WRITING THE PLAYLET
While it is plain that no two writers ever have, nor ever will,
go about writing a playlet in precisely the same way, and impossible
as it is to lay down rules which may be followed with precision
to inevitable success, I shall present some suggestions, following
the logical order of composition.
First, however, I must point out that you should study the vaudeville
stage of _this week_, not of last year or even of last month, before
you even entertain a germ idea for a playlet. You should be sure
before you begin even to think out your playlet, that its problem
is in full accord with the very best, and that it will fit into
vaudeville's momentary design with a completeness that will win
for it an eager welcome.
You should inquire of yourself first, "Is this a comedy or a serious
playlet I am about to write?" And if the latter, "_Should_ I write
a serious playlet?"
One of vaudeville's keenest observers, Sime Silverman, editor of
Variety, said when we were discussing this point: "Nobody ought
to write a tragic or even a serious playlet who can write anything
else. There are two or three reasons why. First, vaudeville likes
laughter, and while it may be made to like tears, a teary playlet
must be exceedingly well done to win. Second, the serious playlet
must be so well done and so well advertised that usually a big
name is necessary to carry it to success; and the 'name' demands
so much money that it is sometimes impossible to engage an adequate
supporting cast. Third, the market for tragic and serious playlets
is so small that there is only opportunity for the playlet master;
of course, there sometimes comes an unknown with a great success,
like 'War Brides,' [1] but only rarely. Therefore, I would advise
the new writer to write comedy."
[1] Written by Miss Marion Craig Wentworth, and played by Olga
Nazimova.
Miss Nellie Revell, whom B. F. Keith once called "The Big Sister
of Vaudeville," and who was Vaudeville Editor of the New York
Morning Telegraph before becoming General Press Representative of
the Orpheum Circuit, summed up her years of experience as a critic
in these words:
"The new writer should first try his hand at a comedy playlet.
Then after he has made a success of comedy, or if he is sure he
can't write anything but sobby playlets, let him try to make an
audience weep. Vaudeville, like any other really human thing,
would rather laugh than cry, yet if you make vaudeville cry finely,
it will still love you. But a serious playlet must be mighty well
done to get over--therein lies a stumbling block sometimes. A few
great artists can make vaudeville sob finely--but only a few.
Comedy, good comedy, always gets by.
"How many comedy playlets are there to one serious playlet in
vaudeville? I should say about ten to one. That ought to convince
anybody that comedy is the thing to write for vaudeville."
There have been many hybrid playlets which have combined tragedy
and comedy to give some particular star an opportunity to show
versatility in acting. [1] But some of these playlets have been
merely vehicles for a personality, and therefore cannot be considered
in this discussion.
[1] See Chapter XII, section II, topic 2.
On the other hand, there have been some serious playlets which
have had comedy twists, or a light turn, which brought the curtain
down amid laughter that was perfectly logical and in good taste.
An example of the surprise ending that lightens the gloom is found
in "The Bomb," finely played by Wilton Lackaye, in which the Italian
who so movingly confesses to the outrage is merely a detective in
disguise, trapping the real bomb thrower--and suddenly he unmasks.
If a serious playlet can be made to end with a light touch that
is fitting, it will have a better chance in vaudeville. But this
is one of the most difficult and dangerous effects to attempt.
The hazard is so great that success may come but once in many
efforts. [2]
[2] See Chapter XIV, section II, topic 3.
Since comedy should be the new writer's aim, the following discussion,
while conceived with the broad view to illustrate the writing of
the playlet in general, brings into particular prominence the
writing of comedy.
I. WHEN TO BEGIN
When should you begin to write your playlet? Assuming that you
already have a germ idea, the next step is to express your theme
in a single short sentence, and consider it as your playlet problem,
which must be proved logically, clearly and conclusively. To do
this you must dovetail your incidents into a playlet plot; but how
far should you think out your playlet before beginning to set it
down on paper?
