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Blood and Bones Theatre. Fairy Tales

Please let me know if you own this Let’s talk about fairy stories.   Let me think about some of the narratives that others have ...

Friday, March 03, 2017

Blood and Bones. Play writng in the 21st Century.


Blood and Bones Theatre


Theatre is the oldest expression of some of the deepest human instincts.  The playwright’s job is to establish the complex process of thought that leads to that expression.  Yet in the post-rational twenty-first century just when they’re needed, many of the enormous possibilities of drama have been lost to a welter of superficial acrobatics, music and visual effect while the actual skills of playwriting - character construction and dialogue and as a vehicle for understanding the fundamentals of human nature - have been downgraded such that the playwright him or herself is thought of as mere pen holder for other theatre makers. Playwrights are kept at arm’s length from the creative process by the dread shadow of The Dramaturg and the play reading committee.

This series is not a handy how-to-do-it guide but rather a personal meditation on the place of the playwright in contemporary theatre.   It suggests that if theatre is to survive it needs to re-engage with its audiences by offering something to challenge the immediate attraction of film, television and other narratives. It needs to find its soul again and offer what is its unique properties.  To do this it needs a powerful cohort of playwrights and it needs them once again at the heart of the playmaking process.  Playwrights like me need to stop titting around with ten minute sketches and applying cap in hand to futile competitions.  We need to be bolder, braver and prouder of what we do because I firmly believe we can contribute in some way to getting the world back to a more humane, rational way of progressing.

I am particularly fortunate in that I was able to learn my craft in what, with hindsight, appears to be a golden age of theatre.  I have had opportunities to work alongside great actors and within companies who believed in the essential power of drama. I have been able to learn from people who knew their craft and I hope I have been able to pass that on in writing workshops and as a director working with young and established actors to this day.

So, if you are a playwright, actor, director. Audience member or all round lover of theatre come with me on my ramble through my own head as I try to understand what it is I’ve been playing with for the last forty years

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Blood and Bones Theatre. Fairy Tales

Please let me know if you own this





Let’s talk about fairy stories.  Let me think about some of the narratives that others have created and which, I think need challenging. Later I’ll talk about how theatre should be involved in the process.  First, Let me map out some of the ways I think we are being diverted from the authentic, the plausible and the genuine and led into a sham world where issues are beyond our grasp. Let me, for an example, consider the plethora of conspiracy theories and hoaxes I see promoted on the Internet.  Why do we get so worked up about them?  These are flung about and consumed with the same zeal as Coca Cola and Macdonalds or Dom Perignon and Heston Blumental’s snail porage and with the same disregard to nutrition.  And despite any evidence to the contrary, conspiracy theorists will cling on to these ideas like drowning sailors to a piece of driftwood or politicians to their scrap of power so that no-one can prise their fingers therefrom.



Here’s a fairy story:  There was once a wicked witch in the West. Originally she was from the East where she had believed that everything that mattered could be weighed and measured and there was no need for any of the airy fairy flim flam that so many mortals worried about. But she had a rather beastly time in the East so she transported herself on her broomstick to the West where she developed a grudge against the gooey, sticky parts of mortal life that made her feel unhappy and she came to want to destroy everything that could not be weighed and measured.  She thought that everybody else should shut themselves in a cupboard and just go away. But nobody would listen to her silly ideas so she wrote all her grievances in a little book.   And then she died and with her last breath she cursed the world and wished that all mortals be turned to stone because in that way they could be weighed and measured. At first, anybody who read her book laughed at it because it was very silly and childish.  (And very badly written.) But one day some greedy and selfish crooks thought that they would do better out of the world if greed and selfishness were the made the things to be, so they took the wicked witch’s silly book and said to all their friends that this book had magic powers and would change the world as they wanted.  And gradually the book was passed around and, because these men said that the book was true.  Slowly, slowly, the magic spell began to work and a dark shadow was unleashed upon the whole world because everybody believed that this was true and, what’s more, how things had to be.  And faster and faster, all the good things that were in people’s hearts like love and friendship (because the wicked witch had said such things were unfeasibly gooey and sticky) were replaced by selfishness and greed and hate and fear and everybody felt unhappy but they didn’t know why.  And they began to blame everything that was good and speak out for the evil things that were now rampaging through the world even though they were making themselves more and more unhappy.  And one of these crooks whispered in the ear of another powerful witch from another country and she said that everything that had gone before was now to be forgotten and laughed at.  And so it was.  The darkness descended on the world like a thick choking fog.  And people had no way of defending themselves against it and they began to turn to stone because a stone is easily weighed and measured.



OK not a very good fairy story but the best I can do.  It’s here to illustrate the notion that ideas can be passed around and believed despite any evidence to the contrary.  This is called cognitive bias.  We are all cognitively biased one way or another.  There are many things we believe because… well, because we believe them.  And the unhappiness it causes is called cognitive dissonance.

