Cloud Nine by Caryl Churchill
Joe Turner's Come and Gone by August Wilson
Six Degrees of Separation by John Guare
Get the plays from a bookstore or a library. It'll take you a few days to read them. Don't be impatient to get to your writing. Starting at the beginning and reading through each play to the end, write down every action, everything the characters do that is the result of one action and in turn causes yet another action. David Ball, in his book Backwards and Forwards, argues that the only true dramatic action is one that is linked in just this way. Actions that are not linked are just activities—busywork.
List the actions scene by scene. You don't have to be elaborate, but you should note the important actions in detail. Use the French scene model from the previous chapter. You'll find very early on that the exercise is primarily about verbs—action verbs—physical actions and language actions. A woman firing a pistol at her husband is an action. So is telling him she's pregnant. Each action will provoke a reaction. Using the plays listed above, what do you think you'll find? Plays with four actions? Ten? Twelve?
Try one hundred. Try more.
THE POINT OF ATTACK AND THE INCITING INCIDENT
Keeping in mind that every entrance and every exit can constitute an action, you'll be astounded to discover the large number and great variety of actions found in successful plays. Once you've written your long list of actions, you'll also be able to identify the divisions between the beginning of the play and its middle, and between the middle and the end. The first division will be an action or short sequence of actions that constitutes the point of attack, the launching pad for the play. In Hamlet, it is the Ghost's “assignment” to Hamlet. In Hedda Gabler, it is the announced arrival of Hedda's great love, Eilert Lovborg. In Dial “M” for Murder, it is the husband's spoken desire to have his wife murdered. In The Odd Couple, it is Oscar's insistence that Felix move in with him. One of the key ways of recognizing a point of attack is that all the actions following the point of attack are a direct result of the point of attack; without the point of attack, the kinds of actions found in the beginning of the play would go on forever. In Hamlet, the Danish court would have proceeded as Claudius had wanted it to. In Hedda Gabler, Hedda would have remained Tesman's wife. In Dial “M” for Murder, the murderous husband and his wife would have stayed together. In The Odd Couple, Oscar would have continued to live alone. The point of attack is the first action that changes everything.
The action that creates a point of attack can have its origins in the past, what some playwriting teachers refer to as the inciting incident. Usually the inciting incident is an event that took place before the action of the play began. In Hamlet, the inciting incident is King Hamlet's murder, the action that leads to the ghost's encounter with his son. In Hedda Gabler, the inciting incident is Hedda and Eilert's affair. In Dial “M” for Murder, it is the husband's realization that his wife could divorce him, taking her wealth with her. And in The Odd Couple, it is the fight between Felix and his wife. We never see the scenes of these “back-stories.” More often than not, an inciting incident is reported rather than depicted onstage. And most inciting incidents are reported at or very near the point of attack. In Hamlet, the ghost's revelation of his murder comes just a few lines of dialogue before he orders Hamlet to avenge his death. In Dial “M,” the husband's certainty of his wife's infidelity is revealed a page or two before he details his murder plot. In The Odd Couple, the story of Felix's broken marriage is told a minute or two before Oscar offers Felix his apartment.
A smaller number of plays have an inciting incident that isn't revealed until late in the play. In Hedda Gabler, the effect of Eilert Lovborg's return is strongly felt long before anyone onstage explains why—even before Eilert appears. Because of the odd way Hedda acts when she hears Eilert's name, we may suspect there is a history between Hedda and Eilert. His name is first mentioned in Act One. Soon thereafter, Hedda sends him an invitation to come to her house (point of attack). However, it is not until Act Two, almost a half hour later in stage time, that we realize Hedda and Eilert were once romantically involved. In the case of Hedda Gabler, the point of attack is in the right place, but the revelation of the inciting incident is kept from the audience (remember suspense?) until much later, until just the right moment.
