38 The Art of Writing for the Theatre terribly,” this is the closest he can come to telling his son that he loves him. Conversely, when Ismay says to his father, “All I ever wanted was to make you happy,” Thomas Ismay replies, “Well, we can’t have everything, can we?” This clearly implies the father sees his son as a total disappointment. When Ismay says, “I shall build the biggest, grandest, most luxurious steamship the world has ever seen,” even at this point in the play, we know he is referring to building the Titanic. In this context, we know that his motivation to build the ship was to finally make his father proud, even in death. That simple line is actually a chilling moment since we all know the tragic outcome. D. Implications of the action: what personal and societal changes do the characters deal with and how does this affect the main idea of the play? In this scene, Ismay is told he will take over his father’s company, the White Star Line (a famous ship building company). Thomas Ismay dies, which releases him from his physical pain and metaphorically releases Bruce Ismay, who has been belittled and put down by his cold, Victorian father all his life. E. Consider each scene: determine the purpose of each scene in the play. What idea is it trying to convey? How does it help the overall idea? Since we only have one scene to consider here, this would be different when we are examining the whole play. But this scene sets up the fact that one of the driving forces in J. Bruce Ismay’s life is to please his father; even after he is dead, it is still a goal that propels him into action. V. Personal Reaction A. Did you like the play? Why or why not? Would you recommend it to others? Of course, this is a matter of personal taste, but it is a good barometer and a valuable question to ask yourself.
Script Analysis 39 B. What actors in Hollywood might be suitable to play the characters from this play on the big screen? This is a fun question to explore. It also requires you to play casting director. Who would you cast as the mean, hard-hearted, Thomas Ismay? His son, a thirtysomething Bruce? Florence? VI. Mood A. What is the mood of the play? The mood (or tone) of the play is somber and serious. It is also a memory play. B. What is the mood of the beginning compared to the end? The mood (or tone) is tense at the beginning of the scene, as Thomas Ismay is dying. There is a sense of relief once he is dead, as well as mourning what might have been. Let’s Discuss! This is one of the primary methods of script analysis. Of course, the next (and, in many ways, the best part) is up to you. As we have seen, this is far from an exact science. It is open to interpretation and often based on one’s own life experiences. It is what you as the audience member (or reader) bring to the table as much as what the playwright brings. While the playwright provides the context, in many cases, you provide the meaning. Like all aspects of theatre, script analysis is in many ways a collaborative art form. Perhaps it is not as much as other aspects of theatre, as you are interpreting an existing script based on the writer’s intentions. One of my favorite parts of teaching script analysis is the discussions with the students; to see how they chose to construe a line of dialogue as opposed to the way I did. Sometimes, it is fairly cut and dried. Sometimes, it isn’t. When a director imposes a unique style on a play, it is usually because of how they have chosen to analyze the text and the themes within it. One often sees this with the classics, especially Shakespeare. There have been several productions of Romeo and Juliet set during the American Civil War, complete
40 The Art of Writing for the Theatre with hoop skirts for the ladies and Confederate uniforms for the men. Since this emphasizes the theme of warring families, it is a choice that is usually successful. Conversely, there was a production of the Bard’s historical drama Henry V which tried to emphasize the theme, “War is a game.” The costumes were all based on twentieth-century American hockey and football uniforms. It was a disaster. Directors, designers, and actors must be very careful not to impose something on the script that is not what the playwright intended. If one makes choices that support the text, the results can be very successful. If one takes an obscure reference and magnifies or exploits it, you may find yourself like Gustav Freytag trying to figure out what made one play a hit and the other a turkey. There is a great deal of terminology in this section, but hopefully, you now have the groundwork on which to build your theatrical house. We will refer to many of these terms in the other sections of this book. Congratulations! You now have a strong foundation in the art of writing for the theatre. Exercises 1) Try doing an analysis of your favorite play, musical or film. Can you identify the protagonist, antagonist, rising action, climax, falling action, and denouement? Is it simple and straightforward or is there room for debate in any of these areas? 2) Think of the titles of some of your favorite plays or musicals. What is the significance of the title? Do you feel that title truly supports the theme of the play? 3) Is there a play, film, or television program that always makes you cry? How could this be an example of catharsis? Is it the type of catharsis where you feel empathy for the characters or where you think, “I’ll never let that happen to me?” Or could it be both? 4) Can you think of any contemporary examples of Deus Ex Machina—where a character (usually an authority figure) comes in at the end of a play or movie and cleans everything up? 5) Think of a few of your favorite dramatic characters. Who are their foils within the play?
Script Analysis 41 6) Find a full-length play or musical online. Watch the first five minutes, then pause it. How much can you determine from the exposition? In the same way we did at the start of this chapter, see how many questions you can answer about the characters, the situation, and the relationships. In other words, how well can you analyze it? Watch a bit more (or even the entire first act) and see how accurate you were.
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2 Playwriting Stage talk isn’t actually real, but it sounds real. It’s something slightly larger than real talk in size and quality, which, if delivered well by an actor, will shrink slightly on its way out to the audience and then strike them as perfectly natural once they hear it. —Marsha Norman, playwright The Elements of Playwriting We have been spending a great deal of time talking about plays. A logical next question would be, “How do you write one?” I am so glad you asked! A play has a form unto itself which is unique from a feature film, a television series, or a novel. (When I say “plays” in this case, I am referring to musicals as Chapter Outline The Elements of Playwriting 43 What Does “Show, Don’t Tell” Mean? 54 The Significance of Exposition 56 The Good Title Test 57 The Mechanics of Writing a Play 58 How Do You Start? 68 How to Write a Ten-Minute Play 70 Other Play Formats 73 Conclusion 75 Exercises 75
44 The Art of Writing for the Theatre well.) It takes a while to master the formula, but once you do, the possibilities of what you can create are limitless. “And Then What Happens?” A play is a series of actions, some of which go against one another. If we string together enough actions, spice things up with some conflict, and toss in a few subplots, we have a play. As we discussed in the chapter on script analysis, drama is based on a protagonist who wants something, an antagonist who does not want that person to have it, and the nature of the conflict between them. Will they get it, or won’t they? This is the nature of drama. To use a very simplistic example, let’s say John meets Mary for coffee. They hit it off and next week they go to dinner. As things progress, John asks Mary to go to his high school reunion, where they meet Sarah, who has had suppressed romantic feelings for John for years. When Sarah sees Mary with John at the buffet table, she goes wild. Sarah hurls a glass of sangria at Mary and completely ruins her white blouse. Mary is so incensed, she picks up an ice sculpture and lunges at Sarah, but John intervenes, gets knocked in the head, and passes out cold in the middle of a tray of shrimp cocktail. Another guest mistakes the cocktail sauce for blood and calls the police, and the two women are arrested. What this rather silly scenario demonstrates is that in all drama, action must lead to conflict. If John and Mary had a happy relationship with no bumps or interference, not only would it not be a real relationship, it also wouldn’t be dramatically exciting because there would be no conflict. We need the introduction of Sarah, our antagonist, to create some dramatic tension, thus moving the plot forward. “When Do We Get To Go Home?” Marsha Norman, the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright of ’Night Mother, said, “Within the first eight pages of a full-length play, you need to let the audience know when they get to go home.” What does this mean? It means your job, as a playwright, is to cue the audience as to what is about to happen. What is the main conflict or spine of the play? For instance, in ’Night Mother, the character of Jessie (a depressed woman in her thirties) states within the first few minutes of the play that she is going to spend a cozy evening visiting with her mother, during which time she will refill the cookie jar and all of
Playwriting 45 her prescription bottles as they reminisce fondly about old times. When they are done, Jessie is going to say, “’Night, Mother,” go upstairs, grab her daddy’s pistol, and blow her brains out. That is the spine of the play. We know that when Jessie goes upstairs and says goodnight, we get to go home. (Marsha Norman was the head of playwriting at the Juilliard School of Drama in New York City for many years. She has countless other gems about the craft of playwriting, many of which are covered in the interview section.) Since a play is a series of actions, you need to let the audience know which is the main action. This is by no means to imply you should give away the ending of your play. But your job as a dramatist is to let the audience know what sort of journey they will be taking and when it will be over. If you were at an amusement park, the experience of riding the roller coaster is different from the merry-go-round. As you step onto each ride, you know that you will have a certain type of adventure. When the ride ends, you get to either leave the park or go on to the next event. Playwriting is the same way. This is sometimes referred to as cueing the audience. You are outlining the trajectory of where you are headed. How will this manifest itself in your play? What is the series of events that will unfold so that the audience gets to go home? More importantly, what will you do to hold them there with such rapt attention that they have completely forgotten about time and space and want to stay and see how the journey unfolds? How Do You Know It’s a Play? Dialogue How do you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that what you are writing is a play and not a film or a novel? The answer is very simple: Is it driven by dialogue? If your story has long, descriptive passages about the weather and the countryside, it is a novel. If it has grand, visual images, many locales and car chases, it is a film or a television script. If it can be told with relatively few locations, a small to moderate-sized cast, it has limited, contained special effects, and it is primarily driven by the characters and what they say, it is a play. One of the most important accessories in a playwright’s toolkit is dialogue. It must be compelling, and it must sound the way people actually speak. And the best dialogue contains some sense of action. In other words, a character is either doing something, talking about doing something, or compelling someone else to do something. Also, characters must sound different from one another. If one person speaks in long, flowery, descriptive