If you haven’t guessed already, the originator of all this tale is Russian born pulp fiction writer, Ayn Rand.  In Ayn Rand’s grindingly awful world stability would be achieved by having no government and with all individuals concerned only with their own ends. Altruism would be discounted and only self-interest allowed. What is frightening is that her bonkers belief became widespread among people who became big players in Silicon Valley and, eventually, though Alan Greenspan right into the heart of US government where the ideas brought about the collapse of two world economies; that of South east Asia in the nineteen nineties and the whole western economy in 2008. We shudder at this nonsense, these bizarre ideas of individual isolation one from another which have so thoroughly soaked into contemporary society through the vectors of Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher the latter who famously said “There is no such thing as society”. Yes, it’s true, she did actually say that in an interview with Women’s Own Magazine on 31st October 1987 and it was an idea directly channelled from Rand.

While these policies derived some intellectual underpinning from economists such as Friedman and Hayek, it was essentially Rand’s philosophy that was at the stony heart of the whole enterprise.

And when this philosophy was put into action it devolved power from governments to the banks.  And the banks had only one end in view – accumulating money. It was an extraordinary display of open and naked greed, a great slobbering banquet that continued for years until nearly every cupboard and fridge was empty whilst the rest of us looked on in horror.   This was Ayn Rand’s philosophy of self-interest written on a world scale.   And in the end it was the small person who was left with a monstrous bill for the beanfeast which he or she was absolutely and utterly unable to dispute. What’s more the small person was made to feel the guilty parties in this farrago.  We feel powerless before this swelling tide. We cannot cope so we turn our faces to the wall, reach for the remote control or pound, pound, pound mindlessly along the clifftop and in the end we do nothing at all about it.

“But, hey!  Hang about!”  Says Skidmore looking up from his drink..  “Here you are banging on about not believing in conspiracy theories of the world and you’ve just farted out one of the biggest.  The virtual collapse of Western Civilization brought about by a pulp fiction writer. How come you can believe in this and not the one about the moon-landings or whatever?”  Well, OK., Skidders.  You, of course, have me banged to rights.  That is my cognitive bias coming to the fore. Except that I would defend myself by saying that actually all of this is well known and documented.  The people involved are open and have discussed it.  They admit to it openly. The perpetrators speak freely about it with little remorse. The banks did a job and they got away with it, bonuses and all. So this is a conspiracy that is actually happening now and is a proud part of modern economics.



OK.  Here is another story and one I was involved in and know, hand on heart, to be true.



I was travelling by train down Italy and happened to share a compartment with a young Swedish guy.  He was affable and easy going but for some reason he felt compelled to show me the contents of his suitcase.  It was literally stuffed full of bank notes.  He happily explained how he had sold everything he owned and was taking the cash to join a group in Corfu, the then headquarters of the Scientology movement.  I knew nothing about Scientology and he persuaded me to meet up with him on the island and he would show me round.  As it turned out the headquarters was a large rusting hulk moored in the harbour.  The acolytes, having handed over all their worldly possessions were living and eating in communal dormitories in fairly Spartan conditions.  Nothing strange there.  There was any number of weird cults living communal lives at that time.  Except that the “Clears” the officers or priests or whatever they were, seemed to have a high old time frequenting the bars and taverns of the town and the founder of the cult, the science-fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard was living further down the quayside in a large white motor yacht draped with bikini-clad lovelies. Cognitive dissonance on the grandest of grandiose scales. I declined the opportunity to throw in my lot with them.

And the same applies to the Nigerian Princess scam and other hoaxes.  Apparently the far-fetched nature of the narrative is designed to eliminate all but the most gullible.  The scammers want to weed out anyone who might cause trouble but for the poor unfortunate who falls for the scheme they will be drawn gradually into a web of intrigue.  Once you have parted with your details, or even the thousand dollars the Princess needs to pay bribes, you are hooked and you will put aside your doubts because you are now afraid of losing your first investment or even from fear that you will be made to look stupid by not following up on the deal. The deeper in we get, the more we earnestly believe and the harder it is for rational thinking to apply.



And as I dig deeper into this morass I seem to see that what ties this all together and fuels its onward march is this disengagement I was talking about earlier.  Not only a disengagement from politics but from humanity itself.  All of these phenomena that I've touched on have their roots in a distancing from, not only the levers of power, but the actual machinery of common human existence.   The Conspiracy theorists, The Randists, the Scientologists, the Bankers, the Rhapsodists, the Capitalists and other hoaxers and scammers. Who can tell them apart?  They see a world so maddened that it can be driven for their own ends. And so they can disseminate their own stories, the conspiracies, the year zero, the religions, the accumulation of money - anything to give them some justification for their existence.  Their stories spread.  We desire an explanation for the entirely unearned misfortunes that befall us. It seems somehow easier to believe a complex lie than the simple truth. As Joseph Goebbels is often misquoted as saying in the big lie there is always a certain force of credibility; because the broad masses of a nation are always more easily corrupted in the deeper strata of their emotional nature than consciously or voluntarily”. In other words “The bigger the lie, the easier it is to believe.”  Thus the welter of propaganda of the press and the internet is lapped up by people who feel they simply do not have the time or the resources to cut through to the truth. The stories become the narrative of a whole people and, as such, they become the truth of the politicians, the spiritual leaders, the wealthy that they can manipulate to maintain their status. 

"We were taught that we were being persecuted because we were God's chosen people and that the world outside didn't understand us," Anna Baron The Polygamists Daughter.



So, Skidmore,  I’m going to try to engage with the world and encourage all other artists to fill the gap that the media, both official and social, have left or have deliberately avoided.