1. The Use of the Scenario
Nearly all the playlet writers with whom I have talked during a
period of more than five years have with surprising unanimity
declared in favor of beginning with the scenario, the summary of
the dramatic action. But they disagree as to the completeness
with which the scenario should be drawn up.
Some merely sketch the main outlines of the plot and leave to the
moment of actual writing the details that often make it a success.
Others write out a long scenario, boiling it down to the essence
for the stage version. Still other playlet writers carry their
scenarios just far enough to make sure that they will not have to
think about the details of plot when they set about writing the
dialogue--they see that there is an effective reason for the
entrance of each character and a clear motive for exit. But,
however they disagree as to the completeness the scenario should
show, they all agree that the plot should be firmly fixed in its
general outlines before pen is set to paper.
It may be of suggestive value as well as of interest to point out
that in olden times the scenario was the only part of the play the
playwright wrote. The groundwork of the plot was fixed beyond
change, and then the actors were permitted to do as they pleased
within these limits. Even today, in the construction of hurried
entertainments for club nights at the various actors' club-houses,
often only the scenario or general framework of the act is typewritten
and handed to the performers who are to take part. All that this
tells them is that on some given cue they are to enter and work
opposite so-and-so, and are, in turn, to give an agreed-upon cue
to bring on such-and-such a performer. In a word, the invaluable
part of any dramatic entertainment is the scenario.
One valuable aid to the making of a clear and effective scenario
is the use of a diagram of the set in which the act is to be played.
Reference to Chapter IV, "The Scenery Commonly Found in Vaudeville
Theatres," will place in your hands a wide--if not an exhaustive--
range of variations of the commonly found box sets. Within the walls
of any one of these diagrams you may carefully mark the exact
location of chairs, tables and any other properties your action
demands. Then, knowing the precise room in which your characters
must work, you can plot the details of their movements exactly
from entrances to exits and give to your playlet action a clearness
and preciseness it might not otherwise possess.
2. The Scenario not an Unalterable Outline
But there is one point I feel the necessity of emphasizing, whose
application each one must determine for himself: While you ought
to consider your scenario as directive and as laying down the line
that should be followed, you ought not to permit your playlet to
become irrevocably fixed merely because you have written your
scenario. It is often the sign of a dramatic mind, and of a healthy
problem too, that the playlet changes and develops as the theme
is carefully considered. To produce the very best work, a scenario
must be thought of as clay to be molded, rather than as iron that
must be scrapped and melted again to be recast.
II. POINTS TO BRING OUT PROMINENTLY
This section is so arranged that the elements of writing discussed
in the preceding chapters are summarized, and the vital elements
which could not be considered before are all given their proper
places in a step-by-step scheme of composition. The whole forms
a condensed standard for review to refresh your memory before
writing, and by which to test your playlet after it is written.
Every playlet must have a beginning, a middle and an ending. The
beginning must state the premises of the problem clearly and simply;
the middle must develop the problem logically and solve the
entanglement in a "big" scene, and the ending must round out the
whole satisfyingly--with a surprise, if fitting.
1. Points the Beginning Must Emphasize
Because the total effect of a playlet is complete oneness, there
lie in the "big" scene and in the ending certain results of which
the beginning must be the beginning or immediate cause. Such
causes are what you must show clearly.
(a) _The Causes before the Curtain Rose_. If the causes lie far
back in events that occurred before the curtain rose, you must
have those events carefully and clearly stated. But while you
convey this necessary exposition as dramatically as possible, be
sure to make the involved dramatic elements subservient to clearness.
(b) _The Causes that Occur after the Curtain Rises_. If the causes
do not lie in the past, but occur after the curtain rises, you
must show them as clearly occurring right then and there. They
must be as plain as dawn, or the rest of the playlet will be
shrouded in the darkness of perplexing doubts.
(c) _The Character Motive from which the Complication Rises_. If
the causes lie in character, you must show the motive of the person
of the playlet from whose peculiar character the complication rises
like a spring from its source. You must expose the point of
character plainly.
