by Paul Ashton
Why does the character’s voice come so late in this book? Because for most
kinds and forms of scripts it is in a way the last element that you should
commit to paper – and because I’m encouraging you to wait. You will be
‘writing the character’s voice’ throughout – in preparation and in your head.
But the character’s voice is a fundamental means by which you express
character and move your story forward. So you can write innumerable
variations on plans, blueprints, outlines, treatments, yet once the charac -
ters start speaking there becomes something more permanent about the
script – more finished – whether you like it or not.
You need words, but words can take over and take on a life of their
own. They can be hard to trim, painful to cut, a headache to rearrange.
It can be hard enough to make the things characters say ring true in the
first place, never mind change them no sooner than they are said. Spoken
words are the final link in the chain, yet also a potential dead weight. But
while you need to tread carefully with the character’s voice, you also need
to be bold.
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MOUTHPIECES
The biggest problem with some scripts is that the characters and the things
they say become a mouthpiece for the writer, or the mouthpiece for a posi -
tion in a debate between opposing views. In both, they stop being a dram -
atic character and become something else – something less. They express a
standpoint but they have no real personality, no real voice.
Some writers are overtly political and dialectical and want their work
to discuss and debate – but they are able to make their characters express
and explore an issue rather than allow the issue to define and voice the
characters in a monotone way. Trevor Griffiths’ Comedians is a brilliantly
dialectical play about the politics of comedy and the lives of a group of men
trying to learn to be ‘funny’. But Gethin Price, Eddie and all the characters
are not simply (or even remotely) mouthpieces for sides in the debate, but
the driving forces behind an emotive, intense, dialectical drama in which
comedy itself is about much more than just telling jokes and ‘being funny’.
DIALECTIC
Dialectic is about argument. Not rows and shouting matches, but real argu -
ment – a disputation or debate, a method of trying to resolve the differences
between conflicting views. Dialectic isn’t necessarily about identifying one
side as ‘true’ or ‘right’ or ‘better’ – it is about the need to reconcile a contra -
diction. It is about conflict and movement.
This doesn’t mean that ‘arguments’ in scripts should sound like a
philosophical or political debate. They might – but only so long as the
debate is between characters with strong beliefs who are trying to achieve
something, rather than strong beliefs shoehorned into the mouths of
characters whose only purpose is to represent one side in the debate.
Even if the dialogue is not overtly political or ‘argumentative’, in great
writing there is always a kind of dialectic because dialectic can be about
any kind of conflict, any kind of argument. The point is that meaningful
argument isn’t just about characters shouting at or disagreeing with one
another – it is about characters refusing to accept and trying to reconcile a
problem, a conflict, a situation in their life.
200 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
DIALOGUE IS NOT CONVERSATION
A mistake many scripts make is in the assumption that dialogue is the
same thing as conversation, with characters rambling inanely, without pur -
pose, as we might do in ‘real life’. A dialogue is of course where two or more
people ‘converse’. But it also means a discussion, an informal exchange of
ideas or opinions, or a formal political discussion between two groups.
Conversation can be casual. But dramatic dialogue should presume a
sense that the voices are speaking for a reason – not just to fill empty space
or time, but with purpose. In the real world, anyone can ‘chat’. But when we
refer to having had ‘a dialogue’ with somebody it is loaded with a sense that
matters of import and significance were discussed.
Dramatic dialogue is not casual. It should say, mean, signify, imply,
express something to moment, character and story, no matter how casual it
might appear to be on the surface. It may not be clearly stated what that
something is, but it should be there.
MONOLOGUE
Monologue is, I suppose, the alternative to dialogue. It’s a singular voice
communicating with us. It’s not the same thing as soliloquy – which is a
theatrical device to allow characters in a dialogic play to speak when only
the audience can hear. ‘A monologue’ can also mean any character veering
off into a big speech. But monologue as a form of voice and story is very,
very, very hard to write well. I’ve seen many scripts for radio that say they
are a monologue when in fact they are a short story to be read aloud by an
actor, and even more scripts for theatre and radio that say they are a mono -
logue when really they are just a character relating a story. I’ve also seen
many scripts for radio which purport to be like Alan Bennett’s brilliant
Talking Heads – but which don’t seem to notice that Bennett’s plays were
actually dramatic narratives over time that were written for TV (not radio),
and this is what made them utterly unique. These ‘talking heads for radio’
are almost always big chunks of a character talking, and without a present-
tense dramatic and temporal narrative for the character.