Theatre is, and should be the art of engagement.  It is collaborative, social.  It contacts the deepest levels of human experience. But yet I know that if I try to use my playwriting to counteract this nonsense then I am in danger of losing my perspective.  My own cognitive bias will become only too apparent and that may not ultimately fit with the characters I portray.  What’s more a one sided polemic can only be as dull as ditchwater to an audience.  I must see and understand.  I must engage with my subject matter in a way that will allow my characters to speak with their own truth.  Above all I must let the audience engage with my characters and tease out a different narrative from the one they might have accepted up to that point.  But in order to do that, I must follow Nietzsche’s thinking and endeavour to understand myself first.




Wednesday, February 08, 2017

Chapter 2a) Belief, Bias and Common Humanity.  A meditation on playwriting in the Age of Untruth.  Apollo and Dionysius.







The authentic narrative is a sensory explosion occurring within an intellectual context.  We know it when we feel it as acutely as we feel a kick on the shins at a chess match.

So can theatre, the greatest illusion of all, articulate anything meaningful about combatting trickery and fraud?   In other words: is it possible to create a plausible, authentic narrative within all that fakery? I’m going to stick my neck right out here and say that is exactly what theatre it is for and what it was first invented to do. 

Playwrights control and guide the emotional journey.  The audience experiences something different from what they know, thereby empathising and understanding at a deep, visceral level.

I’ll come back to the mechanics of theatre and writing for it in a later chapter But I also want to explain how I feel theatre has become side-tracked away from its primary function.  The desire for an instant gratification has reduced many forms of theatre to spectacle.  Exciting and thrilling funny and even emotionally engaging it may be but in the end, hollow and without heart.  That is not to decry the theatre of spectacle but it loses so much more that it could be doing.  Theatre may not be able to change the world but it can certainly set out to engage and challenge.

At the core of live theatre experience is the fact that each performance is new and different.  No actor can reproduce the exact same circumstances of performance night after night.  He or she brings themselves to it with all their own foibles and disappointments.  And we all know that the audience is different performance by performance.  The reaction to the wild shamen on stage maybe quite different on a wet Thursday afternoon from a joyous Saturday night out.



The actor is key, he or she is living, breathing and sweating.  It is up to the playwright to give the actor the means to create that rank, odorific moment.  And the shape of the play provides the narrative underpinning that will make this more than a moment in time. Plays happen here and now right in front of and, perhaps, in and around the audience.  The actors are constructing and driving characters and their stories right in front of our eyes.  Plays happen to everyone in this room.

Peter Brook, in his seminal work “The Empty Space” decries a form of theatre he terms “Deadly Theatre”.   “A doctor can tell at once between the trace of life and the useless bag of bones that life has left; but we are less practised in observing how an idea, an attitude or a form can pass from the lively to the moribund. It is difficult to define but a child can smell it out.” 

Jerzy Grotowski when he talks about physical theatre, is not talking about empty acrobatics but in the direct, living engagement of the actor with the text.

“Why do we sacrifice so much energy to our art?

Not in order to teach others but to learn with them what our existence, our organism, our personal and repeatable experience have to give us; to learn to break down the barriers which surround us and to free ourselves from the breaks which hold us back, from the lies about ourselves which we manufacture daily for ourselves and for others; to destroy the limitations caused by our ignorance or lack of courage; in short, to fill the emptiness in us: to fulfill ourselves...art is a ripening, an evolution, an uplifting which enables us to emerge from darkness into a blaze of light.”
Jerzy Grotowski

Antonin Artaud when he describes a Theatre of Cruelty. “I would like to write a Book which would drive men mad, which would be like an open door leading them where they would never have consented to go, in short, a door that opens onto reality.”
Antonin Artaud, Selected Writings

These great thinkers about theatre are all trying to capture is the idea of Authenticity in performance and production. They want genuine commitment to the performance by performers and audiences alike. If a performance does not leave us shaking with emotion, angry, fearful, delighted, in love with the world, then it has failed.  Actor and audience alike should feel challenged, uplifted, crushed, beaten and absolutely shattered.  And, in that communion, a sense of well-being and grace.



On the other hand, apparently, the other great thinker about the role of theatre in the twentieth century, Berthold Brecht, propounded the idea of making the audience less engaged emotionally in a work by proposing an Epic Theatre that stripped the spectator of the need to identify emotionally with the characters or action before him or her.  He felt it should instead provoke rational self-reflection and a critical view of the action on the stage He was concerned that emotional engagement engendered complacency in his audience and he employed what became known as “alienation techniques”. 



  In fact the word “alienation” used in this context is a bit of a red herring. I think the Brecht, like Brook and Grotowski,  was driving at undermining the primly defined conventions of theatre as he saw it.  The Deadly Theatre of the glossy, bourgeois light comedy. He wanted to give the pendulum a push in the opposite direction. He was a man of the theatre and understood the necessity of emotional engagement in his plays even if he didn’t preach it.  Ironically, Brechtian Theatre has become a style of the mainstream.  Contemporary audiences are much less challenged by such techniques than they might have been in the 1930s.  We have absorbed Brecht and his ideas into the mainstream.  Brecht was not trying to undermine theatre as a whole but to “re-function it” and to make it more relevant and challenging.