46 The Art of Writing for the Theatre sentences, perhaps another one speaks in short, staccato ones. A strong example of this is Tennessee Williams’s A Streetcar Named Desire. Blanche DuBois, a faded Southern Belle, has vocal rhythms that are slow, drawling, and deliberate, filled with metaphors and eloquent language. Stanley Kowalski, her brother-in-law, is a blue-collar worker. His dialogue is gruff, direct, and sometimes it doesn’t consist of more than a grunt. Once you have read a few scenes of the play, if you covered over the character names in the script, it would be obvious who is speaking. Similarly, the characters in your play need to have distinct voices. In many cases, these speech patterns stem from what they want. A character who is very agitated might speak very quickly, while someone who is mellow and laid back would speak more slowly. Rhythm Not only do different characters have their own patterns in terms of speech and movement, but a scene must have a certain rhythm as well. When we talked about Aristotle’s Poetics, we talked about music. This does not necessarily refer to singing or playing an instrument, although it certainly could. A play has a certain musicality to it, as does each individual scene. The American playwright David Mamet, known for such plays as Glengarry Glen Ross and Oleanna, writes mostly about gritty, urban characters. Not only do they communicate with lots of four-letter words, but the pace and energy with which they speak are very sharp and stringent. Mamet’s dialogue almost sounds like a machine gun. For instance, a character in one of his plays might say, “What. Are. You. DOING?!” One would never use this sort of punctuation in a novel, but in a play, it is perfectly acceptable. Similarly, in Martin McDonagh’s brilliant drama The Beauty Queen of Leenane, 1 a young man expresses his intense frustration by saying “Feck” (Irish slang for another f-word) eight times in a row. As his anger builds, the word grows in intensity. It is an entire monologue consisting of one word. As in creative writing, short sentences create tension. Longer, drawn-out sentences create a sense of time and space. South African playwright Athol Fugard says that when people in remote parts of Africa greet one another, they might say, “Hello, Jonathan Smith. How are you on this fine day?” The reason he gives for this is not clunky exposition. It is because if someone is traveling across an African savannah or through the bush, that may be the only person they see for the entire day. As a result, they want to stretch out
Playwriting 47 the encounter as long as they can. Someone in a big city who is running to catch a train might say the same line as “Hey John! How’s it going?” In this, we see that place can affect the rhythm of a scene as much as the characters themselves. Tone The tone of the scene is also of vital importance. In the script analysis section, this was referred to as the mood of the scene. For writers of television series, there will be weekly tone meetings with the top executives to make sure that each particular episode matches the tone of the series as a whole. In the interview section, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Beth Henley states that getting and maintaining the proper tone is the most important element of any script. Tone is somewhat elusive, as it is a combination of other elements such as dialogue, action, and character. All of these factors create the mood or tone of each scene and your script as a whole. This also harkens back to Aristotle where he said that characters must be true to who they are. As stated previously, you wouldn’t have a doctor who was afraid of blood. Pulitzer Prize-winner Beth Henley talks about the importance of tone in “The Interviews” chapter. Writing Realistic Dialogue As playwright Marsha Norman states, many writers either have an ear for dialogue or they don’t. If you happen to be one of the people who doesn’t, there are several ways around this: 1) Read your work out loud. Think like an actor. Walk around the room playing all the parts, paying close attention to how each character speaks. The famous Russian director and acting teacher Konstantin Stanislavski talked about “The Magic ‘If ’: If I were in this situation, how would I behave?” In this instance, a better question would be, “What would I say—and how would I say it?” If you think like an actor and perform your own plays as you write them, not only will you find it easier to create effective dialogue; you will also discover the gestures and actions that a certain scene requires. 2) Write short sentences. Most people speak in short sentences. They also interrupt one another. If you are writing contemporary
48 The Art of Writing for the Theatre characters, a line can sometimes be one word. It can also be a look or a gesture. One way I can also tell a novice writer (or sometimes a novice actor) is the way they handle an onstage telephone call. Are there hesitations, overlapping dialogue, or fragments of words? That is what happens in a real phone call. Very often, this also happens in a real conversation between two people. It makes your dialogue flow better. 3) Break up the dialogue with action. When we are speaking, we are almost never still. Life keeps moving around us. Interrupting the dialogue with an activity to explain what is going on in the context of where our characters are holding a conversation brings realism to the scene and makes the story go on. 4) Don’t Write in Dialects. If you have a character who speaks with a dialect, it is very tempting to write your play that way. This can sometimes be confusing to the actor, director, or reader. Rather than taking that chance, it is a much safer bet to write in the character description or stage directions, “She speaks with a thick, Irish brogue,” “He has a noticeable lisp,” or whatever is required. It’s perfectly fine to write in the rhythms that character would use and perhaps put in some colloquialisms or words like “ain’t,” but avoid the temptation to write in a dialect unless it is vital to the script. I’ve had producers and other executives tell me they feel they are being talked down to when a playwright writes in heavy dialect. And how likely are they to advance your script if they feel like they have been insulted? Not very much. Character In any play, your characters are key. Some playwrights write about their families, some about people they have known, some about historical figures, while still others create them entirely from their imaginations. Stepping back to The Poetics again, Aristotle favored characters who were serious, important, virtuous people, and who were not wicked, but flawed. To some extent, this still holds true today. Most characters are good people, or at least they think they are doing good. Most importantly, your leading characters need to be well-rounded, complex individuals with many facets to their personalities. Aristotle also talked about dramatic characters suffering from hamartia, or a tragic flaw. In other words, they are basically virtuous, but they have a blind spot. Even the great Greek warrior Achilles had his heel. We all have certain
Playwriting 49 weaknesses and so should your characters. Maybe someone talks too much, is headstrong or arrogant. They might be fine, upstanding individuals, but in terms of their personalities, they have a major flaw. Somehow, they are a little off balance. If they are the antagonist or villain, perhaps they are a lot off balance. We all have longtime friends we hold dear, despite their flaws. If relationships were smooth sailing all the time, they wouldn’t be very interesting or realistic. So, what is it that makes your characters unique? What are their foibles, blind spots, prejudices, or other issues that make them stand out? I had a godmother who had inherited a considerable amount of family money. She purchased a gorgeous estate in Connecticut, and she had the gardener install an authentic Japanese rock garden. She wanted to be sure that her Bonsai trees and bamboo plants thrived, so she enrolled in a local community college and took Japanese lessons so she could talk to her plants. She learned all the terms of endearment in Japanese so that her trees, flowers, and shrubs would understand her as she spoke to them. This otherwise sane and rational woman did something really wacky to ensure that her garden thrived. What a unique, quirky character trait! (P.S., my godmother’s Japanese garden grew like crazy.) What are some character traits you might employ to make your characters unique and special? Most importantly, a character must want something. As discussed earlier, this is one of the key elements of drama. All your leading characters (in fact, everyone except possibly the minor, supporting players) must be trying to achieve some sort of goal. Actors are taught to always ask the question, “What does my character want?” As the playwright, you must provide the answer. Characters also have secrets. They have hidden information that they don’t want others to know. Of course, if the audience knows them but the characters don’t, that creates more dramatic tension. They can also have surprises. Just when you know your character is going to order chocolate ice cream, they ask for pistachio. That’s a rather simplistic example, but I’m sure you see my point. A Moment with Arthur Miller My mother was a well-respected, American character actress named Eileen Heckart. In 1955, she was cast as Beatrice, the long-suffering, Italian wife of a longshoreman in the original Broadway production of Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge, which was to become one of the modern classics of
50 The Art of Writing for the Theatre American drama. After his tremendous success with Death of a Salesman, All My Sons, and The Crucible, Miller was the preeminent American playwright. Heckart was thrilled to be working with him. During rehearsals, there was a line that didn’t ring true for her. She discussed it with the director, Martin Ritt. “Marty,” she said, “I just don’t think Beatrice would say something like this.” Ritt agreed but said he relied upon her talent to make it work. That wasn’t the answer the actress wanted to hear. “Arthur is here today,” she said. “Will you ask him to change the line?” Ritt looked stricken. “I can’t ask Arthur Miller to change a line!” “Why not?” she asked. “Well . . . he’s Arthur Miller!” “What does that mean? He’s the playwright! If you won’t ask him, then I will!” Heckart marched to the back of the theatre where Mr. Miller was chewing on his pencil and listening to the scene being rehearsed. Halfway up the aisle, her bravado left her. “Oh dear,” she thought, “what if Marty’s right? Arthur is such a quiet, sensitive man. What if I’m doing a terrible thing and I’m about to offend this important playwright?” It was too late to back out now. She approached Arthur Miller, who smiled at her. “Excuse me, Arthur,” she said, “May I speak to you?” Miller removed his notebook and script from the seat next to him and motioned for her to sit down. “Well . . . um . . . it’s about this line on page 43. You see . . . well . . . I just don’t think Beatrice would say this.” Miller was taken aback by the statement, not accustomed to having people question his dramatic authority. Unlike in film and television, in the theatre, the playwright is king. “Well, show me the line,” he said. The nervous actress opened her script to the folded page and placed it in Miller’s lap. He read the entire page to get the proper context, teething his pencil the entire time. Removing the pencil from his mouth, he looked up at her. “Fine. What would you like to say instead?” They agreed upon a suitable line, and she walked away, totally satisfied. That moment for her affirmed the greatness of Arthur Miller. He had the
Playwriting 51 sense to know that an actress playing one of his female roles would have gotten inside the psyche of the character deeper than he had as the playwright. She wanted a different line, and he was more than happy to give it to her. This is one of my favorite examples of the collaborative process of the theatre. Write Like a Collaborator Speaking of collaboration, this is one of the most important aspects of writing for the theatre. The well-known acting teacher and director Herbert Berghof used to refer to the theatre as “a wonderful contact sport.” All aspects of the theatre require collaboration. Everyone is working together to create a creative whole. The more flexible you can be as a writer, the more people will want to work with you and the better chance you have of getting your plays produced. Certain playwrights dig in their heels and won’t let a single comma be altered. This is not a smart way to work. During rehearsals, a play is a fluid thing. The director and the other actors may request changes. If you’re lucky enough to get a play into production, be a team player. Listen to the director, actors, and designers. They are all about making it the best it can be. In the world of improvisation, a distinction is made between “yes, and . . .” actors and “no, but . . .” actors. If an improvising actor enters a scene and says, “You look like you need some suntan lotion” and the other actor responds, “Are you crazy? It’s been raining for three days!,” then the improv cannot really go anywhere, can it? If the other actor had replied, “Yes, can you put some lotion on my back? And do you happen to have an extra pair of sunglasses?” Then the scene can go somewhere. You want to be a “Yes, and . . .” kind of playwright the same way Arthur Miller was with my mother. There is a wonderful section called “On Collaboration” in The Interviews chapter. You’ll want to read more about the vital importance of this integral part of the process. The Given Circumstances for Your Play Acting teachers always talk about the given circumstances of a scene. This refers to what specific details the playwright tells the actors in the script to help them make informed choices. If we look at this question from the perspective of the playwright, it can help us figure out what questions we
