Putting
the ‘Play’ Back in Playwriting
By Ethan Kanfer
Playwriting is applied psychology.
Don’t worry.
I’m not suggesting you go back to school for eight years and earn a
psych degree before you begin writing. What I mean is, we playwrights are
students of human nature. Our curiosity makes us want to take apart people,
relationships, perhaps even whole societies. We want to find out how they work.
To a great degree, actors are the same way. I recommend that all playwrights
take an acting class at some point. Much of what you learn there will prove
useful in the writing process. For our purposes here, I’ll use a bit of actor
jargon to show how you can add spontaneity to your scenes.
One expression actors often use is “moment
before.” In other words, “Where was my character before he entered the
scene?” If I’m coming home after a miserable day at work, I’m bringing a
different energy into the room than if I’m coming
from a really great rehearsal for one of my plays. As we inevitably drag the
outside world with us into our living room, office, or bar, so your characters
drag their worlds onto the stage.
Another golden rule of acting is “don’t
indicate.” In other words, don’t tell the audience what to think. Let them
discover the character through his real behavior in the circumstances of the
play. Beginning writers often start their scenes with lines like:
Jed walks in grinning, and whistling a happy tune.
Or,
JED
(kicking a chair):
What a rotten day I’m having!
While these cliches may get a point across quickly,
a stronger choice would be to stand inside Jed’s shoes for a moment. Draw on
your experiences, your imagination, your observations. Become the character as
best you can. Then, all you need to write is:
Enter Jed.
Once you are inside his skin, everything the
character says and does will be convincing and compelling. Naturally, the more
you know about Jed, the more readily you can speak in his voice. Where does he
work? Where does he live? More importantly, what are the sights, the smells, the
rhythms of his daily existence? Some writers like to create a whole biography of
a character before they begin working on a new play. Personally, I like to write
a few pages first. If I have access to a workshop, I’ll have actors read my
scenes aloud. Then I’ll know which lines ring true, and what areas require
more research. There’s no right or wrong way to prepare. What I’m stressing
here is the idea of preparation. Try a few different approaches, and see what
works for you.
Another word actors frequently use is
“objective” or “motivation.” Once we know where Jed is coming from, we
then need to determine what he wants. We’ve all heard many times that drama is
conflict, so the scene will largely be about how successful (or unsuccessful)
the character is in achieving his or her objective. Don’t be afraid to let the
objectives change with the action of the play. Let’s play out this scenario:
Jed comes home from a brutal day at the office. His
objective? He wants to relax and unwind. Instead, he comes home to find Jed
Junior’s toys strewn all over the living room. Jed even slips on one of the
kid’s roller skates. He is, understandably, furious. What’s his objective
now? To punish his son? Maybe, but I believe it runs a little deeper than that.
Here’s where I put on my psychologist’s cap.
I don’t know who first said, “Anger is the need
to be understood,” but it’s a pretty useful idea. If I’m inside Jed’s
head, I’m thinking: “For cryin’ out loud! A man works his tail off and
this is what he has to come home to?!
Doesn’t Junior realize how dangerous it is to leave your skates out
like that? Hasn’t he been told a hundred times? Does he ever stop and think
about how hard I have to work to afford all those toys in the first place?! How
about a little respect, here? The kid gets to play all day. When do I get a
chance to play?”
Okay, back to the story. Jed can’t contain his
anger anymore. He marches into Junior’s room and gives him what for. When the
kid makes excuses, that just ticks Jed off even worse. Jed loses it and yells at
Junior at the top of his lungs. Is Jed achieving his new objective? Yes and no.
Sure, the kid is aware that his actions have upset his dad. Chances are, he
won’t do it again. But he also has to deal with the fact that his father has
just suddenly turned into a raving lunatic.
Scared, guilty, and confused, the boy begins to
cry. What impact does this have on Jed? Hmmmmm… I’d say the sight of his own
flesh and blood weeping miserably gets through to Jed. He stops yelling,
realizes he’s overdone it. He regrets it. Sure, he’s still a little angry
about the toys, but now he’s mad at himself, too. He apologizes, hugs the kid,
tries to make it up to him by promising to let him stay up late and watch Jay
Leno (and boy is Junior confused!). So what is Jed’s objective now? He needs
his son to forgive him. He may also, in a way, need to be protected. After all,
Jed’s wife Janet will be home soon. If Janet learns that Jed’s been behaving
like a rabid silverback gorilla, she will give him no end of hell. The last
thing Jed needs right now is a lecture, or an argument. So how will he get what
he needs from Junior? Another bribe? A threat?
Perhaps he’ll try to put a positive spin on the situation: “Come on,
son. Let’s pick up the toys together.”
This scenario illustrates two important points.