But in striving to make your premises clear do not make the mistake
of being prolix--or you will be tedious. Define character sharply.
Tell in quick, searching dialogue the facts that must be told and
let your opening scenes on which the following events depend, come
with a snap and a perfectly adequate but nevertheless, have-done-with-it
feeling.
2. Points that Must Be Brought out in the Middle
In every scene of your playlet you must prepare the minds of your
audience to accept gladly what follows--and to look forward to it
eagerly. You must not only plainly show what the causes of every
action _are_, but you must also make the audience feel what they
_imply_. Thus you will create the illusion which is the chief
charm of the theatre--a feeling of superiority to the mimic
characters which the gods must experience as they look down upon
us. This is the inalienable right of an audience.
(a) _The Scenes that Make Suspense_. But while foreshadowing
plainly, you must not forestall your effect. One of the most
important elements of playlet writing is to let your audience guess
_what_ is going to happen--but keep them tensely interested in _how_
it is going to happen. This is what creates the playlet's enthralling
power--suspense.
It is so important to secure suspense in a playlet that an experienced
writer who feels that he has not created it out of the body of his
material, will go back to the beginning and insert some point that
will pique the curiosity of the audience, leaving it unexplained
until the end. He keeps the audience guessing, but he satisfies
their curiosity finely in the finish--this is the obligation such
a suspense element carries with it.
(b) _The Points that Balance the Preparation with the Result_.
Nothing could be more disastrous than to promise with weighty
preparation some event stupendously big with meaning and then to
offer a weak little result. And it would be nearly as unfortunate
to foreshadow a weak little fulfillment and then to present a
tremendous result. Therefore, you must so order your events that
you balance the preparation with the result, to the shade of a
dramatic hair.
But take care to avoid a too obvious preparation. If you disclose
too plainly what you are aiming at your end is defeated in advance,
because your audience is bound to lapse into a cynically smiling
does-this-fellow-take-us-for-babies? attitude.
The art of the dramatic is the art that conceals art. The middle
of your playlet must conceal just enough to keep the stream of
suspense flowing eagerly toward the end, which is dimly seen to
be inevitably approaching.
(c) _The One Event that Makes the Climax Really Big_. From the
first speech, through every speech, and in every action, your
playlet has moved toward this one event, and now you must bring
it out so prominently that everything else sinks into insignificance.
This event is: _The change in the relations of the characters_.
This is the planned-for result of all that has gone before. Bear
firmly in mind that you have built up a suspense which this change
must _crown_. Keep foremost the fact that what you have hidden
before you must now disclose. Lay your cards on the table face
up--all except one. This last card takes the final trick, completing
the hand you have laid down, and everyone watches with breathless
interest while you play:
3. The Single Point of the Finish
If you can make this final event a surprise, all the better. But
if you cannot change the whole result in one dramatic disclosure,
you must be content to lay down your last card, not as a point in
itself surprising, but nevertheless dramatically.
_The Finish must be Complete--and Completely Satisfy_. You have
sprung your climax; you have disclosed what it is that changes the
relations of your characters; now you must show that those relations
_have_ been changed. And at the same time you bring forward the
last strand of plot that is loose and weave it into the now complete
design. You must account for everything here in the finish, and
do it with speed.
III. PUTTING PUNCH INTO THE IDEA
Now let us say that you have expanded the first draft of your
plastic scenario into a nearly perfect manuscript. But as you
read it over, you are not content. You feel that it lacks "punch."
What is "punch," and how are you going to add it when it is lacking?
Willard Mack says: "'Punch' is the most abused word I know. The
dramatic punch is continually confused with the theatrical trick.
Critics said the third act of 'Kick In' [1]--in which the detective
is overpowered in a hand-to-hand fight after a hypodermic has been
jabbed into his wrist--had a punch. It didn't. What it really had
was a theatric trick. But the human punch was in the second act,
when the little frightened girl of the slums comes to see her
wounded lover--who is really dead. If the needle should suddenly
be lost in playing the third act the scene would be destroyed.