Only you will know best how to build this moment into your play. In Hamlet, Dial “M” for Murder and The Odd Couple, the playwrights placed the revelation of the inciting incident close to the point of attack. This was for maximum effect and efficiency. Efficiency is very important in getting your play started. You don't have all the time in the world, especially given the fact that, unlike the five-hour Hamlet and the three-hour Hedda, most plays written today are over in ninety minutes to two and a half hours. You have less time to get the car started. You have minutes, never more than a half hour.
But sometimes the revelation must be postponed. In Hedda Gabler, Ibsen keeps the Hedda/Eilert affair a secret not just for suspense, although the suspense is great. When you read the analysis of Hedda Gabler, look at who's onstage when it is revealed that Eilert Lovborg has returned. Of the people onstage, only Hedda knows about their affair, and there's absolutely no one to whom she would want to reveal it. Not Tesman, her husband. Not Thea Elvstead, the woman now in love with Eilert. Hedda—and the audience—has to wait for Eilert to arrive before the inciting incident (the affair) can be revealed. What's wonderful is that the story of the affair comes out between the two people most directly affected by the information: Hedda and Eilert when they are alone, looking at Hedda's honeymoon pictures.
Even plays that seem, at first glance, to be constructed along less Aristotelian lines, like Harold Pinter's absurdist comedy of menace The Caretaker, and Craig Lucas' Blue Window, eventually provide the audience with a revelation of the pasts of the characters in a way that informs the present action and moves that action forward. In The Caretaker, Aston's long second act speech about his incarceration in an asylum is such a revelation. In Blue Window, the inciting incident—a terrible accident that resulted in death and injury seven years earlier—is not revealed until the last minutes of the play. Placed early or late, these scenes act as revelations of inciting incidents.
Martin Esslin, in An Anatomy of Drama, writes that most dramatic structure is based on the question, What's going to happen? This is true, both for the central dramatic question of a play (Will Hamlet revenge his father's death?) and the lesser ones along the way (Will Hamlet outwit Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? Will Hamlet be executed in England? Will Hamlet drink the poisoned wine?). But Esslin also notes that one of the major questions of contemporary theater is not so much, What's going to happen, but rather, What's going on? Some plays have mysterious actions, actions that seem not to have causes or effects. Audiences—detectives all—watch the play to discover the reasons behind these puzzling actions. And a good deal of contemporary theater can be enjoyed and appreciated for its evocation of mystery. But most successful plays do provide the answers to their mysteries at some point, even at the very end. The important thing is not to reveal too late. An audience may be enthralled by a point of attack without a clear inciting incident, but they're going to lean forward to find out what that incident was. You may decide to withhold the information regarding the inciting incident to prolong the suspense and tension. But like the joke-teller who takes too long to get to the punchline, the playwright who prolongs the revelation until too deep into the play is simply using delaying tactics, and the audience will grow weary and finally tune out. By the time you reveal the inciting incident, it may be too late to matter. If you have selected an inciting incident but choose never to reveal it to the audience, you may be sacrificing both clarity and satisfaction. A play may be a strip tease, but it's got to be more strip than tease.
THE CLIMAX
Now. You have a notebook full of actions for all of the plays mentioned above. You've written down the actions in French scenes, in sequence
. You don't need to make notations on motivation or meaning. These are successful plays. Motivation and meaning are there. Just write down the actions: the nouns and the verbs; the subjects, verbs and objects (“Mary shoots John”). You've found dozens of actions. You've identified the inciting incident and the point of attack.
The next major division to look for is the climax. It comes late in the play. The climax is that action or sequence of actions that resolves the conflict. In the climax, the major combatants come to blows. The protagonist meets his antagonist(s) for the final battle. The central dramatic question is answered. There is a win, a loss or a draw, although audiences prefer plays with winners and losers, not draws.
