Interview With Louis E. Catron
Interview by Jenna Glatzer

Louis E. Catron is a prize-winning professor of theatre at the College of William and Mary where he teaches playwriting, acting, and directing. He also is an active theatrical director.

His books on theatre include Writing, Producing, and Selling Your Play (Prentice-Hall), The Director's Vision (Mayfield), Playwriting (Waveland Press), Overcoming Director's Mental Blocks About Blocking (Samuel French), and The Elements of Playwriting (New York: Macmillan, 1993).

His newest, The Power of One: The Solo Play for Playwrights, Actors, and Directors, is published by Heinemann.

Your latest book, The Power of One, discusses solo plays (also known as monodramas). Is there really a market for solo plays?

When we look at recent solo plays in the New York scene—think of Patrick Stewart, Eric Bogosian, Lily Tomlin, Anna Deavere Smith, Spalding Grey, Rob Becker, others—we’re struck by the popularity of the one-person play. Solo plays also are being performed in regional theatres, on college campuses, in libraries.

One neat thing about most solo plays is that they are minimalist theatre—no flattage, no set, only a piece or two of furniture, and a couple of props. That means they can be mounted relatively quickly and inexpensively, and they can be performed in numerous venues other than a traditional stage.

Think, too, of the solo plays from the past—Julie Harris receiving the highest acting accolade for her portrayal of Emily Dickinson in The Belle of Amherst or Hal Halbrook bringing Mark Twain to life in Mark Twain Tonight! twice on Broadway plus extensive tours and recordings—and you have to conclude that the solo play has potent audience appeal.

It is worth emphasizing that some solo plays are written by actors for themselves to perform. What a great way to get cast! Holbrook, Bogosian, Grey, Smith—these are actors who developed their own solo scripts, writing for their particular strengths and personal need to communicate something in which they believed deeply.

How can a writer sustain conflict in a solo play?

Much the same way as in a multi-character play. The character has a major objective but encounters obstacles. The solo play doesn’t quite have the protagonist vs. antagonist structure that provides conflict in multi-character plays—not quite, but just as Hamlet faces conflicts leading to discoveries when he considers "To be or not to be," so the character in a solo play can carry his or her antagonist inside.

It is possible to have an external conflict that is implied. For example, Anna Deavere Smith’s one-woman play, Twilight: Los Angeles, has a powerful implied social conflict.

That said, let’s also point out that the solo play sometimes simply doesn’t have conflict. At least the short-short one-person plays may not, but I’m not interested in sitting through a full-length play that doesn’t have the structure conflict gives. Part of the post-modern performance art concept is that "old rules" no longer apply, and the idea of conflict sometimes is tossed out. Here, it seems to me, it is up to the playwright to make an artistic choice what form he or she wants to follow. (That’s not the same thing as being unable to write conflict, though! In that case, the playwright simply needs to learn craft and technique.)

You say that it's important for the play to happen in the present tense. Why should writers resist the urge to let their characters tell their life stories as a history?

It is true that the solo play sometimes focuses on the past, and a few of those seem effective. But verb tense separates drama from the novel. A novel is written in an eternal past tense. Not only do most novels use "he said," but when we read it, we’re reading about something that is over, locked in time, unchanging.

A play, however, is forever in the present tense. Things are happening now, unfolding while we watch, and a good production makes us think this is all happening for the very first time. Indeed, one of the tricks of a good production is to rehearse intensely so it won’t look rehearsed. Directors call this the "aura of the first time." But it is hard for actors and directors to make the production look like it is happening now when the script deals with past history that is completed.

Further, the play is dramatic because of a sense of future. Where is it going? What will the character do? What’s going to happen? Instead of telling us about the past, the solo play seeks to show us what is happening now and what these actions will lead to.

So a monodrama can be written about a past personal event like, say, the anguish of a past love affair. Some may work, perhaps due to clever wit or a fascinating eccentric character. But most just aren’t good stage pieces because everything is over. Too, they have an unfortunate "dear diary" quality that just isn’t compelling for us in the audience, and they really don’t have a character striving to achieve a goal. They can take on a whimpering "oh, poor me ‘cause the world just ain’t fair" quality that ultimately is awfully unattractive. Leave ‘em locked in the diary!

In those cases, perhaps the playwright ought re-cast the action. What if, the author might think, I put the action right when the character is facing a major decision about that love affair? What will my character do? What does my character want, need? Now there’s forward motion. Now the character isn’t whimpering but instead of trying to make a solution. Now the character can exhibit brains and guts trying to solve a huge problem. That’s going to be more interesting and has a much better chance of being stageworthy.

What is the most frequent complaint critics make about solo plays, and how can writers avoid it?

This may relate to "dear diary" plays that are set in the past. There are major problems if we in the audience wonder, "Why is that character speaking out loud?" Critics voice that complaint about some plays. The question means there’s a fatal problem.

What’s the solution? We can find the answer by looking at relatives of the solo play—the soliloquy, as in Shakespeare, or the solo number in a modern musical. We don’t wonder why Hamlet says, "To be or not to be," or why Macbeth says, "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow." We don’t wonder why Billy Bigelow sings "My Boy Bill" (Carousel) or why Polly sings "Someone to Watch Over Me" (Crazy for You). They share one thing in common: the character is in the throes of such deep emotion that he or she is absolutely compelled to go through that thought-and-emotional process and we’re lucky enough to be able to hear it, to see deep inside their secret innermost feelings that they simply cannot express if someone else is on stage.