This is crucial. Dramatic monologues are not a character relating the
story to us; they are a present-tense narrative in which a character is alone
rather than in direct dialogue with another character. They are two entirely
THE END 201
different things. So in Bennett’s monologues, A Lady of Letters is the story
of a woman who writes accusing letters, so much so that it finally lands her
in prison – where she discovers an ironic sense of freedom. A Bed Among
the Lentils is the story of an alcoholic vicar’s wife having an affair with her
local Asian grocer and rediscovering herself in the process. A Cream
Cracker Under the Sofa is the poignant story of an old woman who has a
debilitating fall and, while hoping that someone will knock on the door and
help, reasons whether it is better to die now than waste away in a care home.
Each of these is a dramatic situation, a present-tense story, a char acter on
a journey – a character in some kind of danger.
The form of monologue can come in many shapes and sizes. Usually
they occupy a curious space in which the character can communicate with
us in a direct address, as in Lee Hall’s Spoonface Steinberg, Beckett’s
Happy Days or Sarah Daniels’ Sound Barriers. In Jack Thorne’s stage play
Stacey it is a curious address to the audience using a photo slideshow. In Ed
Hime’s radio play The Incomplete Recorded Works it is a fragmented series
of recordings made by a sound artist. In Dennis Kelly’s radio play Twelve
<
br /> Shares it is those parts spoken by a woman in a twelve-step programme to
a group of people on the programme with her. In Hugo Blick’s exquisite TV
comedy drama Marion and Geoff, it is a series of moments just before and
just after something significant happens while sitting with Keith Barret in
his car. And in a one-off episode of EastEnders, it is Dot Cotton recording
herself saying to husband Jim all the things she couldn’t bring herself to
say to his face.
In every example here it is a story, a dramatic narrative, a way of com -
municating with us while the story is still going on. The key to single voices
in monologue is remembering that they need to be dramatic – the voicing
of the character in a story, rather than the relation of the narrative by a
character sitting outside the story. If you are writing a monologue or mono -
logue scene, ask yourself a few simple questions:
When and where is the character as they speak?
What, if anything, are they doing?
What will happen if what they are telling us does or does not come
to pass?
What is the difference between how they speak in this moment and
how they spoke yesterday or might speak tomorrow?
202 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
THEATRICAL SOLILOQUY
One thing that is unique to theatrical voice is the soliloquy – where char -
acter and audience can communicate directly without any other character
knowing. In great drama, it is a way into the character’s mind and heart –
through their voice. In great comedy, the ‘aside’ is a means by which a char -
acter can entertain us at the expense of other characters. It isn’t something
you tend to get so much in modern theatre – not with the same frequency
and brilliance as in Renaissance drama. Once in a blue moon it is employed
for the screen, as in TV adaptations of Moll Flanders and House of Cards, and to brilliant effect. But it is a fundamentally theatrical sleight of hand.
‘INNER’ AND ‘CLOSE’ FOR RADIO
There are two unique things you can do with voice for radio. One is to bring
the voice ‘close’ – to a space perhaps equivalent to (but not the same as)
theatrical soliloquy, where it is literally close to the microphone and meta -
phorically close to the audience. The second is to express the ‘inner’ voice,
to offer the audience a direct line into the character’s head and thoughts –
not a stream-of-consciousness reflection of the mind thinking, but a direct
communication with the listener.
These are both frequently used in radio – and although they aren’t
necessary, and you would never get them in The Archers, they are a way of
expressing voice unique to radio.
THE CINEMATIC VOICE-OVER
In film, they say ‘Show don’t tell,’ That is, unless you are writing a voice-
over. There are two kinds of VO. The poor ones, which relate information,
offer a commentary, fill in the blanks in the narrative. And the good ones,
which aren’t about information but about mood, tone, voice, per sonality –
expression. The former can be found in any number of films, assisting the
narrative. The latter is the preserve of the rare few, such as Taxi Driver,
where it is a fundamental part of who and what the character is, and the
relationship we have with them. Great VOs don’t assist the nar
rative
conveniently – they express the character fundamentally.
