NTFD

Use that Cover for Context

2008-04-16T08:33:00.003-05:00

Scott raised an interesting question last week with his post about stage directions. At risk of stirring up those now quiet waters, I offer a broader suggestion: prepare the reader for the conventions of your script.

The generally accepted convention of stage directions for plays is that they describe what can be seen by an audience on stage. Whether or not that is "right," that's the trend. When a writer bucks a trend, he or she runs the risk of appearing that they don't know their craft.

In many plays I receive, the title page or the cover letter explains some of the text conventions: "\" for overlapping dialog, special formatting for projected text, italics for text translated into another language. The list goes on.

In the same spirit, a playwright might choose to include a note that said something to the effect of "This script employs literary stage directions which are intended to create an image for the reader. They are not intended to be instructions for directors or actors."

This sort of context helps not only with text conventions, but with the intentions of the script. I've read plays that are either spot on subtle satires, or pale imitations of classic work. A note about the author's intentions in that cover letter would help me figure out which. I've read scripts that are the result of some experimental process - but without any context for what that process is. As a result, I'm unable to properly read the text.

When reading 10 to 15 scripts a week, I simply don't have the time to fully explore a script as one would in preparation for production. So any help the author can give in familiarizing me quickly with his or her conventions and intentions will help me read the script in the appropriate context.

Stage Directions, a can of worms

2008-04-10T11:05:00.003-05:00

Stage Directions cross to pantry, pick up flashlight, consider how batteries work...

I've been criticized a couple times in the past few months for the amount of stage directions I use. Personally, I don't feel like I use all that many. My plays have a lot of white space, typically. But this happened recently: a theatre in Detroit actually passed one of my scripts up the chain for further development, but then ultimately it got rejected because one reader said that I was trying too hard to tell the director how to direct and the actor how to feel. They called the stage directions "oppressive." Which made me feel like my script was not rejected on basis of its quality, but on some arbitrary argument of principle about what the province of the playwright is and isn't.

I like stage directions. I don't just like stage directions, I like impossible stage directions. My friend Jayita will literally write as a stage direction in a play, right in the middle of a scene with two friends talking in America about eating a hamburger, something like:

(A bomb goes off in Japan, but they only feel it in their pinky toes).

While this is an extreme example, I like the color that stage directions can bring to the reading of a script. I hate the stage directions of Eugene O'Neill, who will spend an entire paragraph describing what's on a table to the tiniest detail; but I love a good stage direction that describes a complicated emotional moment, or even better, an abstract concept.

I like to write something like:

(John stares ahead. His eyes unfocus, everything in front of him blurs together like the letters of a word you've stared at for ten minutes.)

Will that translate to the audience? Maybe not. But I don't think it necessarily needs to, and it's a direct communication with the reader...something that seems to be taboo in playwriting that I don't understand.

I don't like writing whimsically, so I don't try to make my characters describe emotions through poetics or departures from the scene. I like non-verbal communication and utterances, awkward tension, gutteral noises, and stutters. As a writer, sometimes the best way to describe a series of non-verbal moments or a period of silence, is to literally write the intention. The concept of the moment. The give and take.

I also think that stage direction can provide some exposition for directors and actors to consider, without dragging out exposition through forced expository dialogue, which personally I can spot like a blood stain on a doily.

Is the implication somehow that because we've chosen to write plays instead of prose, that we forfeit introspection?

Even as I say this, however, I have a tremendous respect for and faith in directors and actors. Without fail, they find things buried in text and bring them to light, and I'm consistently amazed by that. But it seems like writers are in a tricky spot. If you write no stage directions at all, the play may lose the intended shape, or certain ideas may lose emphasis; worse, a playwright could be called lazy or that they're relying too heavily on the actors to find the scene. If you write too many stage directions, you are controlling and arrogant, and how dare you have an opinion about your own work.

Obviously, if someone picks up “The Cherry Orchard,” they aren’t going to follow every last stage direction. I don’t expect my plays to be hammered out word for word either. Productions are intended to reshape plays, interpret them, and bring a new perspective to them, but that doesn’t mean the playwright should leave a blank slate in my opinion. Stage directions are, I believe, meant to inform, not dictate, the action. To that end I think they can be as specific or abstract as a playwright wants.

“Oppressive” is a pretty harsh word for having an opinion about when one’s own character looks out the window. Or the moment they forget what their son’s face looks like for that matter. Maybe that’s the same moment. It probably is.

Retrofitting

2008-04-03T10:54:00.002-05:00

So I've been having discussions with several writers lately about the process of self-adaptation. That is to say, taking a short story you've written and writing it into a play. Or taking a play and turning it into a screenplay, or a novel. I went to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago for my MFA, and this is a persistent question at that school: how is a work served or disserved by experimenting with different forms within the same story or concept? SAIC's MFA is an interdisciplinary writing program, so people are often doing this at that school, writing something one way, then exploding and diversifying it into all different forms.

While I was there, I focused on plays, but now I'm becoming more and more interested in adaptations of my own work, while I'm still close to it. For part of my thesis project I adapted a short story of mine into a play, and found that suddenly the story worked in a completely new way.