52 The Art of Writing for the Theatre need to answer. Even if they are not relevant to your play, knowing the answers will help you find needed elements for character development. Here are some of the most important ones. Here are some essential questions for understanding the given circumstances for your characters from the great actress and teacher, Uta Hagen.2 It is important that you answer as many of these questions as you can for every major character in your play: Who am I? Fill in as many details about your character as you can including name, age, address, relatives, likes, dislikes, hobbies, career, physical traits, opinions, beliefs, religion, education, origin, enemies, loved ones, etc. What time is it? Answer these questions for every scene. What is the century, season, year, day, hour, and minute? Discover the significance of time for your characters. How does this influence their mood? Where am I? What is the country, city, neighborhood, home, room, area within a room? Is your character in their own home? Are they locked in the closet of their arch enemy? What surrounds me? Discover all the animate and inanimate objects around your character. Be specific. Would the presence of a knife or a gun change the scene? World events? What is going on in the world currently? Who is the leader of the country? What world events have happened recently? The moment before. What has happened to each character immediately before the play begins? Or before a specific scene begins? What are my relationships in the scene? Define each character’s relationship to the events, other characters, and objects in each scene. What do I want? What do I do to get what I want? As discussed earlier, these last two are the most important and the crux of any good play. Personality Profiles In the realm of psychology, there are many fascinating personality profiles, many of which are available online. The two most useful ones for character development are the Enneagram and Myers-Briggs, although there are many others. In the case of the Enneagram (which is based on personality types from one to nine), let’s say your leading character is a six, known as the Loyal Skeptic. The positive traits of this Enneagram type are that they are loyal, courageous, and attentive to others and their problems. What would be the opposite of that? fi
Playwriting 53 It would be someone who is suspicious, pessimistic, and doubtful. You could either have those traits in another character who would be a foil to this one, or better still, you could have these traits in the same character when they are having a bad day or a weak moment. Personality profiles can help you flesh out your dramatis personae (Latin for dramatic characters) by not only exploring what they would do, but what they wouldn’t do in each situation. This can be a valuable tool for seeing the many facets of your characters. Some writers have suggested that when you get stuck on a plot point for your character, if you can’t figure out what they would do next, make a list of things they wouldn’t do. The process of elimination can be a good place to start. I’ve heard other writers say they solve this problem by literally asking their characters what they would like to do or say next. Many roads lead to Rome. And . . . Action! We have previously talked about action, but it cannot be stressed enough. Give your characters a rich, full, specific life. Where have they come from? After this scene, where are they going? A character who has just come in from a day of working in a factory and who sits on the sofa in their underwear and drinks a beer is going to behave very differently from one who works in a boutique, sips a glass of Chardonnay with a colleague, and then goes to the opera. Actions can be very simple. They could be folding the laundry while revealing their deepest, darkest secrets to someone. They could be polishing their nails while on the telephone. Actions tell a great deal about characters. I once saw a scene in acting class where a woman was refinishing a chair while telling her best friend that her husband had left her. It was such a unique activity, I never forgot it. Can you think of some unique activity that one of your characters could do? Specificity Becomes Universal The more specific you make your writing, the more universal it becomes. Let me give you a very personal example. This may seem like a total contradiction, but I assure you, it is not. I wrote a memoir about my family. As I was writing, I would often sit at the computer sobbing and saying things like, “Nobody is going to give a damn about this! It is so particular to me and my situation, why will anyone care?” Actually, the opposite was true. When the audience
54 The Art of Writing for the Theatre sees a three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood character, they relate and choose who they want to see in it. I had so many people say to me, “I had the exact same kind of mother!” Other people said, “Your father was just like my Uncle Stuart, my boss, or brother-in-law.” By creating a rich, full portrait, I created characters who were relatable. This is true with plot, too. I’ll say it again: the more specific you make your story, the more universal it becomes. What Does “Show, Don’t Tell” Mean? Most beginning writers come across the phrase, “Show, don’t tell.” This means that a play must be written in dramatic action and with a great deal of sensory detail, rather than with exposition. Audiences are much more involved in a play when they feel they can viscerally imagine the events as they are occurring. Playwright Anton Chekhov said, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining. Show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Showing illustrates, while telling merely states. It can feel condescending for a playwright simply to “tell” the audience what is occurring and how to feel about it rather than letting them experience it. Everyone will view a play differently. That is the beauty of live theatre. Here’s a quick example of showing versus telling: Showing: Father Trevor, you are not leaving this table until you eat your carrots! Trevor pokes at the carrots on his plate and grimaces. When his father looks away, Trevor takes a forkful of carrots and hurls them onto the floor. Telling: Father Trevor, you are not leaving this table until you eat your carrots! Trevor But father, I don’t like carrots! Do you see how much more interesting it is to show this? In the first example, we see Trevor’s behavior through action. In the second, we are simply given information. As a playwright, you want to show rather than tell whenever possible. Showing also helps develop characters in a way that isn’t just listing their personality traits. When used effectively, showing draws the audience in.
Playwriting 55 It contributes to story development but also leaves certain things up to the viewer’s interpretation, which is much more compelling than making everything explicit. While you will certainly have some exposition (telling) in every script, it’s best to have showing be your prime strategy. While there are a few notable exceptions to this, one of the most obvious is in the case of Greek tragedy. Due to the conventions of the time, dramatic action couldn’t take place onstage, so characters such as messengers and servants had to explain how they witnessed Oedipus gouging out his own eyes, Jocasta hanging herself from the rafters, or Clytemnestra stabbing Agamemnon in the bathtub. While “Show, don’t tell” is perhaps the most repeated piece of advice given to writers, it is important that a playwright knows exactly what to show. After all, the audience doesn’t have to know every detail. Exposition, if judiciously used, is not always a bad thing. Start the Story Quickly As with other forms of writing, it’s best to get into the action as quickly as possible with a strong dramatic hook to draw in the audience. A dramatic hook is a device used at the beginning of a play (or film, or novel) to engage a reader’s curiosity. A hook grabs the audience’s attention right from the opening of the story. A slow beginning won’t have them rushing out after five minutes, but you mustn’t let your audience get fidgety. They will expect the core issue behind the story (the first plot point) to be revealed early on. If it isn’t, they might get confused and wonder if they’ve missed something. One way to do that is to always ask yourself, “How late can I start the scene?” and “How soon can I leave it?” For instance, if a scene opens with a phone call, you don’t have to open with the person dialing the number and exchanging pleasantries. Get to the meat of the conversation. Will They Get It in the Back Row? Writing for a live audience is challenging. Television dramatists and screenwriters can rely on the camera being able to get up-close and reveal every raised eyebrow, hushed comment, and sexy smile, but this won’t work in
56 The Art of Writing for the Theatre a theatre. It’s no use having one of your characters wink knowingly at someone on stage because only the people in the first row are going to see it. Of course, if you are doing your play in a tiny, black box theatre, the rules would be somewhat different than if it is being presented in a 2,000-seat opera house. But since you cannot dictate where your play will be performed when (and if) it is successful, you need to write for all spaces. When writing dialogue and stage directions, ask yourself if the patrons in the back of the theatre will get it. The Significance of Exposition Here is an example of really clunky exposition. If you’re a fan of “whodunit” stories and pot-boilers, you’ve probably seen a scene like this before: Lights up on the main hall of a cold, foreboding Victorian mansion. The phone is ringing. The maid enters and answers it. Elsie Smithfield residence. This is Elsie the maid speaking. Oh no, Mr. Smithfield is away for two months. I’m the only one home. He’s in Africa on safari. An excellent shot, he is. What’s that? Turning off the power? All night? Oh dear, I’m glad you told me. Especially with those storm clouds on the horizon. And that killer still on the loose. How many times have we seen cheesy murder mysteries or Gothic melodramas begin this way? They give away so much in the first two minutes, there is nothing left to the imagination. You know Elsie is going to be plunged into darkness, and you know there will be a terrible thunderstorm during which time the escaped murderer will show up. You know the master—or someone—will come back unexpectedly and shoot the killer just in time. This is an example of really awful exposition. Let’s look at how to layer it artfully. Playwrights use exposition for many reasons. One key reason is to skim over information that the reader needs to know for story points but does not need to experience “first-hand.” Exposition is also important to fill in background and setting without focusing on them too much. In fact, if a story contained no exposition and only had sensory details, then the reader may not know which of the dramatized moments are of greater or lesser value. Many young writers spew out all the exposition at once. This is a mistake. There is nothing wrong with keeping the audience guessing and finding clever ways to uncover your exposition.
Playwriting 57 Let’s say two men are speaking at the top of a scene. We don’t know what their relationship is to one another. There is a sense of pleasant anticipation from the audience as they try to figure it out. After they have been talking for a few minutes, one of them says, “You know, mom won’t like that.” We now know they are brothers. Think of exposition like Hansel and Gretel with their breadcrumbs. Dole it out slowly, a little bit at a time. Ask yourself, “Does the audience need to know this yet to understand the story?” Think like a stripper and tease them a bit. The Good Title Test Another very important element of your play is the title. It should be something short and catchy that conveys the essence of your play. My friend Katherine MacDonald, a very talented screenwriter, textbook author, and movie studio executive, says if you can imagine yourself at the box office saying, “Two tickets for . . . ,” it’s a good title. Rob Roberge, one of my grad school professors, said that if you can say, “And other stories” after it as if it were on the cover of a collection of short stories or short plays, it also passes the title test. Let’s take a couple of titles of mine and see if they fit the mold: “Two Tickets for The Last Lifeboat.” Yup, that one works. “The Man Who Killed the Cure and Other Plays.” Yes, that also works. This somewhat silly game illustrates a point. Your title should evoke an image or a feeling. It could be a whiff of nostalgia, a sense of humor, a visceral feeling, or an emotion. More than anything, when someone hears a title, they should say to themselves, “I want to know what that play is about,” or, at the very least, “I want to know more.” Exercise Do you have a strong title for your play, whether or not you have written it yet? Say it out loud. Does it evoke some sort of image, feeling, or both? Is it a title that is easy to remember? Can you imagine someone standing at the box office and saying, “Two tickets for . . .?” Come up with as many strong titles as you can. Some playwrights and authors have a list of titles for plays or stories they want to write. Does a certain title inspire you to get to work?