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TV CATCHPHRASES
Although they can seem like a blunt tool, catchphrases in TV drama can
really resonate. From Bianca’s ‘Rickyyyyy!’ to The Doctor’s ‘ Allons-y’ (in the
David Tennant incarnation) to Gene Hunt’s ‘Fire up the Quattro’, catch -
phrases are a Dickensian trick of instant characterisation. This does not
mean the catchphrase is all that there is to them, but it can be a handy
start. They are obviously much more common in sitcom and sketch shows,
and in drama they are more the preserve of soaps and shows with a tang of
adventure about them. But in a medium where characters need to be big on
a small screen and grab the attention of a potentially distracted audience,
they can work wonders.
CAN YOU HEAR IT?
Great voice-writing is a talent and I don’t think it is something that can be
simply taught or acquired. You can learn to focus it, to sculpt it, to make it
more dynamic, to make it less overstated – but I tend to think you can
either write it or you can’t. I have read scripts in which the idea, world,
story, narrative and so on are all clear, strong, even powerful – but where
the dialogue is awk ward, wooden, on the nose, overstated, where it doesn’t
ring true and sound like a person speaking.
Essentially, it is less about whether you can write voices as whether
you can hear them. I can’t show you how to hear them. Nobody can. But
listening obviously helps. It doesn’t guarantee you will really truly hear, but
if you don’t listen hard then you will never hear. Not just listening to how
different people differently speak but also metaphorically listening to who
your characters are so that you can voice them authentically.
CAN YOU SAY IT?
Another problem for many writers is that although they can happily write
down the words, they never actually voice them physically. At the risk of
your family, friends or neighbours suspecting you are going mad, you need
to voice words physically to see whether they can be said. If you find a line
comes out garbled or awkward or without a sense of rhythm then the actor
will find the same problem. Actors are not just there to say lines – their
204 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
skill is inhabiting characters so that when they say the line we believe it is
the character speaking rather than just an act of ventriloquism.
Can you say the line? Is it sayable? Does it sound right? Does it sit
right?
DIALOGUE IS NOT LOGICAL
Just as dialogue is not conversation, so too dialogue is not necessarily logical.
Although it should be dramatic and not just casual, generally speaking
unless something is carefully rehearsed then real people do not necessarily
interact and communicate in clear, organised, logical ways. People mis
-
understand, mishear, mistake, fail to express, ignore, cling on to, refuse to
accept things that are said. The clearer the character and the conflict in your
story, the more capable you will be of disorganising the logical move ment of
their dialogue. Debates and discussions progress, but not neces sarily in
smooth sequential order. Life and people just aren’t like that. You need to
be open to the muddle in the dialogue and dialectic as well as the purpose
in it.
THE NON SEQUITUR
The logical consequence of non-logical expression is the non sequitur – the
line that doesn’t follow from what has just been said. One character asks a
direct question; another’s answer bears no clear relation to the question.
A play such as Caryl Churchill’s A Number is a great example of char -
acters failing to speak in logical ways. In scene 3 Salter asks if Bernard 1
of a circuitous scene and dialogue about the fractious first meeting between
Bernard 1 and his clone Bernard 2, the latter finally admits he’s afraid that
Bernard 1 will try to kill him. If Bernard 1 had answered Salter’s question
fully and logically in the first place, there would be no scene – no dialogue,
no discussion, no working through of what realising he is a clone is doing
to Bernard 2. The seemingly illogical dialogue is the story.
Ultimately, people don’t normally or naturally speak in ‘speeches’.
Rhetoric is a practised, applied skill, whereas dialogue is usually an imper -
fect, illogical means of expression.
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VOICE IS EXPRESSION
Whatever the scene or moment, whatever the context, whatever the point
in the story, dialogue will be an expression of the character in that moment.
Dialogue isn’t just a trading of words – it’s an exchange of voices, an expres -
sion of personality, a voicing of desire, need, intent, feeling, belief, whether
or not that is deliberate, accidental or even conscious. If a character is lying
through their teeth and doing so convincingly, then it’s an expression of
who they are – a liar – whether we realise it or not in that moment.
What characters say won’t necessarily be the truth or fact or right or
wrong or good or bad or clear and coherent – it will be an expression of who
they are at that point, in that moment, in that situation, and also of who
they are fundamentally. If your characters are strong and compelling, unique
and engaging, then their voice should express that somehow.
AUTHENTICITY
For voice to express character, it must feel authentic and appropriate for
where the character comes from, how they have lived, the experiences that
have shaped them, their education, their class – their personality. This doesn’t
mean there is a single voice for, say, a certain social class. Nor does it mean
characters can’t change, adapt and deliberately affect an accent and man ner.
But somewhere beneath what characters self-consciously do will remain