Now, I'm interested in going the other direction, turning one play of mine into a screenplay and another into a novel. In talking with other writers, some people I've found are of the mind that there are countless ways to tell a single story, and so its good practice for any writer, playwright or no, to self-adapt from form to form (like a person changing their perspective over time). Others, I've found, are of the mind that retrofitting a play into prose or broadening a taut stage piece into a sprawling filmscript is just beating a dead horse.

Strangely, novels are turned into films and plays all the time, but the stigma attached to novelized versions of films is that they are a lowest of the low forms of literature. And no one seems to retrofit plays into long fiction, period.

Obviously there are pros and cons and we could argue that all week, but I'm interested specifically to know who else is doing this right now, or who has done it before (self-adaptation) and what the results were.

No such thing as zero budget

2008-02-21T14:26:00.002-06:00

First off, thanks to Scott Barsotti for breathing some life into this lapsed blog.

ZERO BUDGET?
A couple of days ago I got an email about Collaboraction's Studio Series project. That series has a lofty goal: creating art not tied to commercial considerations. One line in the call for particpants stuck out to me, however:

"This is a quarterly, process driven-program that lives and breathes in our studio, performs for one weekend, and operates with a $0 budget." (emphasis mine)

Now, I'm not criticising Collaboraction. They've been completely upfront about the goals, process and compensation. If you don't want to play by those rules, you just don't audition.

But it did get me thinking about the cost of making theater. And while that phrase "$0 budget" is true in the sense that there's no money exchanging hands, its not true in the sense that there is no cost.

Even if something is donated, is has a value that one could account for in a budget. Even if people are not paid, their time and energy certainly has a value.

So it strikes me that there are two kinds of budgets possible for any given production - one in which you account for cash flow. And another in which you attempt to account for donated time, materials, and space. Would publishing such "total picture" budgets help people quanitify the true cost of making a piece of theater?

Volunteer time and unpaid/underpaid time are a kind of hidden cost of making theater. And anytime there is a hidden cost, it seems to me that someone in the process has a vested interest in keep that cost hidden. Who benefits from the uncounted costs of production? Is this a product of a broken production model, or is it the neccesary cost of making an art in a form that resists commodification?

Take Back Genre

2008-02-15T11:36:00.003-06:00

I've been working the past couple days with an interesting fellow named Charley Sherman, who's been around the Chicago scene for a long time and spent 8 years in London as well, before returning to the states 5 years ago. He worked a bunch with Steve Pickering as a director and adapter with Organic Theatre and Next, and now runs a company called Wild Claw with a show opening next week at the Athenaeum. We've been talking a lot about horror in specific, something that is very interesting to me lately. It seems that in the glory days of horror (film particularly), atmosphere was much more important than effects. It didn't matter if you saw the violence, saw the apparition, saw anything at all, as long as the suspense was palpable and the story probed some facet of human fear. Texas Chain Saw Massacre, The Exorcist, Halloween, all classic horror films with very little blood on screen, everything is implied. Your imagination fills the gaps.

I think the scariest stories are not about death and dying, or being harmed by someone, but about one's own weaknesses being exposed in the presence of danger. The fear of being lost, or abandoned, or failing miserably (certainly death and harm can be a consequence of these things and often is, especially in horror). Fear drives people to cowardice as well as heroism, to light as well as to dark. These are not things that rely on effects and sensation, but on storytelling. Atmosphere is what sets up horror, so why is it (as an example of genre) virtually absent from stage?

Horror, when done well, is full of subtext, truly a writer's canvas and an actor's medium. So why does film dominate the genre (and most sub-genres) while most stage horror is campy parody or tongue-in-cheek midnight riffs? Not just horror though, why is their such a lack of good, well-crafted genre stories onstage?

Or am I just missing it?

Honest Endings

2007-10-19T12:15:00.000-05:00

I just finished re-reading a play that raises a craft question for me. How do we create honest endings for situations that in reality are on-going?

Say you write a play that deals with a family's struggle raising an autistic child. Well, the autism isn't going to disappear - the issues the family faces are life-long. So how do you create an ending - a sense of closure that clearly tells you the piece is over, without creating an accidental feeling that the struggles themselves are over?

I'm looking for actual examples here. What are some plays that you've written or read that dealt with ongoing struggles and how did they end? More to the point - how did you create a satisfactory ending rather than just stopping the piece. I mean, when the lights come up, the audience goes home, but that doesn't mean there was a satisfactory ending. Just an efficient stop.

A random thought on theory: people often place theory and practice in opposition. More than one writer on this blog has said in effect: "This is fun, but I've got to go make theater now." Theory is not just abstract thought, although we often treat it that way. To create a theory is to observe phenomena and then attempt to explain the reasons why the phenomena occurs. In an incredible simplification: Darwin observed the diveristy and similarity of species. And observed and observed. And evolutionary theory was created to explain that diversity and similiarity. To come up with the reason why.

And so, when I ask for concrete examples, that's the step I'm trying to take. Instead of pontificating (which is not theorizing), I'm asking us to make observations and try to relate those observations together.

So - like I said. Endings that honor the ongoing nature of a particular struggle. Who's got one?

The Hiccup of Length

2007-10-15T23:49:00.001-05:00

Why can't I write an epic?