58 The Art of Writing for the Theatre The Mechanics of Writing a Play Formatting There are several basic formatting elements needed for a properly formatted playscript. These are page numbering, act/scene designations, the setting and description, blackout, curtain or end designations, character names, dialogue, and stage directions. Acts, Scenes, and Intermissions Plays are broken down into acts; an act ends when the curtain comes down (or when the lights go out). A short play consists of a single act. Longer ones might have two, three, or more. Many older plays (from the era of Shakespeare, Molière, or Restoration comedies) often have a five-act structure. Each act is divided into scenes. An act might include one scene or a number of them. The end of an act is a logical place for an intermission. As a rule, an audience should get a ten to fifteen-minute intermission after every forty-five to sixty minutes of stage time. Sometimes, a play can be one-act which lasts up to ninety minutes. As a rule of thumb, an act should not last more than an hour without an intermission. If your play is in two acts, the first act generally runs longer than the second. Laying Out Your Script There are several commonly used formats. This is the most popular one: Example 1: • Act and Scene headings are centered. • Character’s names are on the left, with colons after them. • Stage directions are indented one tab and italicized. • Parenthetical stage directions are used for small actions. • When a new character is introduced, the name is capitalized. Let’s look at it in practice, from my play, The Last Lifeboat: 3
Playwriting 59 SCENE FIVE (An abrupt shift in lighting takes us back in time. Ocean sounds and gulls are heard as THOMAS ISMAY, Bruce’s staunch, Victorian father, enters stage left. Ismay’s energy and body language transforms into that of a small boy as he playfully runs downstage left.) YOUNG ISMAY: Look, father! Look at the big boats! THOMAS ISMAY: When they are that large, my boy, they are not called boats. They are called ships. YOUNG ISMAY: And you built these ships, father? THOMAS ISMAY: I had them built. I am the owner of the line. And one day, you’ll do the same. (Young Ismay quickly loses interest in the ships.) YOUNG ISMAY: Thank you, father, but I think I’d rather join the fire brigade. THOMAS ISMAY: Poppycock. Do you remember the names I told you for the different parts of the ship? (Young Ismay stares at the ships and thinks a moment, eager to please his father.) YOUNG ISMAY: I think I do. Yes. THOMAS ISMAY: Now then, which is the port side of the ship? YOUNG ISMAY: Up there? THOMAS ISMAY: (Sternly) Wrong! That is the bow. Now, try again. Which is the starboard? (Young Ismay tentatively points again.) YOUNG ISMAY: There? (Thomas Ismay shakes his son impatiently.) THOMAS ISMAY: That is not a part of the ship! That’s a flag, you idiot! How will you ever be able to speak to the shipbuilders? (Young Ismay looks shocked and wounded.) YOUNG ISMAY: But you said starboard. It has a star on it . . . THOMAS ISMAY: (Angrily) You’re hopeless! (Thomas Ismay strides quickly off downstage left. Young Ismay runs after him.) As you can see, the format is quite simple with character names on the left and their dialogue continuing on the same line. Stage directions are in italics to differentiate them from dialogue. Also note terms such as “stage left,”
60 The Art of Writing for the Theatre “stage right,” and “downstage” (from the perspective of the actor onstage) to indicate which direction characters enter and exit from. All other directions should be kept to a minimum. Many times, these are abbreviated as SL (stage left), SR (stage right), CS (center stage), US (upstage), DSL (downstage left), etc. Here is another common example. I purposely chose the opening of this play so you can see how the setting is written. Example 2: • Act and Scene headings are centered. • Character’s names are centered and capitalized. • Stage directions are indented one tab and italicized. • Parenthetical stage directions are used for small actions. “Marilyn, Mom & Me”4 Scene 1 (As the lights slowly rise, there is a unit set with several different playing areas and a few utilitarian set pieces: a café table and two chairs, a bench, a love seat, an armchair, a coffee table, and an empty door frame. Changes in time and locale are intended to be achieved through lighting transitions. The feel of the piece should be fluid and cinematic, with no blackouts between scenes and minimal costume changes.) LUKE, a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man, enters an upscale living room in a suburban home. He carries a pink pastry box. He sits at the coffee table and arranges the items on it: a pitcher of iced tea, the pastries, a large ashtray, and a pack of cigarettes. LUKE Mom! I’m ready! (He takes a mini cassette recorder out of his bag and starts fiddling with it.) LUKE Testing. Testing 123. The date is February 7, 1999, and this is tape 1 of the Mama Project. (Once everything is set, EILEEN enters UR. She is a crusty, no-nonsense actress of a certain age. A cigarette dangles from her lips.) EILEEN Where’s the ashtray? LUKE Right here. Can I turn up the heat? It’s freezing in here. EILEEN Only two degrees. It costs a fortune to heat this old place.
Playwriting 61 LUKE It’s not exactly like you’re strapped for cash. EILEEN And I want to keep it that way, thank you. You want one of your father’s sweaters? LUKE No, thanks. EILEEN I still have a couple. In the bottom drawer of the— LUKE I’m fine. EILEEN They still smell like him. When I put one on, it’s almost like he’s hugging me. LUKE Daddy always did give the best hugs. Whatever format you use, the most important thing is that it is clear and easy to read. Obviously, be sure that different elements (for instance, stage directions versus dialogue) are formatted in such a way to differentiate themselves from one another. In addition to formatting, notice the way the exposition is layered. We get that Eileen is Luke’s mother. She misses her deceased husband and Luke misses his father. We also know that Eileen is well off, but frugal. We are in a cold climate. We also know that Eileen has a penchant for pastries. Except for the date (which Luke says into a tape recorder), none of these facts are spelled out; they are doled out through the dialogue. Because there’s no strict format for a theatre script, it’s harder to say how many minutes are taken up by each page. With film scripts, the rule of thumb is usually one minute per page. I think this is normally a good standard for plays as well, but the best way to judge length is to time yourself while reading it aloud. Better still, get a group of your friends to read it and time it. We’ll talk more about the best way to do this in the last chapter, “The Brass Tacks.” Meanwhile, let’s get back to some of the components of a strong script. Dramatic Tension Dramatic tension is something that is necessary for any successful play. In the book Backwards and Forwards, this is what author David Ball refers to as “forwards.” In television terms, it’s what keeps the viewer from changing
62 The Art of Writing for the Theatre the channel. It’s a little harder to walk out in the middle of a play, so this is the thing that prevents an audience member from looking at their watch, yawning, coughing, stretching, or thinking about what they’ll buy for dinner on their way home. Types of Dramatic Tension Some scholars suggest there are four types of dramatic tension, while others refer to five or more. Writing teacher Michelle Renee Miller has put these into a wonderful list with explanations, which I have slightly adapted.5 These rules are often applied more to fiction writing, but they can certainly work for plays as well. They are: 1. Relationships 2. Task 3. Surprise 4. Mystery 5. Dramatic Irony So, let’s break each one down: The Tension of Relationships This is the most common one in dramatic literature (and in life) because it is the one we encounter almost daily. The point of tension here is between two characters: Othello and Iago, John Worthing and Lady Bracknell, or Sweeney Todd and Judge Turpin. Often, we see this tension between the protagonist and antagonist. We’re rooting for the protagonist to succeed, but the antagonist keeps preventing them. Friends arguing, parents disciplining, couples wooing, passive aggression, and silent treatments are all examples of tension in relationships. This tension helps make characters feel like real people. That, of course, is the goal of the playwright. If your characters move through the story never having an argument, never crossing anyone, or having a different opinion than someone else, it’s very unrealistic. It would also be boring with a capital “B.” How long has it been since you scrolled through social media and saw a friend or colleague with whom you have a wildly different opinion? Ever argue with your parents about what you were going to wear, how to get your hair cut, or who you were going to date? These are all examples of relationship tension. This is one of the key elements that will make your script rich, full, bursting with life and more importantly, laden with conflict.