For me, the key to this is Nietzsche’s idea in “The Birth of Tragedy” that the individual can lose themselves in a collective Dionysian event and thereby undergo an ecstatic transformational experience while recognising the authenticity of the created world and how it coincides with the real.



In Greek mythology, Apollo and Dionysus are both sons of Zeus. Apollo is the god of reason and the rational, while Dionysus is the god of the irrational and chaos. The Greeks did not consider the two gods to be opposites or rivals, although often the two deities were entwined by nature.  The Apollonian is based on reason and logical thinking. By contrast, the Dionysian is based on chaos and appeals to the emotions and instincts. - Wikipaedia



Thus theatre explores our need for authenticity twice over.  First in the great Apollonian consistent world that that the playwright creates and reports on and secondly in the Dionysian immediacy and transformative power of the event itself.   
Note, that I am not saying what form that authenticity takes, just that the drama needs to have both plausibility and deep engagement with its subject matter.  And that must come from the playwright.  If you like, that predicates a third form of Authenticity, that contained and manifested in the playwright herself.


Nietszche suggests that the only way we can attain any form of enlightenment is by scrupulous self examination.in which we disclose the furthest reaches of ourselves.  By implication he says there is a rich inner life to be explored and that truthfulness in this exploration is the only virtue.  If, as playwrights, we want to observe truth in our work then we must chase down the inner workings of ourselves and thence our characters as if we were the Spanish Inquisition. 

But in this fractured, opinionated world of 2017, which writers have the resources either in time or expertise for this critical examination of themselves and their own writing?     Where are the great works that seek to portray and explain the current divisions in society?  Where are the contemporary “Three Sisters”  “Hedda Gabler”.  Where are the bold playwrights like Aphra Behn or Dario Fo? Sadly, playwrights are losing opportunities to write with such engagement, to construct towering mountains of ideas or to create worlds of experience.  And without those opportunities, the skill withers away. Many of the current ways into playwriting are to blame.  The ten minute sketch or the monologue are excellent introductions to the art but they are not the art.  A ten minute play is really a sketch and while it may be funny, thoughtful, clever, witty it simply does not have the room to construct a proper narrative or to follow characters that are allowed to build and develop.  The ten minute sketch is an art form in itself but it is not playwriting.  And I believe this is where we are losing the skills and sensibilities required in constructing plays.  Writing a play is a marathon not a sprint.  It is a five day test match rather than a T20 Big Bash.  Emerging playwrights ought to be given real incentives to write real plays, and, I suggest, as soon as the plays become big and challenging with room for big ideas then audiences will be enticed back as they always are to the authentic narrative which has no counterpart in the other media..



Many young writers have these important imperatives in their work. They may be dealing with the big subjects but unless there is room for their work to grow in size and scope then they will not be able to create the theatre that is so desperately needed.  At the same time, they hear only the glib quick cut language of film and television making.  They are not sufficiently exposed to the theatrical narrative style which requires time to develop.  Theatre needs to be more contemplative and require exposure over longer periods than the disposable media.



I have suggested before that there ought to be some way for young writers to serve the sort of apprenticeship that I had. I was given opportunities to work alongside established playwrights and directors, to sit in on rehearsals, to stand on the side of the stage and watch actors at work.  I was given the opportunity to handle a few rewrites for other writers and eventually to work with studio companies on my own works.





It is essential that theatre is grabbed back from the accountants and gatekeepers.  And wrested from control of the large commercial funders who would seek to channel the inspiration of the creatives.  We must join forces with like-minded creatives and producers  and write the sort of theatre that needs to be written.



Theatre in its greatest form is like a towering moving crystal ice sculpture loud with trumpets and voices that has the power to drive an audience to the further reaches of their feeling and comprehension.  Today it has become the artform smashed into a million tiny glittering shards, all beautiful in themselves but unable to generate the visceral response that Brook and Grotowski and Artaud were challenging us to provide.  And if we are not careful, if we do not show young writers how to aspire to creating this greater thing, those fragments that are left will melt away altogether leaving us infinitely poorer.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Chapter 12 - Belief, Bias and Common Humanity


Filling the Empty Space


Skidmore and I were having a drink in a bar one evening after attending a performance of some dire piece of performance work masquerading as drama when he suddenly said “I’ve written a few pieces for the magazine at Uni, I think I’ll have a go at writing a play next.  How do I go about it? What sort of story is best for a play?  How long should it be?”  And suddenly everything goes all wobbly and the room spins round and round as in an old episode of Doctor Who.  Mind you I had been drinking home brewed scrumpy all evening but I did think this was one of those portals into those time loops where our actions are repeated over and over again for ever and I had had this conversation so many times before.

I asked, as I do every time “Why do you want to write a play?  Why not a novel or a short story or a poem?”

“There’s a competition I’d like to enter.  I definitely think I could win it.  All I want is an idea and I’ll give it a go.”

Well, that’s an answer I suppose.  Not one I wanted to hear.  Perhaps I should have phrased it differently.  “What is the idea you have that can only be expressed as a play?  What are the particular attributes of the narrative that make it so that it can only be expressed in a play?  Plays are hard work and if you could express yourself in a short story or even a haiku, you’d have a lot less heart-ache.”