This is my first post. It happens to be the 54th post to NTFD, which is not a number that has significance to me, and I'm glad of that, because it really allays the pressure I would undoubtedly feel if this were the 16th post, or the 29th or something.

I am currently acting in/directing an episode of a trilogy of full-length plays called "The Madelyn Trilogy" which are being mounted by Curious Theatre Branch as part of the Rhino Fest. Beau O'Reilly wrote them, and each play comes in at 2.5-3 hours running time, totaling 8 solid hours of drama. The plays happen to be quite good, but the quality of the plays is not the issue. The hot button of this project, of course, is its length. 8 hours of theatre. Fringe theatre. No bangs and whistles, just solid writing, terrific acting, and an engaging, original story.

Recently, I was approached after a performance by a castmate's cousin, who was a complete jerk and "not someone who goes to theatre except to see his cousin perform" (so why am I talking to him about his opinions regarding theatre in the first place?) and he asked me, with a question that could not be more leaning or loaded: "Don't you think a writer asking an audience to watch an 8 hour play is self-indulgent?"

Ok ok, now of course, this guy is a jerk and made several comments during this encounter that made me want to shake my fists and growl. But this is the one that sticks with me, because it touched on something I've been obsessing about lately (perhaps because I've been doing an 8 hour trilogy since january): length. And specifically why it is so dwelt-upon in theatre by audiences and critics alike?

His question was best answered with another question: "Why is it more self-indulgent than a novelist asking you to spend 40 hours reading a single story they wrote? Or a writer creating the bible for a TV show that will take 6 seasons to complete?" The response, of course, is that "That's different."

Indeed, Beau's experiment is rooted in this. Shakespeare could get away with writing plays of length. So could Arthur Miller, Eugene O'Neill...Tom Stoppard and Tony Kushner are still getting away with it. I say "getting away with it" ironically, because writing a long play (even 8 hours long) is not an artistic crime, and shouldn't be considered one. John Barton's "Tantalus" which premiered in Denver several years ago was a 12-play cycle about the Trojan War that took 2 full days to perform once.

I've read Tantalus. It's...ok. But again, quality is not the concern of this, the 54th post on NTFD, but this question of length.

Why is theatre held to such strict standards of length? It seems that most people have this idea of what a play is and what theatre is supposed to be and supposed to do, what the rules are, what the context is, and how they're going to receive it, and how long they need to invest. We're willing to watch the entire Godfather Trilogy in one Saturday, but the idea of partaking in 8 hours of a play in three sittings over the course of a weekend (or even a 9-week run) makes people bristle.

Does it have nothing to do with the work itself and have everything to do with the form and venue? If you go to a play, yes, you are expected to be a willing captive, the actors can see you and hear you, the rest of audience is aware of you, you must sit quietly, politely, and watch. Is this what creates the standard of expected length? If this is true, then what makes theatre immediate, crucial, and unique is also what provides the excuse for it to be so harshly regarded (and often neglected) by the average consumer. When you see a play, you are (ideally) part of a cycle of energy that radiates from the performers out into the audience, through the audience, and back to the performers. When you see a play, the experience cannot be replicated, because next time around, the performance will not be the same, the specific combination of people in the seats will not be the same, and so forth. This is not true of films, in which the experience stays purely within the audience, and rarely extends beyond the individual. Even if you could give to the screen, it couldn’t give back. The channel is one-way and static. Theatre is about community in a world that for all its connectivity is becoming more and more singular, and one of the few artforms that creates a direct and live two-way channel, because it has to.

As an experiment in length and depth, the Madelyn Trilogy is admittedly extreme. 8 hours is a long time to receive, share, give back, and receive again. But is that the only reason why we won't tolerate long plays? It can't be, because theatre didn't always follow this tendency of 10-minute plays and hour-long one-acts. Not only did writers used to write long plays, but producers produced them and people came to see them. It was an event. The play has shrunk over time. Shakespeare's 5 acts became Chekhov's 4 became Miller's 3 became the modern moment's 2. But wait! Even 2 act plays are frowned at more and more.

The dangerous thing to me about this trend is the way it affects the way we write. Writers are writing short plays because that's what can be produced. There are countless one-act festivals and short-play marathons across the country where writers can get their work done, as long as it's under 10 pages long. Even if that 4 act Faust comedy you're sitting on is the best play anyone's written in 20 years, good luck getting it put on. It's certainly affected me: 12 of my plays have been produced, but only 4 of them 'full-length,' and only 2 of those require an intermission.

How does this length issue affect you? Why does it exist, and why now more than 40 years ago? I don't want to blame TV and the internet because that would be easy, but is that the most logical answer? Is it that people don't want to take part in the creation of the event, they merely want it to happen to them? But then why go to a Cubs game instead of watching it at home?

Chris Piatt wrote in his review of Tracy Letts' epic "August Osage County" something to the effect of most American playwrights are writing plays that are nothing more than tumbleweeds rolling across a desolate landscape, and that to make a mark in this day and age and add to the canon, you gotta show up wearing some serious shit-kickers, I believe was the term. But that seems to imply any of several things, none of which are true:

1) Most playwrights don't have the guts to write something epic.
2) All good plays, or even great plays, get produced.
3) All playwrights have the option to get something like Osage County produced at a venue like Steppenwolf, but choose rather to dabble in unimportant trifles, or don’t have the ability to write it in the first place.