Playwriting 63 The Tension of the Task The tension of the task has to do with what your protagonist is trying to accomplish. It can be on a smaller or larger scale. Maybe in a scene, they’re trying to figure out an answer to a problem, but the bigger goal of the story is to save the world. Once again, an example that leaps to mind is Sophocles’ Oedipus the King. King Oedipus is trying to figure out the killer of the former King Laius, but that is so he can stop the plague and save his people. If your character can easily achieve their goals, that’s great for them, but not for the audience. Nobody wants to read a story where everything plays out perfectly right off the bat. Again, when was the last time you got what you wanted effortlessly? (Yeah. Me too.) To make a play realistic, your protagonist needs some roadblocks thrown in their way. What kind of obstacles stop them? You can also have them struggle internally. Have you ever had a deadline for school or work that you simply didn’t want to complete? Maybe you were tired, had a cold, your feet hurt, or it was just something you didn’t want to do. As writers, it is often the terror of the blank page or the blinking cursor. These could all be examples of the tension of the task. Maybe your character has emotional problems like depression or OCD that prevent them from completing this task. There are any number of ways to temporarily stop your protagonist, so you can have some fun with this one. The Tension of Surprise This type of tension is probably the most obvious kind. People who say they like surprises are only talking about parties, gifts, or last-minute trips to The Bahamas. Otherwise, nobody really likes them. There are two different types of surprises. The audience can be surprised by a plot twist, or the protagonist can be surprised by new events as they unfold. Your surprise could range from dad not coming home from work at the normal time to Jack the Ripper bursting through the front door. There really isn’t a day that goes by where we aren’t surprised by something. If you doubt this, just watch the evening news. Much like the other tensions, you must include surprises in your play to make it feel realistic. A story that plays out exactly as expected is generally not worth watching. The Tension of Mystery This type of tension is also quite common and easily understood. Of course, when one thinks of mystery, one often thinks of spy stories or horror novels by Stephen King or Agatha Christie, but this can occur in dramatic literature as well. This tension propels the audience forward in the story. The mystery is so enticing that they can’t wait to find out what happened. This can be
64 The Art of Writing for the Theatre achieved by building up with the other tensions to a cliffhanger at the end of act 1 that then gets resolved in act 2. You can have one predominant mystery that’s at play until the climax of the story. Or, you can have smaller mysteries that just keep popping up throughout the play. These moments of suspense will bring the audience in and keep them engaged. Again, mystery happens every day of our lives, but often on a smaller scale. An emotional mystery that could tie in with the tension of relationships is, “Why did she say that to me?” “Why did he treat me that way?” Sometimes we get bigger, more unfortunate mysteries like, “Why did they have to die so young?” There are also bigger questions: “Who killed this woman?” or “Who stole the crown jewels?” Mystery is another thing that happens all the time, so it’s a valuable tool in your dramatic toolbox. Dramatic Irony Dramatic irony is present when the audience knows more than the characters on stage. It is an extremely old device; Shakespeare often used it. However, it continues to be widely employed by contemporary writers. For example, an audience may know a husband is plotting to kill his wife. They have dinner guests over and as the husband is all lovey-dovey and attentive, it gives the wife a sense of security, but it gives the audience the creeps. Generally, audiences want characters to learn the truth of their situations in the course of a play and eagerly await the character’s moment of discovery. Let’s look at one of my favorite examples. Another Example of Dramatic Irony: Hitchcock’s Bomb Sir Alfred Hitchcock, the cinematic master of suspense, felt there was a distinct difference between “suspense” and “surprise,” and yet he felt many stories often confuse the two. While Sir Alfred used this model for screenwriting, I have adapted his concept slightly for the purposes of a play. Hitchcock gives an example of two people sitting at a café having a chat. He asks the audience to suppose there is a bomb underneath the table. Nothing happens, and then all of a sudden, “Boom!” There is an explosion. The audience is surprised, but prior to this, it has seen a perfectly ordinary conversation between two people. Obviously, that is the example of surprise. In his suspense situation, the bomb is underneath the table, and the audience knows it is there, probably because they have seen the villain place it. They are aware the bomb is going to explode at 1 o’clock, and there is a clock on the set. Or perhaps we hear a clock chiming offstage. We know it is a quarter to one. In these conditions, the same innocuous conversation becomes
Playwriting 65 fascinating because the audience is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters onstage: “You shouldn’t be talking about such trivial matters! There is a bomb underneath your chair, and it is about to explode!” Perhaps one of the characters drops their napkin and as they bend down to retrieve it, the audience is relieved that they are going to see the bomb, but they don’t. Other moments like this can heighten the dramatic tension of the scene. Do you see how scenario number two is much stronger than number one? In the first scene, the playwright gives the audience fifteen seconds of surprise at the moment of the explosion. In the second, they have been provided with fifteen minutes of suspense. This sort of dramatic irony lets the audience in on the “joke.” Another example would be one of those outrageous, door-slamming farces where the jealous husband comes home early from a business trip and the wife has her lover hiding in the closet (usually without his trousers) as the husband stomps around the house unpacking his suitcase. The audience roars with laughter and anticipation to see just how long the wife can prevent him from opening the closet door. Everyone is in on the joke (except the husband), which gives the audience a sense of ownership. In other words, they are totally engaged. That is the primary task of the playwright: to keep the audience engaged at all costs. In Greek drama, the audience knew the story of King Oedipus and how he had unknowingly killed his father and married his mother. The drama for the audience was the way in which he discovered it. It is akin to a murder mystery where the audience knows the identity of the murderer from the beginning of the story. The excitement comes in watching the plot unfold. Another example is from Alfred Hitchcock’s television series, Alfred Hitchcock Presents. An episode entitled “Lamb to the Slaughter” was based on a short story by Roald Dahl about a beleaguered wife married to a philandering policeman. He comes home one night and tells her he is having an affair and wants a divorce. Filled with rage, as the wife begins to prepare dinner, she bludgeons her husband to death with a frozen leg of lamb. She stages his murder to look like a break-in and assault. Later, the police come by to investigate, and since they are all friends of her dead husband, the wife invites them to stay for dinner. While they are eating the leg of lamb, the policemen speculate about what might have been used as the murder weapon. The audience wants to scream, “You’re eating the evidence, you stupid cops!” Instead, the moment is chock-full of dramatic irony. To summarize, tension happens all around us every day. To leave it out of a play is to make it a dull, unrealistic story. Worst of all, your audience won’t
66 The Art of Writing for the Theatre care, and your play will open and close on the same night. (As you may recall from the introduction, my nine-year-old self actually saw this happen.) You can create tension between characters, through goals, surprises, with mysteries, and with dramatic irony. Tension happens on a scale. Sometimes it is small and almost unnoticeable. At other times, it is so large, it takes an entire play to fully explore it. No matter the play you write, it’s important to include tension throughout your story. Settings and Special Effects When you are writing your script, you must remember that this is a play. You are writing in a very specific, theatricalized form; what can be accomplished technically onstage is different from a film or a novel. While this might seem obvious, you’d be amazed how many play scripts I have read with car chases, flying saucers, a cast of fifty, and dozens of elaborate sets. Can these things be achieved onstage? Sure. But not easily. I have also heard beginning playwrights say, “That’s not my problem. It’s up to the director to figure that out.” This, to me, is the sign of an arrogant novice. Any playwright worth their salt keeps the limitations of the medium and the budget in mind. If your script must have explosions and car chases, then maybe it’s a film or a novel and not a play. Mounting a play can be a very expensive proposition. If you want to get your work produced, you need to take this into consideration as a writer. One of the wonderful things about a play is that an actor can walk onto a bare stage in a parka with some cool, blue lighting on their face and say, “I hope I don’t get frostbitten here on top of Mount Everest,” and we buy it. We don’t need to see a mountain and a snowstorm. As many writers say, “Never underestimate the imagination of the audience.” One of the harsh realities of the theatre is that many professional companies will not even consider a play with a cast larger than six people. By the time the producers pay salaries, health insurance contributions, and Actors’ Equity pensions, it is simply too expensive to have a cast any larger. The same is true with sets and costumes. In the interview section, playwright Beth Henley talks about the fact that when she wrote her play Crimes of the Heart (which went on to win the Pulitzer Prize and was made into a film), the final scene takes place at a birthday party. Knowing that this play would originally be produced in a small, ninety-nine-seat theatre, she wrote it so that the actors did not actually cut the birthday cake or consume it. She thought it would be too costly for the theatre to have to buy a new cake at
Playwriting 67 every performance, and she was afraid they might decide not to do the play. There is a reason theatre producers love two-character, one-set plays. Economically, they are very attractive. Should you write whatever you want? Absolutely. But keeping these practical considerations in mind gives you a much better chance of actually seeing your play on a stage. In the same vein, if you have a larger cast, you need to ask yourself if it is possible to double or even triple cast certain roles. Can an actor playing the chef walk offstage in their apron and come back as one of the dinner guests two scenes later? Of course, some organizations (like schools, colleges, and amateur theatrical groups) love large-cast shows because it creates more opportunities. Generally, this is only true when the actors are not being paid. And, of course, the theatre must still have a substantial costume budget. In the previous chapter, you saw a scene from my play, The Last Lifeboat, about the aftermath of the sinking of the Titanic. Even with doubling and tripling of certain roles, it still has a minimum cast size of thirteen to fifteen. It has had more than fifty amateur productions around the country, but it has never been presented at a professional theatre. For many, it would simply be too expensive. It is very theatrical (the Titanic is sunk on a bare stage executed simply through the physicality of the actors), but it still requires a number of people. Once again, I want to stress that you need to write what stirs your passion. But if you want to see your work done at a lot of theatres someday, it doesn’t hurt to think like a producer or director as you are writing and keep your play easily producible. Stage Directions: “KISS” The point of stage directions is to give the minimum amount of information to convey the action to the audience (or reader). “She exits.” “He enters upstage.” “They begin to eat dinner.” Many writers who are used to essay or prose format write very flowery stage directions which are far too descriptive. It is very important to remember the old acronym, “KISS”: “Keep it simple, stupid.” It’s perfectly fine to have parenthetical directions at the beginning of a line like, “Getting angry,” as long as they are showing and not telling. For instance, if a direction reads, “Maria gets impatient, because she realizes that her mother has always loved her brother more,” that is not a stage direction. That is information that needs to go into the script in another format, probably as dialogue or behavior.
68 The Art of Writing for the Theatre Behavior Behavior is another important element you must put into your script. We have discussed the importance of action and having your character do something. But how are they doing it? Let’s say one of your characters is setting the table for dinner. Are they placing each of the knives and forks gently, taking great care in how they fold the napkins? Or are they slamming the plates and the spoons? This is a great example of behavior without dialogue. We know a great deal about this character’s state of mind by the way they set that table. Conversely, if there is dialogue underneath the action, if the person is speaking sweetly while hurling down the crystal water pitcher with a thud, not only do we have the potential for comedy, but we know they are saying one thing and doing another. This is known as subtext. What Is Subtext? I choose to explain subtext as a moment where the text is an unimportant result of what is going on in the scene. Like the slamming silverware moment, this is where a character is saying or doing one thing while thinking another. A wife tells her husband how much she loves him before she poisons his soup. A student tells their teacher how hard they studied for the test when they copied the answers off someone else’s exam. Some actors refer to this as “playing the opposites.” My favorite example of this is in Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing. I saw it on Broadway with Jeremy Irons as Henry and Glenn Close as Annie. These were two fine actors at the top of their game. Henry adores and practically idolizes his wife Annie. There is a moment in the second act where, wracked with guilt and shame, Annie admits to Henry that she is having an affair. He is beyond devastated, but instead of showing his broken heart, Irons chose to look at her with an incredibly loving, compassionate smile. Clearly, he didn’t want to cause her any more pain by yelling at her, so rather than showing the depths of his heartbreak, he was conveying how much he loved her. Since the audience knows about Annie’s affair, this choice was even more chilling. It also created a great moment of dramatic irony and subtext. How Do You Start? Like most artistic pursuits, there is no firm answer to the question, “How do you start?” I have gotten ideas for plays from historical events, tabloid
Playwriting 69 headlines, a random comment from a friend, and any number of other places. Sometimes an idea just hits you. At other times, you have had an idea in your head for years and suddenly, you simply must write it down. Or, as mentioned earlier, you have a list of titles on your computer or in a notebook and one of them suddenly bursts into creation. The main thing is that you must be passionate about your idea. This is something you might be living with for weeks, months, or even years. You must ask yourself if this is an idea you are willing to commit to for that period. Composer and lyricist Stephen Sondheim said, “The only reason to write is from love. You mustn’t write because you think it’s going to be a hit or because it’s expedient or anything like that. It’s difficult to write, and so difficult to put on a show, if you have the privilege of being able to write, write it out of passion.” You must love your idea and your characters, even if they are despicable people. Once you have an idea and have some sense of the beginning, middle, and end (see the script analysis chapter for these various components), what is the best way to put it down on paper? Some writers swear by outlines. Others use them only under duress. Let’s say you have a wonderful idea for a play with interesting characters and a plot mapped out, even if it’s a rough one. (Trust me, it will change over time.) You can use an outline, make notes on index cards, or you can just start writing. Generally, the latter is what I do. If I have a scene about which I feel passionate, I simply dive in. And then I write another. And another. The problem with this method is that you can sometimes paint yourself into a corner where you have a few disjointed scenes and no road map to get from A to B to C. Even so, a lot of wonderful writers work this way. In some ways, it winds up being harder to stitch things together. The bottom line is that you need to employ whatever method works best for you. I have a bunch of affirmations and sayings over my desk, but there are two in particular that are posted at different heights, so I can see them if I am sitting or standing. The first one is, “Don’t get it right, get it written.” The second one is, “The worst thing you ever write is better than the best thing you never wrote.” As writers, we tend to be perfectionists. And if we write something we don’t like, we rarely say, “Well, I’ve had better days.” We usually say, “This is the WORST thing that has ever been written in the history of the world! Ugh! I could eat Webster’s Dictionary and puke a better play!” Artists, in general, tend to be a bit over-the-top, and writers are no exception.