But the other moment would have its appeal regardless of theatrical
detail."
[1] Developed into a long play from the vaudeville act of the same
name.
Punch comes only from a certain strong human appeal in the story.
Punch is the thing that makes the pulse beat a little quicker,
because the heart has been touched. Punch is the precise moment
of the dramatic. It is the second in which the revelation flashes
upon the audience.
While whatever punch you may be able to add must lie in the heart
of your material--which no one but yourself can know--there are
three or four ways by which you may go about finding a mislaid
punch.
If you have turned the logical order of writing about and let your
playlet drag you instead of your driving it, you may find help in
asking yourself whether you should keep your secret from the
audience.
1. Have You Kept Your Audience in Ignorance Too Long?
While it is possible to write a most enthralling novel of mystery
or a detective short-story which suddenly, at the very last moment,
may disclose the trick by which it has all been built up, such a
thing is not successfully possible in a playlet. You must not
conceal the identity of anyone of your characters from the audience.
Conceal his identity from every other character and you may construct
a fine playlet, but don't conceal his motive from the audience.
The very nature of the drama--depending as it does on giving to
the spectator the pleasure of feeling omniscient--precludes the
possibility of "unheralded surprise." For instance, if you have
a character whom the audience has never seen before and of whom
they know nothing suddenly spring up from behind a sofa where he
has overheard two other characters conspiring--the audience may
think he is a stage-hand. How would they know he was connected
with the other characters in the playlet if you neglected to tell
them beforehand? They could not know. The sudden appearance of
the unknown man from behind the sofa would have much the effect
of a disturbance in the rear of the theatre, distracting attention
from the characters on the stage and the plot of the playlet.
If your plot calls for an eavesdropper behind a sofa--though I
hope you will never resort to so ancient a device--you must first
let the audience know who he is and why he wants to eavesdrop; and
second you must show him going behind that sofa. The audience
must be given the god-like pleasure of watching the other two
characters approach the sofa and sit down on it, in ignorance that
there is an enemy behind it into whose hands they are delivering
themselves.
This is only a simple instance, but it points out how far the
ramifications to which this problem of not keeping a secret from
the audience may extend. Moreover, it should suggest that it is
possible that your playlet lacks the required punch--because you
have kept something secret that you ought to have disclosed.
Therefore, go through your playlet carefully and try to discover
just what you have not treated with dramatic frankness.
On the other hand, of course, if you decide you must keep a
secret--some big mystery of plot--you must be sure that it is worth
keeping. If you build up a series of mysterious incidents, the
solution must be adequate to the suspense. But, I have treated
this angle of secret-keeping in "preparation versus result," so I
shall now direct your attention to the other side of the problem
of dramatic frankness--which may be the cause of the lack of punch:
2. Have You been too Frank at the Beginning?
Go back through the early moments of your playlet and see if you
have not given the whole thing away at the very beginning. If you
have, you have, as we saw, killed your suspense, which is the road
on which punch lies in wait. The way to remedy this defect is to
condense the preparation and so express it in action and by dialogue
that you leave opportunity for a revealing flash.
In going over your manuscript you must strive to attain the correct
balance between the two. The whole art lies in knowing just what
to disclose and it when to disclose it--and what not and when not
to disclose.
3. Have You Been Too "Talky"?
Remember that vaudeville has no time for "fine speeches." Cut
even the lines you have put in for the purpose of disclosing
character, and--save in rare instances--depend chiefly on character
revelation through _action_.
4. Have You Lost Your Singleness of Effect by Mixing Playlet Genres?
One of the most common reasons why playlets lack the effect of
vital oneness is to be found in the fault of mixing the kinds:
for example, making the first half a comedy and the second half
a tragedy. It is as if a song began with one air and suddenly
switched to a totally different melody. If your playlet is a
comedy, make it a comedy throughout; it if is a deeply human story,
let it end as it began; [1] if you are writing a straight drama
or a melodrama, keep your playlet straight drama or melodrama all
the way through. Go over your playlet with the eye of a relentless
critic and make sure that you have not mixed your genres, which
only in the rarest cases can be done effectively.