The only difference between Tracy Letts’ epic and the epic that all playwrights have sitting on their floor collecting dust is that his got done, for whatever combination of reasons, many being obvious, and one certainly being that the play was good. But his isn’t the only one. It’s not fair to take a struggling playwright to Osage County, then smack them on the chest, point at the stage and say “Why can’t you do that?” It seems pretty transparent to me, actually, why most of us can’t do that, and it has nothing to do with writing.

The climate has created the condition, not the other way around. It isn’t fair that writers are expected to adhere to certain constraints or—god forbid—rules, but then we’re criticized when the scene doesn’t produce anything that sticks or demands attention. Everyone cries for the next Great American Drama, and then moan about having to spend more than an hour in the theatre, once in a while deciding “this one gets a pass” because of where and who and because they had enough money to build a staircase onstage. I would argue that The Madelyn Trilogy is a much more important work due to its context and the gesture it makes, going further despite the norm and not allowing budgetary or technical limitations to dictate the writer’s process.

We’d all love to write something huge, or we at least should have the option to. But we don’t. Tony Kushner does. Tom Stoppard does. Saying Tracy Letts is more important or has more to say than another playwright because of Osage County's epicness is like saying an NFL receiver is elite simply because he catches a lot of passes. But he doesn’t control if it’s thrown to him, does he? All he can do is get open.

Holy Origin Stories, Batman!

2007-10-07T16:01:00.000-05:00

In recent comments, Ian and Melissa have made me realize that there's something missing from all this discussion about theatricality and form. The "why."

I'd like to hear about why you do theater, all you occasional contributors. And when I say "why," I don't mean the intellectual or theoretical why. I'd like to hear how you came to find your way to this particular form. I'd like to hear about why in an age of digital cameras and YouTube, you haven't gone to other forms.

I'd love to hear what I'm thinking of as "narrative why." Think of origin stories for your favorites super-heroes (Hat tip to Isaac for making me think about graphic novels and theater). Think of the stories of those transcendent moments of theater. Think of those stories of how you are too poor to buy a digital camera. They don't have to be positive - really. Sometimes I think I'm in theater because I don't know how to do anything else. Some sort of un-planned obsolescence.

What? You occasional contributors might ask. I thought your mission was exploring the intellectual framework for theater?! Well, yeah, it is. But I know I have a habit of justifying a visceral connection with a whole heaping framework of theorizing. So it occurs to me it might help us understand the theoretical claims of folks on this blog if we knew a little bit more about where we're all coming from.

I'm not going first. If you need inspiration, check out this story from Isaac.

Does Stage Have A Purpose?

2007-10-02T07:30:00.000-05:00

Judging by the posts yesterday, am I to believe that theatre isn't really necessary- in the sense that there is nothing you can do on a stage that you cannot do anywhere else? Because the obvious "live-ness" can be duplicated around the campfire or at a bar. So is everyone in agreement that the purpose of theatre is in question here?

David seemed to think it was about preference- people just like theatre as a medium- so that's why it exists (drastic paraphrase of David's posts- but I think the essence of them. And I'm sure he'll correct me if I'm wrong :))

This is interesting. It seems to me there's a bit of a consensus here. So are most folks saying that there is no inherent theatricality to theatre that makes it impossible to duplicate in another medium?

(Notice I keep coming back to theatricality- c'mon guys- someone define it already!!)

Stage, Screen, TV, or Campfire??

2007-10-01T00:35:00.000-05:00

Whew!! That "Narrative vs Theatrical" thread was really going on, wasn't it? Well, in an effort to not have to scroll down so much- I'm continuing it as a new thread...

David wrote:

Take the Anne Frank story, for example. The particulars of the story are fairly straightforward and commonly known. The elements of that story, as they have been translated by later writers, remain the same... yet the Anne Frank story has successfully made its way into print, onto the stage and on film. The successes of these various versions of her story have not depended on the story itself, but on whether or not the writer, director or adaptor took full advantage of the medium through which they chose to tell that story.

I agree with this Anne Frank analogy, David. And it kind of proves my point. Anne Frank was adapted for every medium. As a book, it had liberties with detail, etc. As a play, it was made theatrical in some way and adapted for the stage. Same with film.

So my question still is this: Why was "A Steady Rain" a play? Why was it important for that story to be told on a stage? I think this question is intrinsically tied back to the original, "What is theatricality?" question.

(Folks who have not seen "A Steady Rain" don't worry, because I'm still posing the general question- What makes a play worthy of the stage? Why does a piece of work HAVE to be presented on the stage versus another medium??)

As a film, "A Steady Rain" WOULD be filmed in a Spaulding Gray type of way- the play would essentially be taped. Around a campfire, it would be presented the same way as was presented on the stage at Chicago Dramatists. At a bar, the same thing.

My point being, "A Steady Rain" could be presented in many locations and mediums and not really change it's form. So what made it theatrical? Why did it HAVE to be presented on a stage, besides the fact that Keith wrote it in a playscript format...?