70 The Art of Writing for the Theatre Whether you are writing a ten-minute comedy, or a five act drama, you want to be sure to employ all of the elements from the script analysis chapter. Be sure that you have exposition, an inciting incident, rising action, a climax, falling action, a resolution, and a denouement. How to Write a Ten-Minute Play One of the best ways to practice playwriting is to write a ten-minute play. It’s fast, efficient, and something one can do with relative ease. And since there are a number of rules to which one must adhere, if you can master the tenminute format, longer forms become easier. It’s also a great way to practice the “Don’t get it right, get it written” rule. A ten-minute play is normally about one thing. There isn’t a lot of room for exposition or subplots, so it’s best to take a simple idea and run with it. There are many short-play festivals specifically looking for ten-minute plays. I will talk more about those in “The Brass Tacks.” Here are some things to keep in mind. Make Sure It’s Ten Minutes This may seem like a no-brainer, but when you’re writing a ten-minute play, you need to stick to ten minutes. If you were writing an essay, you would stick to the word count, wouldn’t you? It’s the same thing with a ten-minute play. As a playwright, the timing of your play is somewhat beyond your control unless you are also directing. Obviously, the interpretation and performance can change the pace of your story. However, to make sure you’re on target when writing, be sure to read each draft aloud with a timer on hand. As stated earlier, the “one page per minute” rule is usually a good one. While it’s always a good idea to time your play, this is especially true if it is more than ten pages in script format. Create a Complete Story It might seem obvious that you need to write a narrative with an arc (a beginning, middle, and end), but often what can happen in ten-minute plays is that you’ll end up writing something akin to sketch comedy instead of play.
Playwriting 71 How can you tell? The main difference is that in a sketch, everything tends to be working toward a punch line (even in a drama). In a play, there has to be an arc to the story, the character, or both. Sometimes the climax of a play is similar to the punchline of a joke, but that isn’t what the story is working toward. In other words, the climax marks the highest point of tension of the story, but it is what it has been working toward. You can tell the difference between laboring to a punch line or working toward (and past) a climax. Be sure you do the latter in a play (even a short one). In sketches, there is very little character development, if any. Nor is there any real purpose to the narrative besides the punchline. A sketch is akin to telling a joke. A play is not. In a play, even if the characters do not change much, there is a realization or arc to the narrative. Ask a Question Every play should ask a question. Keeping this in mind in a short form is another way to avoid writing a sketch. While some plays ask questions, some plays are about what irks you or what keeps you up at night. While political or social issues might be better suited to a full-length play or even a oneact, don’t be afraid to examine those sorts of issues at least in part in a short play. Whatever you ask or examine, make this the central theme of your play. It will give it purpose, keep your story focused, and reveal many other important things, like your story’s thesis and themes. Character Development and Conflict As mentioned previously, for any story you write, after you’ve asked the main question or determined the topic of your play, you’ll want to flesh out character, setting, and the conflict that arises from your question, theme, or central thesis. The rules about developing your characters as fully as possible still apply. Develop at least one complex character to intrigue your audience as you develop conflict that is rooted in your story. (Of course, in a full-length play, you would have several.) Settings and other elements should be kept to a bare minimum. Limit Exposition Since you only have ten minutes, you’ll need to limit exposition or skip it altogether to get to the heart of your story. While you may be tempted to
72 The Art of Writing for the Theatre slip it in, you could be wasting precious seconds talking about something that the audience doesn’t likely need to know instead of advancing the plot. Remember, in a ten-minute play, you are strictly bound to that time limit. Therefore, you cannot afford to waste much time on exposition. If the information is essential, find a way to incorporate it into dialogue or behavior. If you feel that anything more than minor exposition is necessary, you may have a one-act play on your hands instead of a ten-minute one. Introduce the Conflict Quickly Remember Marsha Norman’s rule about letting the audience know when they get to go home? In a ten-minute play, the audience needs to know the main conflict of your play by the end of page one. You don’t have to introduce it in the first line of dialogue, but the sooner, the better. If you are asking a question, let the audience know what it is. Whatever it is, every moment of your play should be trying to somehow answer it. Get Creative and Take Risks One of the most exciting parts of writing a ten-minute play is that since it is a short form, you can experiment and take risks. Since you don’t have a huge investment in time and energy, you can afford to go out on a limb and be bold. Given that you have such a short amount of time, you can really get creative and take risks. If it doesn’t work, there’s always another draft, if not another play altogether. So, if it’s your first time writing a ten-minute play, don’t obsess over getting things right. Once again, “Don’t get it right, get it written.” Instead, let your imagination go wild. Make bold choices and do things you normally wouldn’t. The worst that can happen is you’ll have to rewrite or start over, which only consists of ten to twelve pages. Cut Out Extraneous Details Since time is of the essence, delete anything that isn’t relevant to your narrative. This could be a secondary character, an entire scene, or simply a line of dialogue. Once you’ve finished a draft, examine every line carefully. Ask yourself if it helps to answer your main question. If it doesn’t, say “Buhbye.” Cut it.
Playwriting 73 Use Action and Behavior Avoid writing your play with dialogue alone. Actors can utilize their voices, bodies, physicality, and expressions. Like the example of setting the table earlier, use behavior to make your play deeper and your characters richer. Make Sure You’re Using the Right Format This is a very important question. Before you get in too deep, ask yourself, “Can I really tell this story in ten minutes?” Are you trying to stuff a threeact structure into ten pages? And remember, if it’s filled with descriptions of the scenery or special effects, it is not a play, but a short story or a film. Be sure your script ticks enough of the boxes to make it a short play and not something else. A “Slice of Life” Play Conversely, there is another type of ten-minute play that defies most of these rules. I call it a “slice of life” play. My friend, playwright Philip Middleton Williams, has a brilliant example of this in his ten-minute play “A Moment of Clarity,” which is featured in his collection A House by the Side of the Road. 6 In it, a man sits with his elderly father at the drugstore waiting for a prescription to be filled. The father is losing his faculties, and while he is experiencing a moment of lucidity, father and son reflect on their lives and what they mean to each other in this beautiful, heartfelt play. It’s nothing but two men sitting in chairs talking about their relationship and it breaks your heart. It goes against most of what I said earlier about starting out of the gate forcefully and establishing a strong conflict, but this glimpse into life is something to which we can all relate. It is another type of ten-minute play that can be extremely effective. Other Play Formats If you apply these criteria to your ten-minute play, it is actually easier to expand it to a one-act (which generally runs anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five minutes) or a full-length play (which is roughly seventy-five minutes to two
74 The Art of Writing for the Theatre hours). With a one-act or longer play, you can have subplots, exposition, and elements you simply don’t have time for in the ten-minute format. You can also have more complex characters and richer character development. If you can master the ten-minute play format, these other formats will be a breeze. One-Person Shows With a one-person show, basically you are writing a seventy-five-to-ninetyminute monologue. This can be a very challenging format, but one that many producers like because it is cost-effective, as there is generally only one actor and one stage manager in terms of salaries. The biggest obstacle in a one-person show is creating conflict when there is only one character. There are several ways around this. You can have a character with an inner conflict (perhaps trying to resolve some issue from their past or overcome some sort of unseen obstacles like racism, homophobia, or a serious illness). Another way is to have an unseen character who acts as an antagonist. As in any play, the protagonist is trying to achieve something, but the invisible (or offstage) antagonist is trying to stop them. It’s also important to establish to whom the person is speaking. Are they dictating their memoirs, talking to a shrink, or are we hearing their inner monologue? And it’s important to know what question they are trying to answer or what they are trying to solve. Also, do we need to know why are they alone in this space? Are they waiting for someone or being detained? At the end of the play, will there be a knock at the door and the curtain will fall just as another person supposedly enters? Sometimes, one-person shows contain theatrical devices like someone on the other end of the telephone, a recorded voice, or music to give the sense that there is a rich, full, world populated with other people just offstage. If you are writing about a historical figure (a common choice for one-person shows), you need to make sure it’s not just a history lesson where the character is constantly saying, “And then I did this.” It’s important that we have a sense of them as a flesh-and-blood person and not just a mythical figure out of a library book. Writing Is Rewriting I’m sure you have heard this aphorism before: “Writing is rewriting.” Think of your first draft as a blueprint. Now build the house. The next drafts are
Playwriting 75 where you tweak, delete, add, refine, and shape your play. How do you know when you are finished? Some playwrights never really feel like their work is complete. But the more you do it, the more you know when it’s time to stop. Playwright Arlene Hutton says, “Some plays are like colts being born. They fall out and start galloping right away. Others are like marsupials. They need to be nurtured in the pouch for a long time before they are ready.” Conclusion There are many more specific examples of playwriting do’s and don’ts in “The Interviews” chapter. Since most of these are from Pulitzer Prize winners, Olivier nominees, or Tony recipients (many of whom also teach playwriting, criticism, or lyric writing at the college level), I encourage you to glean as much as you can from their years of experience toiling in the rich and expansive vineyards of the theatre. Exercises There are many more playwriting exercises and writing prompts available online, but here are some examples. Other exercises are referred to in the interview section. As long as you are writing from your passionate heart, you cannot go wrong. 1) Cover over the character names in an existing script. Can you tell who is speaking? Do they have distinct voices? What about the rhythms and the musicality (or lack thereof) in their language? 2) Set a timer. Write for that period of time. Try not to let the pen leave the page or your fingers leave the keyboard. Now, read what you have. Is there anything here that could be part of a play? Maybe you think most of it is terrible, but there is one line or phrase that you really like. What do you admire about it? 3) Consider something you have written. Is the spine (or throughline) of your play clear? Will the audience know within the first eight pages of the play (or less if it is a one-act) when they get
76 The Art of Writing for the Theatre to go home? Remember, if it is a ten-minute play, this question should be answered by the end of the first page. 4) Think of one of your favorite plays or movies. Write a scene that is not in it, but you wish it were. Or write a different ending to it. 5) This is one of my favorite playwriting exercises. There are a few steps, but they are all quite easy and fun. Write this phrase at the top of a sheet of paper: “The Time When . . .” Then brainstorm for as long as you can. Don’t think about it too much, just write. It is stronger if these are actual events from your life as opposed to fictitious ones. “The time when I broke my leg.” “The time when the tooth fairy left me money.” “The time when I realized I had to go into the theatre.” “The time when grandma died.” My favorite one is, “The time when the dog ate the sweet and sour sauce and looked like Vincent Van Gogh.” (You don’t have to write “The Time When” for each one. It’s up to you.) Once you have your list, circle the top three. These are the ones you’d really like to write about or that you think could make a good play. Then pick one and start writing a scene from a play about that event. You can give yourself a time limit (“I’ll write for fifteen minutes”) or not. If it is something you are passionate about, chances are it will flow out of you quite effortlessly. Don’t worry too much about grammar and spelling. Just get a first draft on the page. (Many writers refer to this as their “vomit draft.”) You can always fix it later. 6) Scroll through some of your most recent texts or emails. Find one that you think could be the foundation for a strong scene or ten-minute play.