One: objectives aren’t always simple. I pointed out several moments in the
story wherein Jed’s objective “changed.” But the truth is, Jed would
probably still love to put his feet up, have a drink, and watch the game on TV.
His immediate objective keeps changing in response to each new conflict. I can
add as many layers as I please, but the desire he walked in with is still
present. Each “new” emotion stems from his need to relax. Or, if you want to
dig deeper, what he really wants is to get out of that job that’s driving him
and his family nuts.
So, why doesn’t he quit the job? Why’d he
accept it in the first place? I’d have to write more to figure that out, which
brings me to my second point. When I started writing the above story about a man
named Jed, I didn’t know where I was going. I thought of a few possibilities,
pursued one, and came up with the raw beginnings, perhaps, of a play. In other
words, writing, for me, is discovery. I found out in the process that Jed, for
example, isn’t the kind of guy who says, “Ouch, my feelings just got
hurt.” Instead, he bottles it all up, then blows a gasket at the slightest
provocation. He’s not the healthiest guy on the block, and I can’t say I
care for his parenting techniques. But he’s not Lex Luthor either. He’s
fallible, in over his head. I may not admire him, but I’ve begun to understand
him. And that means I can help an audience to understand him, too.
Had I written the scene out in dialogue, I’d have a still clearer idea
of how Jed speaks, thinks, and behaves. And the story would develop from there.
As I said, it’s certainly not a bad idea to
compile a few details about your character. But what fascinates me is how human
beings reveal themselves through their actions. In other words, do your
homework, but don’t let it bog you down. Jump in and start writing, and see
what comes up. Remember that the first draft of a scene is seldom the final one,
so don’t be chicken of a little trial and error.
Now, here’s the tricky part:
Keeping your acting cap on for a moment, remember
that you’ll be playing all the characters in the play. On paper, you can
change your age, gender, ethnicity, and certainly your morals or politics. To
write this play effectively, I need to become Jed Junior, and Janet, and anyone
else who walks on to that stage.
Let’s start with the scene-specific questions.
Where was Janet immediately before she entered the scene, and what does she want
when she walks in the door? As I write, I’ll begin to piece together the
jigsaw puzzle of Janet’s psyche. I’ll ask more and more penetrating
questions. Why would Janet want Jed
to work that awful job? No wife who loves her husband would want him to be
unhappy. But perhaps they are drowning in debt. Maybe Janet grew up poor, and
wants Jed Junior to have a better life. How does Janet feel about her job? Is
she still in love with Jed? Or do they stay together merely “for the good of
the child?”
The reason I say it’s tricky is that at some
point, you’ll obviously need to write about things you haven’t experienced.
I have never given birth, flown an airplane, fought a war, or done time in a
federal prison. In fact, none of those things are even on my To Do list. No
matter how much research I may do, sooner or later I’m going to have to use my
imagination. If my play doesn’t ring true, I’d better rewrite it.
The good news is, you have a tremendous reserve of
wisdom from which to draw. You became a writer because you are fascinated by the
dynamics of human relationships. You watch people, you listen, you empathize.
Even if you’ve just begun putting pen to paper, remember that the writing
process began when you were very small. You’ve been doing “research” all
your life.
Of course, I purposely chose a recognizable
scenario to illustrate my point. Most of us know someone like Janet, Junior and
Jed. If you want to write a historically accurate play about, say, the court of
King Louis the XVI, then, yes, you’ve got some reading ahead of you. But
you’ll still need to attack the play from an acting perspective.
Shakespeare’s plays are not historically accurate, but he is still selling
tickets more than three hundred years after his death. I believe that’s
because he did what all good playwrights must do. He reached down deep into his
own soul and came up with the goods.
Again, you don’t need a degree, or a license, to
practice playwriting. You’re also under no obligation to cure your characters.
They can remain as dysfunctional as you please, even after the curtain goes
down. They can destroy themselves, or one another, or the world as we know it,
and no one will sue you for malpractice. On the downside, playwrights don’t
usually make the kind of money shrinks do.
But in a way, we’re in the same business.
Theatre, after all, can be a remarkably healing experience. A good performance
of a wonderful play sends its audience out into the world braver, more
compassionate, more complete than when they entered the theatre. In other words,
writing plays is a noble calling. It’s also a hell of a lot of fun. Yes,
there’s frustration involved. And tedium, at times. And rejection. But when a
total stranger walks up to you and tells you how moved he was by your work, it
makes it all worthwhile.
Ethan
Kanfer is a member of The Coop Theatre Company and founder of the Shock Troupe.
His plays have been produced in numerous venues in London, Los Angeles, and New
York, including the New York International Fringe Festival. Excerpts of his
full-length play The Connie Saxon Show
have been published in Best Men's Monologues, Best Women's Monologues,
and Best Stage Scenes of 1999. His column, On Stage, appears regularly in The
New Leader magazine.
