary protagonist, Milla, while appearing strongly inspired by Australian wellness influencer Jessica Ainscough, is, according to Strauss, more ‘a portrait of influencers at the time’.

Key details were changed – while Ainscough worked at Dolly magazine, Milla was shown as working at Girlfriend.

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The creative work constitutes ‘fair comment’

Effectively this means the characterisation of a real individual represents the screenwriter’s honestly held opinion.

This defence raises questions about how aware an audience is of the writer constructing the narratives – in other words, if the screenwriter seems invisible, is the audience less likely to interpret their work as opinion?

As an example, Baby Reindeer offers an implied link between the story and the person who authored it. So the audience may spend more time actively considering the subjectivity – and potential unreliability – of the narrator.

On the other hand, in shows like Apple Cider Vinegar, where the author remains less visible, audiences are perhaps more likely to take what happens on screen as a matter of fact rather than opinion.

While it may seem reasonable enough to take the above precautions, high-profile screenwriters like Ryan Murphy and Shonda Rhimes continue to take calculated risks.

Ultimately, the safest route for any aspiring screenwriter is to make like Belle Gibson and fictionalise your stories beyond all recognition – just don’t sell them as fact.

Still, knowing the safest option often does little to mitigate the treacherous allure of ‘true-ish’ stories for many screenwriters.

And if you can’t resist having a go at the ‘true’ or even ‘true-ish’, maybe beware of billionaires.