[1] See Chapter XIV, section II, topic 3.
5. Are You Sure Your Action Is All Vital?
Finally, if every other investigation has failed to develop the
needed punch, go over your playlet again to see if it is possible
that you have erred in the first principle of the art. If you
have permitted even one tiny scene to creep in that does not hold
a vital meaning to the single point of your climax, you have lost
by so much the possibility of the punch. Remember, here, that a
great playlet can be played without a single word being spoken and
still be vividly clear to everyone. Realizing this, chop every
second of action that is not vital.
6. The Punch Secured.
But long before you have exhausted these suggestions you will have
developed your punch. Your punch has risen out of your material--
if you possess the sense of the dramatic. If the punch has not
developed--with a series of minor punches that all contribute to
the main design of the "heart wallop"--there is something wrong
with your material.
But even a realization of this ought not to discourage you, for
there are instances every day of well-known playwrights who have
chosen the wrong material. We all have seen these plays. You
must do as they do--cast your playlet aside and begin anew with
new material. The man who keeps at it is the only one who wins--but
he must keep at it with the right stuff.
IV. SELECTING A PROPER TITLE
When you have trimmed your playlet by cutting off _all_ the trimmings,
your thoughts naturally turn to a title. More than likely you
have selected your title long before you have written "curtain"--it
is possible a title sprang into your mind out of the germ idea.
But even then, you ought now to select the _proper_ title.
1. What is a Proper Title?
A proper title is one that both names a playlet and concisely
suggests more than it tells. For instance, "The System" suggests
a problem vital to all big cities--because the word "system" was on
everybody's tongue at the time. "The Lollard" piques curiosity--what
is a "lollard," you are inclined to want to know; it also carries
a suggestion of whimsicality. "The Villain Still Pursued Her,"
tells as plainly as a whole paragraph could that the playlet is a
travesty, making fun of the old blood-and-thunder melodrama. "In
and Out" is a short, snappy, curiosity-piquing name; it is a title
that hangs out a sign like a question mark. "Kick In" is of the
same class, but with the added touch of slang. "War Brides" is
another luring title, and one that attracts on frankly dramatic
and "problem" grounds. "Youth" is a title that suggests much more
than it tells--it connotes almost anything. "Blackmail" has the
punch of drama and suggests "atmosphere" as well. But these are
enough to establish the fact that a good title is one which suggests
more than it tells. A good title frankly advertises the wares
within, yet wakens eager curiosity to see what those wares are.
2. What is an Improper Title?
An improper title, first, is one that does not precisely fit a
playlet as a name; or second, that tells too much. For instance,
"Sweets to the Sweet" is the title of a playlet whose only reason
for being so named is because the young man brings the girl a box
of candy--it does not name the playlet at all precisely, its
connotation is misleading. Do not choose a title just because it
is pretty. Make your title really express the personality of your
playlet. But more important still, do not let your title tell too
much. If "The Bomb" were called "The Trap," much of the effect
of the surprise would be discounted, and the unmasking of the
detective who confesses to throwing the bomb to trap the real
criminal would come as something expected. In a word, be most
careful not to select a title that "gives it all away."
3. Other Title Considerations
A short title seems to be the playlet fashion today; but tomorrow
the two- or three-word title may grow to a four- or five-word name.
Yet it will never be amiss to make a title short.
This same law of good use points to a similar variation in the
context of even the short title--I mean that every little while
there develops a fad for certain words. There may at any time
spring up a wide use of words like "girl," or "fun," or color
words, like "red" or "purple" or "blond." But your close study
of the vaudeville of the moment will show you when these fad-words
may be used advantageously in a title.