And if a narrative is NOT theatrical, should it be presented on a stage...?

Storyshowing? Storytelling?

2007-09-29T11:57:00.000-05:00

Devilvet has posted a question that is of some relevance to the discussion of A Steady Rain and theatricality going on in early posts. Check it out here.

How Determined Are You?

2007-09-29T11:34:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I set a mission for myself. My goal is to create neutral and graduated language to describe how a particular play functions.

I've been a bit overwhelmed by my new job, but Christopher De Paola's invigoration of this forum has me back on track.

So here's my first new term: determined.

We often talk about character motivation. And if a character's action doesn't make sense it is usually described as lacking motivation. But talking about motivation and the lack thereof assumes that a character's actions need some sort of minimal amount of motivation.

Before we talk about motivation, I think it would be helpful to talk about how "tightly determined" a script is. A "tightly determined" script is structured so that there are multiple triggers for character action in the play. A "loosely determined" script is less concerned with providing triggers for character action.

Here's an example I hope might raise an eyebrow or two: Othello is a loosely determined script. Iago's actions are clear - but they are unmotivated. We don't know why he does what he does. If that play were in a workshop today, there would be a few people who would harp on Iago's lack of motivation. Luckily for Shakespeare, he's dead and we've canonized him to the point where we give him the benefit of the doubt. Bill Shakespeare MFA 2007 wouldn't be so lucky.

My point is that focusing on character motivation as an absolute concept doesn't necessarily help the playwright. Far better to talk about the tightness of determinism in the world of the play BEFORE wading into motivation.

So: two questions. 1) What do you think of the term? Any comments, additions or clarifications? 2) What are the benefits of a loosely determined script? Does a world with loose determination mean that there is more room for something else in the text?

Narrative Vs Theatrical?

2007-09-27T21:13:00.000-05:00

Thank you Christopher for the resurrection of NTFD.

I didn't want to hi-jack the working class theater thread, so you should still comment on that one - the thoughts are flying fast and furious. But one thing was lurking around some of the commentary, and I wanted to bring it out.

The point was made by Greg that we need to present something different in the theatrical experience than the audience member can get on television or film. And here I may be reading something that Greg didn't intend - but I saw an implication that narrative was somehow an inferior form. I've gotten into this discussion before, so maybe I'm projecting. But every time someone dismisses narrative as if it is only for the unsophisticated, I get a little irked.

Why this opposition between the theatrical and narrative? Must narrative be wed to realism and television? Isn't telling a damn good story in a theatrical way still possible? Still desirable?

And in a related comment - if we want new audiences for theater, I think we're going to have to bridge the gap. Give people something to hold onto. I'll admit that Funnyhouse of A Negro is a stellar piece of theatrical craftsmanship unlike anything you see on television. But I'm not going to take my father to go see it. He likes a good story - and will spend some of his money earned driving a fork-lift to do so.

Resurrecting Working Class Theatre

2007-09-26T17:22:00.001-05:00

I wanted to continue the thread on working class theatre because 1) I can, and 2) because it is my ultimate goal as a playwright to create engaging working class stories for the stage. I don't feel there are enough working class stories being told. And I don't believe there are enough blue collar representations on stage. I also believe that, economics aside (because blue collar or working class does not automatically mean you cannot afford a theatre ticket), I truly believe we can't get working class folks into the theatre because we are not telling their stories. I hold these tenants to be true. But then I read Erik's comments on "King Lear"...

I have to say, Erik, my foundation was rocked a bit when I read your comment on "Lear" because I was like, "Yeah, of course an electrician can relate to a father dividing his kingdom between his daughters." I completely agreed with you. Really.

But then I calmed down a bit and came to my senses. Just kidding- kind of... (Let's not forget, Shakespeare was a master of depicting all classes of society in his work- something severely lacking these days.)

I began to think about Shakespeare and the "universality" that is always applied to his work, and how this differs from something more contemporary. I think Shakespeare can be considered fantasy (Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, Romeo and Juliet, Titus, etc- these stories have all transcended reality and exist as fantasy). And I think we relate to fantasy in a different way. Fantasy is so far removed from us that it is not a representation of our reality- therefore we have license, or are given "the room" to bridge the gap between this fantasy and our own lives and relate the story to ourselves or our own situation. (i.e. king divides kingdom amongst daughters/father decides which of his 3 sons to leave his Buick to.) This "bridging", I believe, is what gives theatre its distinction as a medium.

In more contemporary work, realism is what writers tend to strive towards- therefore narrowing the ability of an audience member to "bridge" or relate to the story. If the play is about an upper class white artist, a white intellectual who can afford to stay home while pondering existence, and a white chef all living in a SoHo apartment trying to deal with their irritating gay neighbor (NYC trendy humor abounding)- it's kind of hard for anyone outside of that environment to relate.

And yes, you will have your "Raisin in the Sun" moments (don't forget, that's a piece of working class theatre). But overall, if we are trying to be realistic (i.e. realism) as a medium (which 95% of theatre is) then we must start depicting working class folks on stage and telling their stories, otherwise they will never set foot inside of a theatre. Or maybe we should strive to be more Shakespearean in our contemporary storytelling...?