3 Criticism Even when I was a theatre-struck child, I couldn’t get away with saying at the dinner table that I simply liked—or, more probably, “adored,” as I was an affected little thing—a play. My parents insisted, gently, that I had to be able to say why. And was “adored” really the word I wanted? —Ben Brantley, theatre critic The “Why” of Theatre Criticism “What is the value of theatre criticism? Why is it something worth learning and studying? I know what I like and what I don’t. Isn’t that all that matters?” Well, maybe you know what you like, but can you articulate it in theatrical Chapter Outline The “Why” of Theatre Criticism 77 “I Liked It” Doesn’t Matter 80 Writing a Critique for a Play 80 “Why Am I Bored?” 84 A Sample Critique 85 Criticism as Entertainment 87 Remember: Artists Have Feelings, Too 88 When to Keep It to Yourself 90 What to Look for When Writing a Critique 91 Critiquing Other Forms 100 Exercises 101
78 The Art of Writing for the Theatre terms? Are you able to say, “This element of a particular play worked for me and this one didn’t, and this is why? And who needs to know this stuff, anyway? I have no interest in being a theatre critic, so why should it matter?” Well, what if you want to be a director? Obviously, you would need to know why a scene is working or why it isn’t. In addition, you need to speak the same language as the designer in order to articulate your artistic vision. Perhaps you see a scene as intense and angry, and the set designer sees it as jagged and crimson. It could be the same thing or not. Suppose you want to be a professional stage manager. After the show opens, in many cases it will be your responsibility to maintain the show and the director’s vision. Or, if it’s a long run, you will need to install replacement actors. Stage managers often think of themselves merely as technicians, but they are far more, particularly in this case. They need to have their creative tools sharpened and at the ready. Let’s say you are an actor, and you don’t like your costume. You need to be able to tell the director and the designer why it doesn’t work for you. Creating a costume takes time and costs money. They cannot keep designing and building new ones until you say, “Eureka! That’s it!” There are many stories of well-established directors watching a scene and saying to an actor, “No. That’s not it.” The actor normally replies, “Okay. What would you like me to do differently?” The director simply says, “I don’t know. But that’s not it.” Do you see how incredibly unhelpful this is to the artistic process? Similarly, I went through a period where I was writing a lot of spec scripts for television shows. (A “spec” is a sample script for an existing television program.) Luckily, I had the opportunity to show my work to some very successful television writers. Several of them responded by saying, “Here’s the way I would have written it.” Not only was that somewhat insulting, but it also wasn’t helping me to become a better writer or to learn from my mistakes. I didn’t need to know what they would have written. I wanted to know how they responded to what I had written. It’s like that corny, old joke, “How many theatre students does it take to screw in a light bulb?” The answer: “Ten. One to screw it in and nine to say, ‘I could have done that so much better!’” That doesn’t help the person who screwed it in to learn what they did wrong or how they could have done it better. In a similar vein, certain directors and professors suffer from what I call “The Seagull Syndrome”: they fly by, defecate all over something, and keep right on going. Again, this is not process oriented, nor does it help the artist to grow. Developing your critical eye is something that will hold you in good stead for the rest of your life, whether or not you continue to work in the theatre. We all fancy ourselves to be critics. The question becomes this: How do we
Criticism 79 learn to express our critical opinions intelligently? As playwright Craig Wright states so eloquently, “A bad painting is just a bad painting. But a bad play, you have to sit through!” In addition to what is covered in this chapter, there are incredibly eloquent comments on this topic covered in the next chapter, “The Interviews,” under the subheading “On Critics and Theatre Criticism.” While there are a number of collections of critical essays and collections of reviews, there aren’t many books on how to actually write criticism. I hope you will find this helpful and informative. There are several points to consider when writing a critique for a work of art. While we will discuss these in terms of a play, these same rules apply to film, music, literature, dance, sculpture, painting, or any of the creative arts. And since this is a book on writing for the theatre, we will focus on the written aspects of a critique for a play or musical. The great German poet, playwright, and critic Johann Wolfgang von Goethe maintained that three questions be asked about any work of art: 1. What is the artist trying to do? 2. How well did they do it? 3. Was it worth the doing? Goethe felt the questions must be answered in order, because you cannot answer number three without properly answering one and two. Let’s take a look at each of these: 1) “What Is the Artist Trying to Do?” A play is meant to be seen and experienced. Yes, a play can be read, but that is not its primary intention. This really comes down to determining the theme of the work and what the director and playwright are trying to say. 2) “How Well Did They Do It?” Obviously, this comes down to opinion. Did the actor hit that emotional peak? Did the dancer complete the double pirouette? Did the designer get their metaphors across? 3) “Was It Worth the Doing?” Have you ever seen a play and said to yourself, “Well, I get what the playwright was trying to say, but they didn’t really achieve it.” If you can see the attempt, regardless of whether or not they succeeded, it was worth doing. It takes months or even years
80 The Art of Writing for the Theatre to create a piece of theatre. It can take moments to destroy it. Sometimes, theatre students think it’s their right and privilege to decimate someone else’s creation. It’s not. When critiquing a piece of theatre or any work of art, a good rule of thumb is to start by finding three things you liked about it. The harder it may be, the more necessary it becomes in order to gain some objectivity on the work as a whole. “I Liked It” Doesn’t Matter Before we get into the specifics of writing a critique, I want to stress this point. Whether you like or do not like a performance, a design element or the production as a whole is irrelevant. This may seem antithetical to the very purpose of writing a critique, but it really isn’t. The question is, “Did the choice(s) made serve the production, the director’s vision, and were they supported by the script?” You’re not going to love everything you see, but you can still learn from it. Sometimes, you are learning what doesn’t work and being able to formulate why. Try to avoid peppering your critiques with phrases such as “I liked this” and “that bothered me.” This is not the point of a critique. Now, let’s look at some specifics. Writing a Critique for a Play Introduction The introduction should include the following: 1) The title of the play, the name of the playwright, and any possibly pertinent historical information (such as similar works from this period or by this playwright). 2) The name of the director, the place and date of the production you attended, and the name of the production company. Do you know of any previous work by this company or this director? 3) The thesis (or main idea) of your review, which should include the following:
Criticism 81 A general impression of the relative success or failure of the production, based on what you actually saw. It should also include your initial impression of how the play should have been presented based on the script itself, and what you can discern of the intended concept. Please note that you are evaluating it based on the director’s concept and how well or poorly it was executed, not your own. It’s important that you have an open mind to other interpretations of the material, as long as they are supported by the text. Since you will not be expected to discuss all aspects of the production, focus your thesis on one or two major concerns that the production has or has not addressed. Writing the Statement and Summary 1) Include a brief thematic summary of the play and support that summary with concrete evidence from the text. Keep in mind this is not a plot summary, but a reflection on some of the prevalent themes and ideas the playwright is expressing. You can include this summary in the introduction. If you choose to go into greater detail, you can include it in a separate paragraph following the introduction. The Body of the Paper: Your Critique Like any strong essay, the introduction is your thesis. The review is your argument as you give the specific whys and wherefores from your opening paragraphs. In order to give your critique a strong format and cohesiveness, it would be to your advantage to discuss these elements in the order that you outlined them in the introduction. Such points of discussion might include the nontechnical (acting, directing, and choreography) followed by the technical (lighting, scenery, costumes, and sound) aspects of the production. For each element that you discuss, in as clear, concise, and detailed manner as possible, describe the physical aspects of what you observed. Always keep in mind that whatever you include must support the assertions you made in your introduction and thesis. Focus on particular scenes or performances that will support your thesis for your final evaluation of the piece. Be as specific as possible. As stated earlier, the more specific you make it, the more universal it becomes.