I think it helps the playwright to give the character in a solo play that same driving compulsion.

How is a solo play different from a monologue (audition piece)?

The solo play is complete in itself, crafted with a beginning, middle, and end, but a monologue is an extract from a longer work. The solo play is much longer than the audition piece, which typically must be limited to perhaps two minutes. The solo play is meant to be performed for an audience, but the monologue is the actor’s display of talents to get cast and is presented only to the theatrical director, not the public.

Does a solo play mean that there is only one character?

Yes. And no. There’s only one actor. But the solo play can, if the author wants, have multiple characters. For example, in Fires in the Mirror Anna Deavere Smith plays a large number of different characters, males and females of various ages, races, religions. Patrick Stewart played over 30 different characters in his Broadway runs of A Christmas Carol.

For another example, the solo play can evoke the presence of other characters who are "present," although unseen. Ruth Draper, who I think of as the Grand Mother of modern solo plays, quite often peopled her plays with a number of people. They weren’t exactly there, but the audience "saw" them anyhow. Evoking the presence of invisible others is a neat trick, much like the multi-character play Harvey about that marvelous six-foot magical rabbit. Harvey isn’t actually visible, but we certain "see" him very clearly because the character sees him (in the movie version, Jimmy Stewart does an excellent job of hearing, seeing, even touching Harvey, and therefore we also know Harvey well).

What is "theatrical action?"

Something that is best shown on the stage, not expressed in a novel or essay.

For one example, the opening of Tennessee Williams’s Streetcar Named Desire contains brilliant theatrical action. Stanley enters and calls to Stella, who appears on the fire escape above. He throws her a package of meat. Immediately we learn the core of Stanley: the gatherer brings home food, raw and bloody at that. And he throws it to his wife. She then asks where he is going and he replies "bowling." "Can I come, too?" "Sure," Stanley says, and turns and leaves without her. That theatrical action encapsulates their relationship marvelously well. A novelist would need a chapter.

For another example, Harold Pinter’s plays are famous for their "silences." But during those apparent silences the characters are speaking volumes. It is called "subtext," a communication despite silence or a meaning underneath the dialogue. That also is "theatrical action" that demands being on stage. A novelist would fill pages of italicized inner thoughts.

Primarily, theatrical action is a way of showing people in life, seeking to achieve objectives, facing obstacles and problems and handling them in a unique manner, winning or losing.

Why would a playwright want to write a solo play?

Ummm, like the mountain, "because it is there"? (Laughing.)

For some playwrights, a solo play appears "easier" than a multi-character play because one doesn’t have to juggle so many characters.

Too, some stories simply are best when focused on only that one character. For example, biographical solo plays are quite popular—most often about notable people like Abraham Lincoln, Vincent van Gogh, Harry Truman, Richard Nixon, or Albert Einstein (even Adolf Hitler!) who all have been the subjects of full-length solo scripts. Staying only with that one character can give the playwright more freedom to dig deeply into the secret soul.

Some playwrights enjoy the wide variety of forms, too. The solo play can be as long as the traditional multi-character full-length, like The Search for Intelligent Life in the Universe, or perhaps under ten minutes, like Eric Bogosian’s Nice Shoes. They can be comic or dramatic, and there even are some musical one-person plays.

Are there special "secrets" to writing the solo play?

To me, the solo play is at its best when it removes the character’s "mask." We all wear "masks" in life. The "mask of the conscientious employee." The "mask of the sensitive lover." The "mask of the friend who will listen." The "mask of the spouse who gives a damn."

Characters in multi-character plays also wear masks in front of other characters. But the glory of seeing the character without the mask! Hamlet when he contemplates death. Polly when she no longer has to play the tough lady who is the only female in town and instead expresses her yearning as she sings "Someone to Watch Over Me." That’s exciting theatre!

Removing the mask is what the solo play can do, far, far better than its multi-character relative. For the playwright, it is a journey into the character’s soul. For us in the audience, it is a brilliant flash of insight deep into a human and, probably, into ourselves.

The solo play, I hasten to add, does not have to remove that mask. But I think it is richer when it does.

Another secret is language. The solo play is "drama of words." Jane Martin, author of Talking With. . . . is a master. She gives concrete words, specific images, marvelous details. That’s one of the problems beginners need to solve when writing a solo play. They think all they have to do is turn on the faucet and write steam-of-consciousness. But that leads to very talky works. Ideally, the playwright will weigh each word, each phrase, each sentence just as carefully as a poet. The adage of "murder your darlings" really applies here! Cut, cut, cut.

Finally, the solo play is all about characterization. The playwright needs to think of unique characters—this is no place for "the average" or "the typical" character. Jane Martin’s solo play Twirler starts with what appears to be a mundane character: a twirler. But Martin evolves that character into a frightening cult-like religious ritual, making her far more than a "typical" twirler.

Anything else you'd like to add?

I’d like to encourage all writers to experiment with writing the solo play. Once you’ve completed it and have revised and revised and revised, get a good actor—try the local college or community theatre—and ask him or her to at least read it aloud to you. Probably you’ll want to revise more after that.

Then approach your local community theatre or library and see if you can arrange a production.

Good luck!

Order The Power of One here.

In November, Heinemann will publish Catron's Theatre Sources dot Com.

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