Neutral and Graduated Language

2007-09-15T12:03:00.000-05:00

I've been inspired this week to assign myself a new mission. Perhaps you will be moved to join me in this mission.

I want to develop new vocabulary for talking about plays. This vocabulary should be neutral and graduated.

Neutral
The terminology we use to discuss plays is wedded to a particular aesthetic agenda. When we talk about character motivation or plot points that pre-supposes that those things necessarily belong in a play. Similarly when Dr. Paul Castagno uses terms like multivocality and dialogism to describe plays, that terminology arises from the language based approach. I'd like to coin new terminology that is not paired with a particular vision of structure, but rather can be used to describe the structure the play itself is generating.

Graduated
I've been struggling with a word that can capture this concept. Part of what weds terminology to an aesthetic is that the terminology is used to describe the presence or absence of a particular element. If terminology uses concepts that can be scaled, perhaps we can talk about the amount of an element. Rather than saying a particular play doesn't have a clear through line (a lack with an implied solution) we can talk about the "velocity" of the central action (a graduated or scalable term without an implied solution).

OK, but why?
I believe that finding a way to describe how a work functions is a necessary step BEFORE development (or judgment) can begin. We tend to skip the part where we engage the work on its own terms and jump straight to applying our own agenda to it. That short cut is facilitated by the language we use.

I've been juggling two metaphors in my head. One was provided to me by Reggie Lawrence of MPAACT theater. He suggested that play structure is a balloon, and that different genres are developed by squeezing one part of the structure and emphasizing another part. The basic elements are all there in every play: the differences are generated by what proportion you choose to mix them in. It was this observation that gave rise to the idea of "graduated" language.

The other metaphor that comes to mind is the language of wine. Now, I'm not much of a wine expert, so I'm sure I have a romanticized view. But from my layman's perspective, it seems as if there is a huge vocabulary that exists just to describe what the experience of the wine is. There's the bouquet, and some wines have legs, and there are fruit overtones and almond finishes and the list goes on. All that just to describe what the experience is. Not to mention the whole idea of pairings. And so it seems to me that if we could talk in some similar way about what a play is, we might better be equipped to help it get better. Nobody is going to insist that every wine should start with a hint of chocolate. And yet we do insist that every play start with an inciting incident.

But You're A Huge Believer in Story Structure
Its true. And I probably will continue to be. I've improved my own writing by embracing standard story-telling structure. But I fear that what has helped me now limits me. That what has improved my work now blinds me to more possibilities. The language we use defines our perceptual world - and I'm on a mission to open up my perception.

Multiple Versions? No.

2007-09-12T19:21:00.000-05:00

Script Submission Tip:

If you've submitted a script to a theater, and haven't heard from them, don't send the latest version of that same script. Far better to submit a new script, and mention that you have a new draft of the previous script to send if they are interested.

If the readers aren't intrigued by your earlier draft, chances are they're not going to suddenly be swayed by the latest draft. If you're sending multiple versions, you're also sending the message that you don't know when a script is ready to be seen.

Of course, if the theater actually requests your latest draft, by all means send it. But don't confuse the invitation to "send us new work in the future" with a request for another draft. When those response letters say send us something new, they mean a completely different concept. They've seen something interesting in what you've sent the first time, and they want to see if you've got more than one script in you.

Working Class Theater

2007-09-11T10:37:00.000-05:00

I was prepping for the African American Theater lit class I'm teaching at Roosevelt, and came across an observation about "serious black drama." The historian I'm reading related a story of a failed drama production at the Apollo in the early 50's. The failure lead the then-owner of the Apollo to declare that blacks had no interest in serious drama. The historian went on to ask why should they? In downtown theater black audience were only shown images of themselves as servants or buffoons.

This observation resonated with some other things that have been on my mind lately. A few weeks ago I was sent an email that exhorted the recipients to write to the Governor because Illinois Arts Council funding was being cut. There was a lot of rhetoric about the importance of the arts.

Here in Chicago we're facing service cuts and fare hikes for our mass-transit system. The City claims its because state government failed to come through with needed funding. So I'm wondering, where are the impassioned emails from theater folk demanding we write our governor to restore our transit service?

I often wonder why more working class folk don't attend theater. And my first answer is why should they? We haven't been doing so good representing them on stage lately.

My second answer is why should they? We'll send impassioned emails about the arts but can't bother to get worked up about basic services or fiscal responsibility?

I find the disconnect particularly confusing because so many of us in theater are working class or come from working class backgrounds. Did we set aside those concerns when we took up the mantle of "artist?"

To take this back to playwriting, I wonder: Do we have a responsibility to tell the stories of the people who we hope to encourage to attend the theater? And further, if we profess to have a kinship with a group of folks expressed through our writing, does that mean we have a responsibility to follow those sentiments with action outside the world of theater?

I Really Do Read Cover Letters

2007-09-10T18:56:00.000-05:00

I just completed my first full day as Literary Manager at Victory Gardens Theater. I almost feel like I've switched sides, which says something about the subconscious frustration we playwrights have with the gate keepers between us and production. I've said and written many things about how I think lit management should be done. Now I've got to put up or shut up. Please note, I will need a few months to reorganize and re-invigorate the reading system. So don't take me to task quite yet.

