by Paul Ashton
needs to sing a kind of song that expresses the voice of the character. So it
can be restrained and elliptical while being lyrical. It can be menacing and
febrile. It can be contemporary and slang-laden. It can ex press a complex,
difficult emotion. It is a kind of song that the characters and the play sing –
not necessarily a literal song (as in a musical), but an emo tional expression
that isn’t ‘naturalism’, isn’t conversation, isn’t just dialogue.
The plays and characters of debbie tucker green have that unique
lyrical quality. Jim Cartwright’s Road has a lyricism as it journeys through
disjointed lives. Sarah Kane’s Crave feels (in production rather than on the
page) musically hypnotic. Under Milk Wood is perhaps the most famous
example of lyricism – not surprising, since it was written by a poet rather
than a dramatist. But people too often try to ape Dylan Thomas’s piece for
radio, saying they have written a modern, fresh, unusual take on it or a
play inspired by it when in fact all they have done is lazily copy the form in
the hope that it will mask not really having a story. Under Milk Wood was
utterly unique; don’t try to copy it, create your own lyricism. But do it
through the expression of character and story, not through an attempt to
‘be lyrical’ or ‘poetical’ for the seductive sake of it.
ON THE NOSE
The big problem with a great deal of the dialogue (and monologue) writ -
ten for any medium is that it is ‘on the nose’ – a straightforward statement
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with nothing beyond what is straightforwardly stated. It is extremely
easy to write this way or to rewrite out the more on-the-nose parts. Ulti -
mately, if you have dialogue that is only there to state obvious things in
obvious ways, then look again to see if what is stated could be put another
way, explored another way, or expressed through a conflict and dramatic
moment.
EXPOSITION AND INFORMATION
The reason people write on the nose is because they have information they
need to get across and take the path of least resistance towards that expo -
sition. The clumsiness with which writers state information through their
characters truly knows no bounds. But although it’s easy enough to spot in
another’s script, it’s rather harder to avoid in your own.
The first check you need to make is this: people do not tell each other
things they already know in obvious ways, and neither should characters.
So at the dinner table, hubbie says, ‘Darling, do you remember the holiday
to Italy we took just after I got promoted and just before you became preg -
nant with little Bobby?’ Well, of course she remembers it – it was just after
he got promoted and just before she fell pregnant. Unless there’s a good
reason why the character should have to explain it in such a way (perhaps
his wife is an amnesiac?) then you need to find another way. Because this
isn’t dialogue – it is backstory crowbarred into the conversation for the sole
benefit of informing the audience.
It’s important to put the exposition of information at the heart of the
drama, story and conflict in the scene. One of the best examples is Evelyn’s
dramatic revelation in the climax of Chinatown. At this point, Jake has had
enough of her games, he’s willing to turn her over for the cops to deal with.
All he really wants to know now is the truth about the young woman she
has been keeping secret.
So Evelyn tells him. Katharine is her sister. And her daughter. With
each seemingly contradictory statement, Jake tries to slap the real truth
out of her. Until she says ‘She’s my sister and my daughter! … My father
and I, understand, or is it too tough for you?’ This gut-wrenching revelation
is a pivotal moment at a critical point in the story, and it is made without
actually stating the ‘fact’ or ‘truth’ overtly. Some things do not need stating.
The information is all there. And it had to be beaten out of Evelyn at a point
214 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
of crisis. In this scene, the exposition is at the very heart of the drama and
the story.
‘BAD LANGUAGE’
It’s not a major point, and the level of ‘bad language’ you use is dependent
on the kind and genre and tone and audience of your story; but I think that
as a general rule of thumb, less is more. Not because I’m prudish, but
because the more you use something the more you reduce its impact. The
more expletive-laden your script, the less power and effect that language
may have within the story and on the audience. We eventually become
immune to it.
On radio there isn’t, as in TV, a strict ‘watershed’ hour before which
language and subject matter must adhere to guidelines about what is
acceptable for certain audiences. But there will still be a strict scrutiny over
what is and is not acceptable. On radio, words that are deemed question -
able in terms of race, gender, age, religion or disability are likely to offend
as much (if not more) than extreme expletives. But interesting tales abound
about producers trading five ‘shits’ for one ‘fuck’ in order to get the right
effect in their play – because they know that sparing use is worth much more
than repeated use.