But this time our young hopeful is not to be put off. “It can’t be that difficult.  You write them all the time.”

Well, yes, I couldn’t disagree.  There is no actual law against anyone having a go at such an undertaking.  And in answer to his initial enquiry I had to admit there are no actual rules about how much and what subject. And I never, ever advise people about how they should write. But I liked Skidmore for all his rather callow, erratic, exuberant approach to the world and I didn’t want him to get involved in something that might make him unhappy so I thought I might try and guide him with a few pearls.

All right, I say “How much experience do you have of theatre?  How much do you know about that unique relationship between actors and audiences?  What do you know and expect of your own relationship with the audience?”

“I don’t think I need to go into that too much.  That’s for the director to sort out.”

That is also true.  Up to a point.  Directors need to be given freedom to explore the subject and don’t need to be told how to direct a play.  Particularly by someone like Skidmore.  But that’s not what I’m driving at, either.

“So you’re saying that you don’t need to engage with the audience yourself?  You place your work before them and they like it or lump it.  A tiny bit arrogant, don’t you think?”

Skidmore frowned at that.  I don’t think he’d ever been called arrogant before.  Then he brightened as he always does in adversity. “I think you’re deliberately misunderstanding me. Anyway, the play is just the words.  I leave the gubbins to the techies.”

Now there you are wrong, young Skidmore.  Comprehensively irredeemably wrong.  Plays are not works of literature.  They are one part of a huge collaborative effort by actors, directors, lighting people, audiences, cleaners, ice-cream sellers.  That’s why I say to all new writers who have to listen to me ranting on from my stool in the corner of the bar: “Before you put pen to paper you must get to know theatre and the way it works.  You need to have all that firmly planted in your mind, the smell of sawdust and of paint, the sounds of rehearsals in a draughty hall somewhere, the anxiety of the producer that the thing is about to work.  You need to know all this because a play needs to come from the theatre and is not bolted onto it.  Have you read Peer Brook’s “The Empty Space”?”  But when I looked up, Skidmore had ceased listening and was attending to his I-phone.

The answer I should have given right from the start was, “If you want to write plays then start by getting stuck into theatre.”  I really was getting worked up.  This was a subject I had decided views on and I wasn’t going to be ignored.  “Now listen here, young fellow.  It doesn’t really matter whether it’s professional or amateur but you must understand theatre as a living, breathing organism before you can begin to think about delivering the instructions that will prod this leviathan into motion.  It also doesn’t really matter what you are going to do within the theatre.  Just be somewhere where you can observe and learn.  When I got thrown out of school I hitch-hiked to London and not knowing anything better, I went from stage door to stage door asking if there was any work to be had.  By some extraordinary fluke heard of a job as a stage hand.  It was from the vantage point of the side of the stage that I was able to watch great actors and theatre makers at work.  Later, I became a very junior stage manager in the North West of England.  It was sitting in on rehearsals in freezing cold rehearsal rooms, marking up prompt copies with coloured pencils held in shaking gloved hands that I learnt how the hidden mechanisms of plays actually work.  What paths the directors and actors took through the intricacies of scripts, how they came to understand what a play was about and how best to serve the script…”  I tailed off because Skidmore had lost interest in my c.v. altogether and had wandered off to drink tequilas with some old buddies from Uni. Leaving me to carry on musing about the subject.

Theatre is the oldest expression of some of the deepest human instincts.  The playwright’s job is to lead the complex process of thought that leads to that expression.  Yet in the twenty-first century many of the enormous possibilities of drama have been lost to a superficial welter of acrobatics, music and visual effect while the skills of playwriting, character construction and dialogue have been downgraded to that of mere pen holder for other theatre makers. For three thousand years, theatre has provided a crucible of thought and argument.  It has challenged the status quo and reflected on the great changes in society and watched civilizations come and go.  It has mocked the privileged and epicene and it has raised to our consciousness those who are oppressed and down trodden.  It has provided relief in the times of crisis and serious dialogue when things were going smoothly.  It can be both ridiculously funny and jarringly emotional.  It provides high ritual and low cunning.  But because playwriting is seen as something of a dilletante pass time, the subject of many university theses, it has lost its heart and soul.  Aspiring playwrights like Skidmore are encouraged to write ten minute sketches for competitions instead of committing the years of work necessary for real drama.

“What you want to do Young Skidmore, is devote yourself to cutting through all the obfuscation and razzamatazz and get back to the heart and soul of the thing…  Read Peter Brook… Skidmore…  Skidmore!

Thursday, November 03, 2016

Chapter 11 - Belief, Bias and Common Humanity

Secrets and Lies – Inner dialogue



Some liars are so expert they deceive themselves.   -Austin O’Malley

People tell lies.  That might come as a bit of a shock to you having lived your life in your sheltered, honest-to-goodness tell-it-like-it-is neighbourhood.  But let me assure you that some people are capable of ejecting absolute eye-popping, heart-stopping, teacup-dropping humdingers of lies.  In fact, some people are so given to telling whoppers that they can’t tell where truth ends and lies begin.  And, sadly for us, neither can we.  Sometimes we find we have lived right next door to someone who has been living their whole life as a lie.  And when the police call to ask us if we suspected anything of our serial killer neighbour we say with hand on heart “We didn’t have the slightest clue, officer.  Not a whisper.  The chap was the quietest, kindest, nicest church-goer you could ever have the pleasure of sharing your gardening implements with.  Mind you, there was the time the shears came back with suspicious stains all over the blades and he said he had pricked his thumb on a rose thorn.”  And so on and so forth.  And we wonder about the clean living vegan on the other side who borrowed the electric drill once...