As they occur to me, I'll be writing a few words of advice to writers as they approach the submission process. Today's topic: cover letters.

I really do read those cover letters. Perhaps that's only because it is my first official day. But after several hours of combining through the current batch of submissions, I do have a list of things to avoid:

1) Don't say you hate writing cover letters. Or you're no good at it. Or in any other way draw attention to the fact that you're writing a cover letter.

2) Don't announce you're an amateur. There's no reason to state that this is the first play you wrote. Or you haven't been involved with theater since college. Or that 15 other theaters have rejected this script.

3) Don't announce the weaknesses of the play. Unless you are submitting to a workshop process and have been asked to explain what you want to work on, don't list what's wrong with the work. You're submitting for production - if there are weaknesses that you're aware of, don't send the script.

4) Don't just say "In response to your request...." or "As we discussed..." The people you are submitting to are reading hundreds of scripts, and have had dozens of conversations which have included "Send me that script." Give a reasonable context of the conversation. There's a difference between "Here is the script you requested after reading my synopsis on June 10th." And "After my reading on June 10th, you requested that I send you my latest work." In addition, turnover happens --I'm a case in point!-- so you can't assume that the reader of the letter will know what you're talking about.

5) Don't characterize or categorize the play. If I wanted to read "Aliens meets About a Boy but set in Italy." I would get the two scripts, shuffle them together like a deck of cards, and read them on the plane as I go visit my brother in Italy. I hear that in TV and Film, executives need that kind of context because they're not creative types. I suspect that's a rumor made up by people who wish they were executives in film. But either way, literary managers in theater tend to be writers or directors. We're creative types. Really.

I'll save a list of do's for a later post.

When to Quit

2007-09-09T15:19:00.000-05:00

Self doubt. I won't bore you with the details of my current round of it - but the gnawing beast is at it again. For me, it is usually triggered by one of two things:

1) Coming across work that's really really good. Something so frackin' brilliant that I know I'd never manage it. Something I connect to so much that I feel like the writer read my mind and wrote it for me. I hit something like that, and after the glow of the work itself fades, I wonder - should I just quit?

2) Coming across work that's really really bad. Something so horrible that you wonder if the writer has any connection to reality at all. I see something like that, and I think to myself: "Well if that writer can't see how bad it is, I wonder if I'm as blind about my own work?" And I consider quitting again.

Thing is, I think there is too much mediocre work out there. And I'm one of those people that believe we writers should raise our standards concerning the work we send out to theaters. So when the self-doubt worm starts burrowing, I wonder if I shouldn't follow my own advice and just stop submitting.

Most of you don't actually know my work as a playwright - so I'm not trolling for compliments. I am wondering, however: When does self-doubt hit you? And how do you muddle through?

Splitting the Atom

2007-09-07T09:12:00.001-05:00

In considering my suggested division for Rules of the World, Erik points out that the convention of presentation and the rule itself are related.

I agree. Perhaps the distinction is more important when creating a play as opposed to experiencing the play.

Erik's example was that in a particular play the Dead don't use contractions. I find it hard to believe that our imaginary writer was working away at her script, and for some reason unknown to her she had hese characters who just refused to use contractions. She keeps writing and somewhere around scene five she suddenly realizes - Oh! They're dead.

Despite that glib inversion, I hope you see my point that Erik is describing the process of audience interpretation as opposed to playwright creation.

It strikes me that the division I am suggesting between ROTW and conventions assumes a certain process as a writer.

I have assumed that my fellow playwrights first dream up a reality, and then consider how to present that reality to an audience.

It occurs to me that there are likely writers who imagine a theatrical reality: that is, they imagine only the stage event, and not some separate truth that must be translated.

To writers in the second category, my atom-splitting on ROTW is meaningless.

So let's bump this conversation back a step: what is your process? As a playwright, do you create a theatrical reality, or do you first create an internal reality which then must be translated for presentation?

World Rules Refined

2007-09-06T09:13:00.000-05:00

A couple of comments on this post inspired me to refine the concept of Rules of the World (ROTW).

I think there is a distinction between rules that define how world of the play would function if it were reality, and rules that define the conventions of how the play is presented to the audience.

The question "What is the role of women in the 'world'?" and my question "Where do the bodies end up?" fall into the former category. Pookie's observation about time and Erik's thoughts on language fall into the latter category.

I tend to think first about the reality of the world I want to write about, and then what conventions I'm going to use to convey those to the audience.

I recall a day in workshop at Ohio University. I had written a play with a ghost. (Really, its better than it sounds.) The workshop accepted the ROTW that ghosts were real. But Charles Smith went on to ask how the ghost manifested on stage: a special light, a sound, did the ghost always appear from one spot, etc. He said in effect: "Fine, ghosts are real in this play. But how are you going to show that to the audience?"

Is this purely an academic distinction? Or is the line between ROTW and stage convention so blurred as to be useless?

What We Don't Know Might Kill Us

2007-09-04T11:56:00.000-05:00

I watched the first two episodes of Mad Men last night (ahh, iTunes). And something happened to me that has never happened to me before. I watched people making bad choices based on the cultural assumptions of their time --and I felt a sudden stab of fear about my own blindspots.