Writers sometimes justify a constant stream of expletives by
asserting, ‘Well, that’s how these people talk, it’s authentic.’ Which is fair
enough. But remember, dialogue is not conversation. Dramatic language
needs to have an effect and be effective, therefore you need to control it, use
it, manipulate it, sculpt it. If the audience becomes inured to ‘how these
people talk’ through overuse, surely you have failed to express the character
and depict their world authentically?
(PREFACING)
The prefacing of a line of dialogue in (brackets) to indicate how you think
it should be said is one of the most irritating things known to script editor,
director and actor. It suggests a lack of faith in your words – and in their
ability. It suggests that when you say ‘( angrily)’ or ‘( firmly)’ or ‘( sadly)’
or ‘( wistfully)’ that there is only one possible way and one possible meaning
in the character’s words. That there’s no possible subtext or shading or
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ambiguity or complexity of meaning that director and actor can bring to it.
It is simply poor writing. If something needs to be stated about how a line
is delivered, then what you should look at is the action, what the character
is doing, the dramatic situation the character is in – and not the basest
element of how they are saying it.
SHOUTING!
Again, not a major point – but the same thing goes for exclamation marks.
I have read scripts where more or less every line of dialogue is followed by
an exclamation mark. Then lines of extra emphasis have two. And extra
special lines – usually melodramatic wails of tragic angst – have three or
more.
Again, less is more. Only use exclamation marks on the rare occasions
when the character is actually exclaiming. Only use them w
hen you need
them. I even think that putting lines of extraordinary emphasis ALL IN
CAPITALS tends to be more effective than using endless exclamation
marks. Sometimes words and lines have great import but they are not
shouted or exclaimed, rather they are stated with gravity or firmness or
absolute clarity or a sense of finality. In these instances, CAPITALS can
work best.
TERSE VERSUS GLIB
On a different scale from that between the naturalistic and the stylised is
that between the terse and the glib – or to use TV examples, between 24
and Desperate Housewives. In 24, in keeping with the tense, fast-paced,
action-thriller genre, the dialogue is terse, almost eloquently functional, used
when absolutely necessary and not at any other time; it is not a show about
language, it is a show about action. In Desperate Housewives, in keeping
with the quirky, dramatic–comic suburban lives of neighbours whose paths
intersect far too frequently, the dialogue is fluent and easy, often rapid-fire
and witty, the first recourse for the characters in most given scenarios.
Scripts in any genre will tend to have a kind of core register, a core
tone to them somewhere on this scale between the monosyllabic and the
profuse. Neither is fundamentally better than the other, the key thing is
that they suit the kind of story you are telling. An intense drama is unlikely
216 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
to be glib, a bright comedy is unlikely to be terse. Sometimes the two can
be straddled strangely – such as in Dead Man’s Shoes (and many Shane
Meadows films) where the avenger’s scenes are terse, the gang scenes are
glib, and putting both in the same scene means something curious in bet -
ween. And this is in a way at the heart of what the film is doing – because
it’s not like any other revenge tragedy you have ever seen.
Where on this scale sits the core tone of your characters’ voices and
the world of your story?
WIT AND WORDPLAY
Glib is great if it’s the right choice for your world. But be careful of over -
doing wit and wordplay – of trying to make your characters sound as clever
as you would like people to think you are. This happens all the time. It’s not
a crime. We want people to think that we’re good at writing, that we’re
intelligent and clever and have a way with language. But be careful your
characters don’t become mouthpieces for cleverness, because this kind of
thing wears very thin very quickly. It makes sense that Sir Humphrey is
always superlatively clever in Yes Minister – just as it makes sense for Jim
Hacker never in his wildest dreams to be so sharp or quick, and therefore
to sound a bit dim in comparison. The more time you spend trying to be
witty, the more often you will end up sounding like Polonius – making lin -
guistic jokes that no one else finds as funny as you do.
SILENCE AND SPACE
The character’s voice is obviously very much about words. But it’s not only
about words and action. It’s also about silence – the space between words.
When Pinter and Beckett meticulously write in their pauses and silences,
this is what they are writing – the space of silence. The space where some -
thing other than words can exist. The space where no words are suitable or
sufficient, the space where the voice is defined by its opposite state: the
silence of not speaking. It is not just an empty space or pause; it is a full,
pregnant, meaningful, expressive one.