 What I mean to say is that we all have an inner life very little of which we share with other people.  And sometimes we find out about it and sometimes even the owner of the inner life is not aware of it.  But for an actor studying a character they are to play, it is the inner, secret life that is not written in the dialogue that they will sniff out like a truffle hound.  In the gaps that your dialogue allows, the actor will try to find the actual words that remain unspoken but which motivate and drive the character forward.  In most cases it is the secret inward dialogue that the character has with him or her self that is more important than your actual words on the page.  This is a secret world that the actor inhabits from curtain up to the final climax.  It is the place where all the debate and decision takes place.  What happens in the pauses in a play by Pinter?  The dramas, the actual material drama happens in the pauses.

The great neurologist and theatre director Jonathan Miller says   We must allow for the way in which the unconscious works and guides our speech quite unwittingly.  This doesn’t just mean the Freudian slip but the way in which our unconscious brains are working on problems that we may have quite forgotten about.  How often do we retreat into that secret world until our partner says: “You’re quiet.  What are you thinking about?”  To which our answer is usually “Nothing”.

Now here is an interesting conundrum for the playwright: how do you write something invisible and unstated? Something that the character herself has no awareness of?  The inexperienced playwright may include stage–directions.  “He crosses to the table, furrowing his brow and looking anguished.”  Well, forget that sort of thing.  The actor finds that demeaning.  It is the actor’s job in association with the director to worm out the inner dialogue.  Even less do you want to write the inner dialogue into the text.  “You look worried Harry.”  “Yes I am suffering fearful flashbacks about that car-accident in which that young girl was killed by my stupidity last year.”  “Oh dear, I hope you’re not going to brood about that over dinner.” “I probably will, although I shall attempt to put a cheery face on it.” What you must do as a writer is to make sure that you have the inner dialogue with the character yourself.  You must examine thoroughly the psyche of the character and make sure that they behave entirely truly to both their inward and outward dialogues.  There will be tiny nuances .  He or she might alter their speech by just one word to give a little hint to the outside world of the inner world.  What was it we used to say in church?  “The outer visible sign of an inward invisible force.”  Because it is surely the inner force that drives the character through the play. Think about a play like “Cat on Hot Tin Roof” where the whole structure of the play is driven by the lies that the protagonists hold close to them. This drives the characters towards the inevitable climax. This is fine detail work and requires close inspection of every single word you have written in the later drafts.

The unseen and unspoken topics that are never uttered are usually to do with shame, guilt embarrassment. They touch on status and emotional engagement.  Intentions in these areas must never be referred to directly. What’s more characters must be careful to engage in such a way to indicate whether they want to discuss these ideas or not.   The idea of opening or closing is well known to actors and improvisors.  An open question leads to a thoughtful and, possibly, lengthy reply.  “What did you think of the pas de deux in Act 2?”  Leads to a fuller discussion than the closed question: “Did you like it?” The closed question encourages a “yes” or “no” answer while an open question leads on to greater things.

I read an interesting piece in which some teacher suggested that playwrights should never employ questions as part of dialogue writing.  I think I see what she is driving at but you still have to deploy an interrogation at some point.  Obviously the clever playwright will imply the questions but we still want our interlocutor to ask “Well, did you murder Celia?” in some way or other.

Some thoughts about Status

For most people the huge self examination that goes on throughout all interactions is that of status. As soon as we walk into a room of strangers we are weighing up the appearance, speech and manners of everyone else in order to establish our place in the pecking order.  Status is vital to our understanding of the world but it is not as straightforward as whether one speaks with a cultivated accent or has polished shoes, though these outward signs do play an important part.  And status is itself can be fluid and mutable.  I walk into the room and at once I am on my guard, ready for an opportunity to exhibit my knowledge or wealth. I must preserve my status at all times and, where and when possible, increase it.  This is more than just getting one over on your adversary.  One can increase one’s status whilst appearing to lose it.  Thus you can make what appears to be a gross error in manners in the eyes of one person but it may result in admiration from others.

Consider opening and closing questions in the following dialogue.  And how are Andrew and Barry asserting status through their use. Thus:

Andrew:            Cup of tea?
Barry:               Not if it’s a problem.
Andrew:            No problem.
Barry:               Are you making one for yourself?
Andrew:            Earl Grey or Typhoo?
Barry:               What are you having?
Andrew:            I’ve got both.

Barry:               Can you still get Ty-phoo?

Andrew:            I got some in for when the vicar called.

Barry:               That might be nice.

Andrew:            Last year. It’s at the back of the cupboard.
Barry:               Don’t go to any fuss.  Earl Grey would be fine.