The climax is fairly easy to identify. One of the key ways of recognizing a climax is that all the actions following the climax are an acceptance of the situation derived from the climax. After the climax, there are no more major actions to be performed. The central dramatic question has been answered. The conflict has been resolved, happily or unhappily. In Hamlet, the prince finally kills Claudius; a few pages or minutes of minor actions remain, but the key question has been answered. In Dial “M,” the murderous husband is caught; the only action that remains is the inspector's telephone call to police headquarters. In Hedda Gabler, Hedda shoots herself; only four lines remain as Tesman and Judge Brack react to her death. In The Odd Couple, Felix moves out, and Oscar goes back to living alone, wiser about friendship.
On rare occasions, a climax is followed by a surprise action. This usually happens only in comedy. Famously, Ben Hecht's and Charles MacArthur's The Front Page reaches its climax when the newspapermen, Walter Burns and Hildy Johnson, hand over the convict to the authorities, save him from hanging, escape arrest themselves, get the big story to publish in their paper, and make amends between themselves.
Walter, the editor who doesn't want to lose his star reporter, tries everything to keep Hildy. But in the end, Walter realizes Hildy wants to leave the newspaper business for love. So Walter gives Hildy his blessing. He even gives Hildy his prized gold watch, as a kind of “diploma.” Hildy thanks Walter, as he and his fiancée leave the press room to take the train to New York. A moment passes. Walter picks up a phone and dials.
WALTER: Duffy! Send a wire to the Chief of Police at La Porte, Indiana—That's right—Tell him to meet the twelve-forty out of Chicago—New York Central—and arrest Hildy Johnson and bring him back here. Wire him a full description. The son of a bitch stole my watch!
It's the most famous last line in the American theater. But it's not the climax. The climax came when the central dramatic question was answered, when the two men came to their understanding. Walter's comic punch line could be said to be the point of attack for a whole new play that was never written, with the entirety of The Front Page as its inciting incident.
Again, this kind of surprise twist tends to be found in comedy, not in drama. In drama, such last minute reversals can seem melodramatic or even unintentionally humorous. But convincing surprises can occur at the end of a drama. Let's look at a similar surprise from a noncomic play: Hedda Gabler. Hedda's final confrontation is with Judge Brack, the man who is blackmailing her into having an affair with him. It seems the climax has been reached when the judge presents Hedda with a fait accompli. It looks like he's won. The audience may think the climax is over. And then Hedda shoots herself, a shocking moment in the modern theater. We realize the conflict wasn't quite over; Hedda managed to escape Judge Brack's clutches, even at the cost of her own life. Our protagonist had one more trick up her sleeve, one more move in her strategy. The final move.
THE MOMENT OF TRUTH
So. You've found the point of attack and the climax. You have discovered that prior to each play's point of attack there have been just a handful of real actions. You have also discovered that after the climax there are even fewer real actions. What's interesting is what you've found in the middle: actions, reactions, complications, surprises, reversals.
Dozens or hundreds.
Now, the moment of truth: If you've already written a play, or if you've just outlined a play, do the same exercise with your own work. List the actions French scene by French scene. What have you discovered? If you're like me, you were probably shocked to discover that the play you'd written or planned to write had about one fourth the number of actions that Shakespeare, Ibsen, Frederick Knott, Caryl Churchill and Neil Simon put in their plays. This is not to say that the play with the most actions wins. But all successful plays use many cables (actions) to support the suspension bridge (plot). Nine times out of ten, a less experienced playwright finds that she doesn't have more than a few real, effective, change-making actions in her whole play. This is a problem. So what do you do? You give up, right? Or you try to comfort yourself by saying, “Well, my play isn't a driving machine, it's the sort of play where nothing much happens, but, uh, it's a character study, right, and it deals in mood, and the talk is pretty interesting, and …”
Forget it. Don't be proud of the fact that your play isn't a driving machine. Work hard to make it one.