There have been some great silences in drama. Shakespeare’s
Coriolanus is utterly lost for words when his mother and wife persuade him
not to vent his fury on the Rome that exiled him. It is a turning point in the
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play and it is a moment that will ultimately kill him. Konstantin in The
Seagull spends an aching silence methodically clearing up his papers
before leaving the stage in order to kill himself; it is the resolution of the
play. Samuel Beckett wrote whole short plays without words. Little Voice
doesn’t speak words unless she absolutely must and until she is absolutely
pushed to the edge. Fin in The Station Agent barely speaks for much of the
story and his desire to ‘be left alone’ is at the heart of the story. But silence
is not always so critical. Silence is also a means by which what is done and
what is said can be absorbed, taken on board, observed. Even in radio, the
space of silence and the silence of space is crucial. It’s easy to write lots of
words. It’s harder to demarcate the space around words. Great writing is
also knowing when not to write anything at all.
SUBTEXT
It is impossible to ‘write’ subtext because subtext literally does not exist –
it is what is not said, it is below or behind or beyond the text. Therefore it
is not text and it can’t be written down. But great dramatic writing has sub -
text, otherwise what is said would ultimately have no depth or complexity
or subtlety and therefore be on the nose the whole time. So subtext is the
single hardest thing to write well in drama, and not simply because it is
logically impossible but, worse, because it requires your characters and
story to have real, true, palpable depth.
Subtext is the secret life of the character’s thoughts, feelings, instincts,
intentions and fears. Subtext is the unspoken conversation that is held bet -
ween characters when words and acts are not enough. Subtext is the part
of us that we are unable, unwilling or afraid to openly express – that we
may not even be aware is there to express. Subtext is the extra dimension
that brings characters and scenes to fully-fledged life. You should explore
the extra dimension in your characters – the thing that makes them a per -
sonality like no other as opposed to a stock or archetypal character.
Take any great scene from any great script and ask yourself what is
the subtext? The great – and also the most frustrating – thing about it is
that, because it isn’t stated, it is utterly open to interpretation. And what
you find may not be what the writer remotely intended or what anyone else
can hear. And in this sense you also can’t ‘write’ it. But the more you invest
in your characters, the world and the story, the more subtext audiences will
218 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
find and the more resonant will be your writing. There is no ongoing delight
in discovering the same thing over and over and over again in a story – it
is the new things, the new discoveries, the new insights, the new under -
standings and depths and layers of character that make subtext. Great
dramas get better with each viewing or hearing – not because the words are
different but because what is not said can develop and deepen.
WRITING AND REWRITING
If you have been able to resist yourself and haven’t already started plough -
ing on with the script, then now is the time. If you have gathered together
all your plans and materials and tools, if you have looked potential weak -
nesses and problems in the eye along the way, if you have worked yourself
to the point where you are just it
ching to write, then now is the time.
You’ve had ample opportunity to warm yourself up and gestate,
nurture and grow your idea. In every script there must come a point where
there is no more research, no more preparation – no more delay, no more
excuses.
I have argued strongly against writing too soon and for doing the
legwork properly. But you also have to learn to recognise when you have
checked all the buckles and straps, reached the right altitude and are ready
to jump.
FOCUS AND CONTROL
Of course when you do make that leap, you don’t then simply flap around
as you plummet to the ground below. You put into effect all your training
and preparation, you adopt the correct position, you count down to when
the parachute must be released, you pull the cord, steer your way down,
and you make sure you roll into your landing without breaking both arms
and both legs horribly.
I don’t mean to scare you with this metaphor. But the writer’s equi -
valent of broken arms and legs is the complete incapacity to keep writing
until the metaphorical bones have healed and you have learned to use the
limbs again. So:
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Make sure you have everything you need to hand and know where
you can find what you need.
Make sure you demarcate a space and time as much as possible so
that writing isn’t scattergun but a dedicated effort.
Make sure you ask yourself every time you sit down to write: what is
the story and why am I writing it?
Make sure you enjoy the writing, despite the difficulties.
And make sure you enjoy your own company – otherwise it will be a
lonely experience . . .
EXPECTATIONS
Don’t expect to get it right straight away.
Don’t expect the road ahead to be even and straight.
Don’t expect it to be easy.
Don’t necessarily expect to know whether or not it’s going well.
Don’t presume that if the words are spilling out freely and fluently,