And so on.
Andrew asks “Would you like a cup of tea?” in as off hand way as possible. Barry must never reply “Yes” or “No”. These are forceful, closing words which represent a status assertion and, as such, serve to reduce one’s own status.  (The answer “yes” Implying something like: “You are too stupid to recognise that is why I am here” and “No” implying “I wouldn’t drink that gnat’s piss you served up last time.”) Thus Barry must reply with a status neutral question: “Are you making one for yourself?” and so throwing the status problem back to Andrew who must reply with a further question: “Do you prefer Earl Grey or Typhoo?” Barry’s answer: “Can you still get Typhoo?” is nearly a status assertion in itself.  “I may have some in the back of the cupboard.” Is a winning stroke. Yet notice how long Barry can hold out without every giving a direct answer to the original question.

I’m not certain how this operates in other parts of the world but in the UK this is typical of a complex status interaction in which both speakers are fencing to an unwritten but well understood set of rules.  There are similar rules to follow in interactions concerning the weather which are really coded for one’s emotional engagement with the world and must be kept carefully guarded at all times.

It used to be axiomatic that in polite society one avoided conversing about religion, sex and politics.  In our dialogue here, of course, these are the only safe topics of conversation.

And whether this particular case is especially British or not, I’m willing to bet there will be similar sets of unwritten rules throughout the world.

Some thoughts on Irony

We all know about Dramatic Irony.  It’s a stock in trade for most playwrights wherein we let the audience in on a secret that the protagonist in the play is unaware of.  It’s where the audience nudges each other and says “he’s riding for a fall.”  Greek Drama is chock full of ironic situations because the audience should be well acquainted with the story in advance.  The best place to see it in action is in pantomime with a thousand kids screaming “It’s behind you.”  As the Dame is cheerfully unaware of the ghost creeping up behind her.

Irony is our way of distancing ourselves from problems or problematic people.  It gives us an outside view. It prevents us getting angry.  In order to be ironic about something we need to be detached or held apart from the source of our irritation.  And irony is also a signal to others who may be our allies.  Sending out an ironic smoke signal allows those who agree with our point of view to sidle up closer to us with a knowing wink without always raising the suspicions of those who are the target for the irony in the first place.  Irony sets us apart but also joins us together.  The knowing versus the ignorant.  The Insiders against the outsiders.  And here we’re stepping on dangerous territory.  As soon as we have defined an otherness then we are as guilty of shredding the network we are so wanting to build. 

So we need to be careful with an ironical inner dialogue that it’s not the playwright speaking directly to the audience over the heads of the characters in the play.

And here is another fascinating aspect.  You the playwright are in conversation with the actor and director about the inner dialogue through the words you have written, but how much do you want to reveal to the audience and at what point?  Do you want to let them into the secret at the beginning so they can watch the two levels of the play at once, or leave it to the end as a grand deus ex machine reveal?  More likely you will want to leave a little trail of clues throughout the piece that, if you are clever, they arrive at the truth at the moment the other characters discover it. It’s clever if you can pull it off.  I always find it annoying when as an audient you have realised the truth of a character in act 1 while the characters on stage don’t see it until two acts later.  You’re almost climbing out of your seat to shout “Can’t you see?  He did it?”

You, the playwright need to understand what your characters are not saying.  What topic is known by one or all of them and is being ignored?  What is, as they say, the elephant in the room?  And what sort of code are your protagonists using to avoid mentioning it?


Friday, October 14, 2016

Chapter 10 - Belief, Bias and Common Humanity

Dialogue - The Heart of Playwriting



NOBODY SHOULD EMBARK ON THE DANGEROUS PATH OF PLAYWRITING UNTIL THEY HAVE SPENT AT LEAST SIX MONTHS DRINKING COFFEE IN A BUSY CAFE.  PREFERABLY ONE YOU HAVE TO CATCH A BUS TO GET TO. 




Skidmore:            I’ll do this. (nods to counter)

Steve:                   Eh?

Skidmore:            Watchawan?

Steve:                   (Purses lips.  Makes bubbly noise.)  You come up on the dogs? 

Skidmore:            (Pulls lips back over teeth. sighs) Uh?

Steve:                   Cheers (Sucks teeth.) Uhhhh...

Skidmore:            (To barista) (makes despairing look) Capuccino. (Gestures to Steve)

Steve:                   Nah.

Skidmore:            My treat. I said. (Closes eyes)

Steve:                   Had one here. Last week. Came in to see… (Makes grimace.  Laughs out loud for no apparent reason)

Skidmore:            Hurry up. (Nods to Queue.)

Steve:                   (Puffs air. Tuts. Shrugs.  Nods)  I don’t think… Milk. (Grimace again.  Mouths) Fridge.

Skidmore:            (Raises eyebrows)  Eh?

Steve:                   I d’no.  Americano then.

Skidmore:            (To barista) No milk

Steve:                   Cheers.

Barista:                Anything else?

(Skidmore looks at Steve. Steve shakes his head)

Barista:                That’s five pounds exactly.

(Skidmore looks hard at Steve)

Steve:                   Eh?

(Skidmore shrugs.  Studies shelves behind counter. Steve pays.)

Barista:                I’ll bring them over.