Don't say, “Uh, well … nothing much happens in Chekhov!” One of the most damaging criticisms over the past hundred years is the kind that suggests that “nothing happens in Chekhov.” That's not true. An extraordinary amount happens in Chekhov. Characters profess love, seduce each other, buy and sell property, shoot themselves, shoot others and abandon loved ones. True, unlike Hamlet, there are no wars in Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard, no stabbings, no poisonings, no pirate attacks. But The Cherry Orchard is no less dramatic. It's always a question of degrees, a question of context. An action takes on dramatic power and importance not because of the size of the action itself, but because the action has importance and power within the story being told.
PLANNING YOUR PLAY
All right. You've studied these plays. You've written down their actions. You're now ready to apply the lessons about structure and actions you learned from your reading and outlining. You have a good idea for a play and you've developed its dramatic potential. You've taken notes for the play focusing on the six elements. You've experimented with your ideas by using the exercises from the end of chapter four. Take out your legal pad again. You're ready to outline.
Not every playwright likes to do this. Many talented writers think that preplanning and outlining hinder their creativity. If some writers believe they can successfully pilot their way through a play without knowing where they're going before they start or planning their route, fine; I admire them. I wish I were as talented or lucky. I need an outline of the play's actions. And the plays I've written after I've outlined the actions have always been better plays, more successful plays, and more readily produced plays than the ones I've written blindly with only a few impressions and some crossed fingers to guide me.
Three Movements
In outlining your play, you'll want to refer to your study of the great plays and their chains of action. You've already identified their inciting incidents, points of attack and climaxes. You have most likely noticed something else important about all play structure. Every successful play works in three movements—a beginning, a middle and an end.
This may seem elementary, but I can't stress more to emerging playwrights the importance of orchestrating dramatic events into this three-part structure. The most successful plays have a structure that, when analyzed, exhibits three distinct and clearly delineated movements, and the playwright who ignores this structural ground rule does so at great risk.
You'll note I'm avoiding the use of the word “acts.” While many plays have been written in three distinct acts with two breaks for intermissions, for the purposes of this book, I think it's wiser to proceed with an overall sense of the three movements, or sections, or parts, rather than acts. Why? To talk in terms of acts tends to make us think of traditional blocks of continuous stage performance that then stop for a firm division, curtain, or other punctuated interval. For now, it's more important to grasp the larger shape
of the three-part structure than it is to focus on where to place the intermissions. We'll discuss placement of intermissions in chapter seven, “Great Middles.”
Plays might have one, two, three, four, even five “official” acts, but every good play embodies three distinct movements, adhering to the following very rough outline:
Part One (15–30 percent of the play)
Start of play.
Introduction of characters, place, time, setting or exposition.
Introduction of the primary inciting event.
Initial point of attack or primary conflict.
Introduction of the central dramatic question.
Part Two (50–75 percent of the play)
Character(s) embark on journey/struggle/search for answers/goals.
Conflicts with other characters, events, circumstances.
Character(s) reassess situations, respond to obstacles and challenges, plan new tactics, succeed, fail, attack, retreat, surprise and are surprised, encounter major reversals (rising action).
A crisis is reached.
Characters embark on an action that will resolve the crisis and lead inexorably to the conclusion.
Part Three (5–25 percent of the play)
The major characters or combatants engage in a final conflict (climax).
The character(s)' goal is achieved or lost.
The central dramatic question is answered.
The actions suggest the themes or ideas of the play.
Following the climax is the resolution, in which a new order is established.
End of Play
The first section (exposition and point of attack) is constructed to orient and excite the audience, praise its expectations, raise its sugar and adrenalin levels and wake them up. And so, ghosts appear in first sections (Hamlet). Murders are plotted (Dial “M” for Murder). Old lovers return after long absences (Hedda Gabler). Convicts escape (The Front Page). A woman announces that she is going to commit suicide ('Night, Mother). Two men are found in bed by an Upper East Side couple (Six Degrees of Separation). A fussbudget is thrown out of his apartment by his wife (The Odd Couple).
The Art and Craft of Playwriting Page 11