I suppose this is always the theory of period pieces: that they somehow make us re-examine our feelings about the present. But frankly, I've never felt it. What I have felt is safe superiority to the characters in a period story. Until now, I've felt that period pieces are at best museum pieces, and at worst are designed to make us feel really good about what we believe now.

The "look how smart we are now" variety is typified by race plays that operate beyond the 30 year barrier, as defined by Shepsu Aakhu. But I've felt the same thing in productions of The Laramie Project, and Angels in America. Granted, these aren't period pieces in the same sense as Court Martial at Fort Devon, but to me they now operate in a way that allows audience members to congratulate themselves for their forward thinking.

I think the difference I saw in Mad Men is that we watch people make bad choices. My recollection of contemporary pieces sent in earlier periods is that too often we are shown good guys and bad guys. We have vilified slave owners and noble slaves. We have backwards men and righteous suffragette. The plays themselves encourage us to judge morality of their actions in the past as determined by our current cultural moment.

I'm also willing to admit that my new experience with a period work may be as much about my own personal development as much as any narrative technique. The older I get, the less I feel superior about anything, let alone period plays.

So I'm curious: what period plays have you seen that made you fear for the present? And what do you think the author was doing that made that connection?

Rules For a New World

2007-09-03T12:42:00.000-05:00

I'm working on a project idea that has a lot to do with scavengers. As a result, I'm reading Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens. The book was published in serial form, and the pace is glacially slow. As one of my friends said, you can tell Dickens was paid by the word.

As I recalibrate my brain to accept the rhythms of this particular work, I've found I have a lot more time to think about the structure of the piece.

Our Mutual Friend, in combination with the scavenger project has me thinking about the concept of "rules of the world" in a slightly different light. I use the term "rules of the world" to refer to the conventions, practices, and behaviors that define the narrative logic of the piece. For an easy example: if you have wizards zapping each other with wands, then one of the ROTW is that magic exists.

Most of the time, I think of ROTW as having to do with fantasy, sci fi, or visions of the future. Our Mutual Friend is set in the past - and I've been reminded that ROTW applies to every play. Even ones set in a time or place supposedly familiar to the audience.

As I work through Our Mutual Friend, I'm going to be posting questions inspired by the world of the book. These questions, taken together, might form an interesting exercise for a writer trying to create their own new world. I suppose its worth noting that "world" in ROTW doesn't need to refer to the entire globe. It can of course refer to the immediate culture your characters inhabit.

Set A
1) Where do the bodies end up? What happens to the dead in your world carries a huge amount of information about economics, value of life, religion, etc.

2) What is the value of education in this world? What type of education is important, how it is attained and who attains it also shape the world.

3) What are the approved libations and intoxications? This also begs the question of what are the illegal intoxications.

What other questions would you pose when crafting your world?

This blog is a fortune cookie...

2007-08-31T15:31:00.002-05:00

You know how you're supposed to add "in bed" when you read the fortune in a fortune cookie?

Well, in the spirit of the blog refocus, I will be periodically reminding you to mentally add "What do you think?" to the end of every post.

Not all the new posts will ask direct questions, but I'm still interested in fostering conversations. So if my observations about writing make you think of a similar experience, share it the comments. Disagree? Share it. Make you think of something totally unrelated? Share that too. Done something similar in your own writing? Post it.

For example, if you read that last post on the Lives of Others, you might share a moment from your own work where you used similarly two-purposed evidence. Or you might share another observation about writing that was also inspired by the film. Or you might take umbrage with the fact that this is a blog about playwriting and I keep writing about film.

You get the idea.

The Lives Of Others

2007-08-31T15:13:00.000-05:00

I behind the curve on this one, but I just watched the Lives Of Others last night. (ah, Netflix).

Don't read this post if you plan on watching the film but haven't yet.

Thought I'd use the Read More... feature to prevent accidental spoilage. Nice, eh?

The Lives of Others is set in the GDR. A Stasi agent, Wiesler, has bugged the apartment of a playwright and his actress girlfriend, investigating possible subversive activities. At one point in the film, Wiesler enters the apartment while the couple is out. It is a brief moment, he simply walks through the apartment, gazing at the various artifacts of the couple's life. I noticed the scene, thinking it somewhat odd. But I accepted it as evidence that Wiesler was becoming involved in the lives of his subjects.

Near the end of the film, when Wiesler rushes to the apartment after the girlfriends confession and removes key evidence, I suddenly realized the true purpose of the scene. That scene offered evidence that Wiesler could enter and leave the apartment at will, undetected.

Among many other structural gems in the play, I was reminded of a basic principle. Every moment or action that is used as evidence for a future action should have two reasons for existence. The first reason should be answered in the now of the story: "Oh, he's doing that because..." As a result, the second reason (the true purpose) will be more powerful and effective. Giving the audience a chance to come up with a reasonable rational for an action in the moment allows a much stronger turn later on.

In other words, causing an audience to ask "what the hell is going on" and answering it later is less powerful that having the audience believe they know what is going on and then changing their minds --or taking their understanding deeper.