Steve:                   Cheers

I’m not being entirely whimsical.  The idea is that as a play wright, as any sort of writer, you should listen to people talking. As much and as often as possible.  You need to listen closely and at some length as you sip your americano.  You also need to blow the dust off your notebook and write down what they say and, most important, the way they say it.  Until you have spent hours and hours doing this and have acquired some understanding of the way people speak to each other; the speech patterns and rhythms, then you cannot begin to write plays.  Because the stuff of plays is made up of the interactions and interplays of characters.   If you can’t get that, then you can’t write a play.  Anybody can write a play that depends on situation or plot but to write a play that depends on character requires an understanding of how to build a character and how that character develops within and around a plot.  Indeed, how the character and the plot are inextricably linked.  What happens in a play can only happen because of that character and that character drives what happens.  And we reveal that character by the way they speak.

There are no rules about getting a character to speak.  Indeed, you will find out very quickly as you listen, that there are absolutely no rules to conversation at all.  Trying to record and reproduce is virtually impossible.  Conversational speech is broken, halting, discursive, unsettled.  Entirely without grammar or syntax as described in the conventional manuals.  Sentences have no verbs.  They do not link one to another.  They are made up partly of words, partly of sounds and partly of gestures.

What’s more, dialogues have very little logic.  It is quite possible for one person to espouse several quite contradictory ideas at one time.  Sometimes our interlocuters speak in other voices (the actual meaning of “irony” by the way).  Most of the time conversation does not follow the neat ordered pattern of question and response we would expect as writers.  Most of the time people will only talk about themselves.  Each question or statement being answered or interrupted by their own experience. As a student of conversation, I sometimes feel that the whole purpose of 90% of conversations is entirely existential.  That is, we are reaching out into the void merely to say “I am here”.



Yet, somehow in this mish mash of half formed sentences and ill formed ideas some sort of exchange does take place.  It may be indirect and convoluted but eventually some idea may be conveyed to the other party.

So what do we playwrights learn from this?  Firstly, that our characters need to be freed from the conventions of written speech.  This gives us the opportunities to learn about the reality of our characters.  Our character can grow with our discovery of their little tics and irregularities.  And I don’t mean that that gives us licence to write in some sort of ridiculous Dick Van Dyke cockney voice.  I mean that we can discover the outward signs of the inward workings of a character though their speech.  And as we write it we need to speak it out loud. We are trying to record a spoken interchange so it only exists in some bare notation as words on a page.  In writing dialogue it is, perhaps, useful to think of the words on the page as a sort of code that reveals your intentions for the characters. 



Secondly, we need to remember that most conversations are about anything but the subject in hand. This is especially true about complex and deep subjects. Previously I mentioned our inbuilt willingness to suspend our disbelief.  If you ally that with our need to co-operate and collaborate in social situations you can begin to see how inevitable it is that we will say things in a conversation that we may not believe in an attempt to maintain the interaction.  As playwrights we need to understand and to embrace these apparent lies.

 It takes quite a bit of beating about the bush before the real feelings of our character are flushed out.  This is what makes the process of play watching so enjoyable.  The audience are voyeurs trying to understand something from the snippets of half formed conversation they are allowed to overhear.  As in real life in any coffee bar, we try to work out from these snippets, what is going on in their lives.  What sort of people they are. And, of course, our characters are often unreliable witnesses.  They lie, they prevaricate, they say the very opposite of what they really think and feel.  But as the watchers begin to know and understand they begin to get more and more drawn in and engaged.



Thirdly, we need to avoid the need for stage directions.  If you’ve got the voice right then there is no need to interject (humorously) or (bitterly) it must be there in the speech itself.  If you find you have to resort to stage directions than you need to recast the speech. I would never present a play for performance as written above.  It’s for the actor to discover the little gestures and informal sounds that carry the character through that interchange. Similarly, as a director, I get annoyed by writers who write detailed character descriptions in the stage directions but do not carry them through into their actual speech and actions.  It is not good enough to describe a character as “Young dynamic and ambitious” You need to show those attributes.  You need to demonstrate how that ambition is manifested or hidden through what they say and the choices they make in conversation.



Fourthly, plot needs to correlate with the characters you are drawing.  If you are beating your characters into a particular plot twist or situation then you have either got the plot wrong or the character or, most likely, both.  The actions that a character takes are the ones that define that character and are defined by that character.  If there is a surprising plot or character twist you need to ask yourself whether you have buried that possibility deep within the psyche of the character you are working with. You need to ask yourself “does it contradict anything that has already been laid down?”

Quantum thinking and speaking



In an article from New Scientist Of September 2011, Mark Buchanan tries to relate the mathematics of the quantum world to human interaction.  An explanation, in effect, of our fuzzy way of going about things.  It casts an interesting light on the puzzle I have as a playwright - the sheer impossibility of capturing or reproducing human speech in all its wide, broken rambling, halting form but while still managing to convey some sort of meaning.  I have never managed to find a way of notating speech in anything resembling a realistic, believable way.  Pinter arguably came the closest to making this work but he still had to resort to a rather mannered "pinteresque" approach.  Of course, a playwright does not necessarily want to reproduce everyday speech exactly.  It would be massively tedious to the audience, and probably totally incomprehensible but there is an inbuilt urge towards getting closer than we have managed up to now.  The reason being that we may wish to describe in our plays a more realistic way of describing the trains of thought of our characters.  And those are inexorably linked to the way they speak.  I need to read the article several more times to get some deeper insight but I like its drift.