82 The Art of Writing for the Theatre Your Analysis This part of your critique receives the most attention from your reader. Therefore, it demands the most thought and organization. After you have finished describing the most important elements of the production, evaluate them. Once again, this is not simply your opinion, but in the context of the play itself, as well as this particular production. Many times, these elements will stem from unanswered questions: “Why was the lighting in that scene so dark? Was it meant to symbolize something? When there was that long pause in act 2, did the actress forget her line . . . or was it intentional? Was the gunshot supposed to be that loud? The actor onstage said it was being fired by someone next door.” Answering these questions can be an important part of your critique. Writing the Summary and Conclusion Your conclusion should not merely recapitulate your thesis in a mechanical way. Instead, you want to try to show why your response to the play is valid and significant, based on what you have described in the body of the paper. In your conclusion, do not add any significant new material, but don’t be afraid to leave your reader with something to contemplate. Other Important Points 1) Titles in Italics: The title of a play (or film, book, or song) must always be in italics or quotes. Either one is acceptable, but the general practice is to use italics. That means every time you mention the title of the play, it must be in italics. 2) Minimize Plot Points: There is no need to recap the entire plot in your critique beyond an introductory sentence or two for context. If you need to cite a few elements to illustrate a point, that is fine, but it is not necessary to rehash the entire story. It is much more important that you talk about the inherent themes in the work. 3) Verb Tenses: When you talk about what happened onstage or the audience’s reaction (including yours), you must always state in the immediate past tense unless it’s happening in real time (which it’s not). Example: “She looked at her watch” as opposed to “She looks at her watch.”
Criticism 83 4) Be Descriptive and Specific: Try to avoid using words like “enjoyable,” “interesting,” “bad,” and “good.” They are not descriptive enough for a critique and don’t really tell the reader what you thought. Try making strong choices and using vivid, bold words. You can use a thesaurus and view this as an opportunity to stretch your vocabulary. I always tell my students that I’d rather have them take a risk and use a new word in the wrong context rather than using words like “interesting,” “dull,” and “good.” 5) Full Names, Then Last Names Only: If you are writing a critique about a school production, you might be writing about your friends or classmates. If this is the case, avoid the risk of being too casual. For instance, rather than saying, “I liked Jane’s work,” or even worse, “Jane was good,” you would say, “In the role of Stella, Jane Miller’s performance was . . ..” Then, when you refer to her again, you would say, “Miller” or “Ms. Miller.” You would never say “Jane” in a formal review. Also, if you are writing about your friends, please try to be as objective as possible. This is an area where many of my students fall short, so I want to emphasize it. Whether it is a critique or an essay, the first time you refer to the subject, you would say, “As a director, Mike Nichols’ work was extraordinary.” Every time thereafter, you would say “Nichols” or “Mr. Nichols.” Even if you knew the subject personally, this is how you would refer to them. 6) Insider Lingo: If you are a theatre student critiquing a performance of a peer, be wary of using a language that outsiders wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t want to say, “Her moment-to-moment specificity seemed off,” or “His Meisner work was strong.” Outside of an acting class, most people wouldn’t know what that means. You might be able to get away with something like “They broke the fourth wall,” as most people either know what that means, or they can at least surmise. But otherwise, try to keep your terminology to things that anyone would understand. 7) Proofreading: Spelling and grammar count. They really do. Be sure you proof your work. You might even want to use an internet program like Grammarly1 to check your usage and punctuation. While such software programs are not foolproof, they can help immensely. Many of my students overlook this final step as they are in a hurry to submit their essay and get onto their next assignment. While I can understand this, it is a big mistake. Why would you spend all that time writing
84 The Art of Writing for the Theatre a critique only to have spelling and grammar mistakes reduce your grade and diminish your work? Also, if your play contains any foreign or unusual names, be sure you spell them correctly. This includes the names of the actors, directors, and designers. 8) “Performance” versus “Production”: These words are not interchangeable, but many people think they are. The MerriamWebster Dictionary refers to a performance as “the action of representing a character in a play,” or “A public presentation or exhibition.” Therefore, if you are talking about the play as a whole, you are referring to the production. One is singular and one is plural. If you are talking about an individual actor’s work or a single showing of the play, you are referring to a performance. You could say, “At the performance I watched, the role of Ivan was played by . . .” but you would not say, “The performance runs for three weeks.” 9) Avoid the Phrase, “In my Opinion”: You are writing the critique. What is a critique? A series of opinions. We already know it is your opinion. It is redundant to restate it. 10) Mention the Names of the Artists: Many times, my students will submit a critique where they go on for two paragraphs about the brilliance of the scenic design for a particular production, but they never mention the name of the set designer. Or they write about the unique directorial concept and how well it was implemented, but they never credit the director. This may seem obvious, but if you discuss a particular element, whether it is a specific performance, design element, or another facet of the production, you must mention the name of the artist who created it. “Why Am I Bored?” If you are watching a play and you suddenly cannot stop thinking about those Szechuan dumplings you are going to dive into after the show, something on the stage clearly isn’t working. When this occurs, I ask myself, “Why am I bored? Is it the acting? The direction? The play itself? What isn’t holding my attention?” We have all had the experience of a twenty-minute one-act feeling like it lasted for four hours. Conversely, we have all watched a three-hour play that seemed to last ten minutes. To start flexing your critical muscles, if something isn’t holding your attention, ask yourself what it might be. Once you think you’ve figured it out, ask yourself again. Are you certain
Criticism 85 it is that particular aspect of the production that doesn’t work for you? What would you like to see done differently? And why? A Sample Critique Let’s take a look in depth at a sample review from one of my former students, a wonderfully smart writer and actress named Teresa Howick: Elegant Design and Verbal Daggers Enrich Coward’s Private Lives By Teresa Howick The Gielgud Theatre’s current production of Nöel Coward’s Private Lives showcases its performances and design elements to ask this simple question: “How can a romantic relationship walk the tightrope between tenderness and volatility? And how much of each can it endure?” The thesis here is very clear. We know the writer will be focusing on the themes of the play and how the work of the actors and designers helped to emphasize them. As a playwright, Nöel Coward riddled his plays with classic British humor, peppered with witty repartee and sophisticated, verbal banter. While this can certainly be an acquired taste, to pull off such inherently dry humor successfully, a director must often allow his actors the ability to use the situation as the punch line of the joke. Director Jonathan Kent excelled at this. He kept to the reality of the circumstances as much as possible while ensuring that the moments that needed to be larger-than-life remained appropriate to the story. Take, for example, Amanda (exquisitely played by Anna Chancellor) and her treatise on the role of chance in meeting her new husband, Victor (a suitably stuffy Anthony Calf) with the statement, “It’s chance that we’re here, particularly after your driving.” Kent ensures the moment is immediately followed by a lengthy pause so that both Victor and the audience can visibly react to the craftily fired gibe. This is one of the many moments where Kent makes finding this middle ground between realism and uproarious comedy seem effortless.
86 The Art of Writing for the Theatre In this paragraph, the writer gives us just enough background on the playwright to create context. They also credit the director as overseer of the overall comedic style and introduce us to two of the leading actors. Of course, any director can only do so much without brilliant actors to see this vision take shape. Thankfully, Kent was indeed fortunate to have assembled a cast who could take this challenge and run with it. As just one standout from the cast, Anna Chancellor’s take on remarried divorcée Amanda Prynne lends itself beautifully to the notion of walking that fine line between joy and regret for leaving her second husband to be with her first. Chancellor’s Amanda struck me as something akin to an older, significantly healthier, and definitely wealthier version of Cabaret’s Sally Bowles: a woman who devotes herself to the pursuit of worldly pleasures and finds little point in discussing the severe ramifications of some of her actions, yet sometimes finds herself occasionally wondering about them. This and her saucy attitude pair off quite nicely with Toby Stephens’s take on Elyot Chase, himself quite akin to The Importance of Being Earnest’s primary troublemaker, Algernon Moncrieff. That being said, the entire cast had their own part in portraying this dichotomy so necessary in comedies such as Private Lives. Here, the writer singles out two of the actors and states what made their performances so strong. As stated earlier, note that with each artist mentioned, the first time, they are referred to by their first and last name; every time thereafter, it is simply their last name. Speaking of relationships, Anthony Ward’s set and costume designs for this production had to achieve their own balancing act. While securely placing the story in a concrete time and place, they helped to accentuate the characters’ rather complex double love triangle. The set pays homage to glamorous, 1920s playgrounds for the wealthy. The Deauville seaside resort where the couples unintentionally honeymoon together is complemented by Mark Henderson’s moody lighting. The two couples are literally juxtaposed in neighboring suites to let the audience compare and contrast each of their humble, martial beginnings before the wild adventure really begins. Amanda’s flat in Paris, which looks more like a penthouse, definitely shows a lived-in residence that
Criticism 87 actually says quite a bit about its owner; she comes from money (evident by the gold-plated door), she has a taste for the avant-garde (indicated by the many paintings) and is quite cozy spooning with Elyot. The costumes, which draw inspiration from Art Deco designs of the same decade, noticeably find vibrant ways to pair off and contrast the four main characters, mostly using their color palettes. The set and costume designs not only relate certain characters to each other in various ways, but allow them to stay somewhat grounded in reality. In these two paragraphs, the writer discusses the scenic and costume elements and how they complement the other choices made by the actors and the director to make a cohesive whole. As a piece of theatre, Nöel Coward’s Private Lives displays a complex balancing act between passion and compatibility in the main characters’ relationships. Their initial marital relationships exude compatibility, but lack passion; likewise, when Elyot and Amanda reunite, they have all the passion in the world (not all of it positive) yet only fleeting moments of compatibility. Kent’s production utilized this tightrope as a focal point and used it as a lens through which to view the story. With stellar performances and stunning design elements, it takes a surprisingly introspective look at romance and human relationships. This conclusion ties up the components discussed and recapitulates the main points of the critique in a way that is clear, concise, and restates the thesis in a more complete manner. Criticism as Entertainment Of course, when you write a critique, you don’t want it to be dry and factual. Like anything you write, it needs to reflect your individual style and voice. In terms of length, unless you are dealing with a specific word count, I am reminded of a teacher I had in grade school who said, “Your writing should be long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be interesting.” If you are writing something for publication, this is even more prevalent. Sometimes, newspaper critics are writing with very strict word counts. Even so, they can still have their work butchered beyond recognition by ruthless