You need never worry over-long about a title for your playlet if
you put the emphasis in your own mind upon the fact that your title
is an advertisement.
V. MAKING THE PLAYLET A HIT
But when you have a playlet manuscript that is full of laughter
and vibrant with dramatic thrills, and even after you have sold
it to a manager who has produced it, your work as a playlet writer
is not done. You still must cut and polish it until it is a
flawless gem that flashes from the stage. As Edgar Allan Woolf
expressed it to me in one of our conversations:
"The work of the author of a one-act comedy is not over until,
after several weeks of playing, his playlet has been so reshaped
and altered by him that not a single dull spot remains. Individual
lines must be condensed so that they are as short as they possibly
can be made. The elimination of every unnecessary word or phrase
is essential. Where a line that develops the plot can be altered
so that it will still serve its purpose, and also score a laugh
on its own account, it must be so changed. Where lines cannot be
changed, bits of comedy business may perhaps be inserted to keep
the audience from lapsing into listlessness. For it is a deplorable
fact that a vaudeville audience that is not laughing outright at
a comedy becomes listless. Vaudeville managers never book a playlet
that makes an audience smile--for while the humor that brings a
smile may be more brilliant than the comedy that gets a laugh, it
must always be remembered that vaudeville audiences come to laugh
and not to smile. Some of the biggest laughs in every one of my
many acts I put in after the acts had been playing some weeks.
And I attribute whatever success they have had later in the best
vaudeville theatres to the improvements I have made during their
'breaking in' periods."
To sum up: While no two writers ever have written and never will
write a playlet in precisely the same way, the wise beginner chooses
for his first playlet a comedy theme. Your germ idea you express
in a single short sentence which you consider as the problem of
your playlet, to be solved logically, clearly and conclusively.
Instinct for the dramatic leads you to lift out from life's flowing
stream of events the separate incidents you require and to dovetail
them into a plot which tells the story simply by means of characters
and dialogue skillfully blended into an indivisible whole, flashing
with revealing meaning and ending with complete satisfaction.
After you have thought out your playlet, you set down so much of
it as you feel is necessary in the form of a scenario. But you
do not consider this scenario as unchangeable. Rather you judge
the value of the idea by the freedom with which it grows in
effectiveness. And while this process is going on, you carefully
select the basic points in the beginning of the story that must
be brought out prominently.
Then you develop the story by making the points that foreshadow
your "big" scene stand out so as to weave the enthralling power
of suspense. You let your audience guess _what_ is going to happen,
but keep them tensely interested in _how_ it is going to happen.
And you prepare your audience by a carefully preserved balance
between the promise and the performance for the one big point of
the climax which changes the relations of the characters to each
other.
After you have shown the change as happening, you punch home the
fact that it has happened, and withhold your completing card until
the finish. In your finish you play the final card and account
for the last loose strand of the plot, with a speed that does not
detract from your effect of complete satisfaction.
In seeking to "punch up" your playlet, you go over every word,
every bit of characterization, every moment of action, and eliminate
single words, whole speeches, entire scenes, to cut down the playlet
to the meat, seeking for lost punches particularly in the faults
of keeping secrets that should be instantly disclosed, and in the
too frank disclosures of secrets that ought to be kept in the
beginning. And out of this re-writing there rises into view the
"heart wallop" which first attracted you.
Finally, when your playlet is finished, you decide on a proper
title. Remembering that a title is an advertisement, you choose
a short name that both _names_ and _lures_. And then you prepare
the manuscript for its market--which is discussed in a later
chapter.
But when you have written your playlet and have sold it to a manager
who has produced it, your work is not yet done. You watch it in
rehearsal, and during the "breaking in" weeks you cut it here,
change it there, make a plot-line do double duty as a laugh-line
in this spot, take away a needless word from another--until your
playlet flashes a flawless gem from the stage. The final effect
in the medium of expression for which you write it is UNITY. Every
part--acting, dialogue, action--blends in a perfect whole. Not
even one word may be taken away without disturbing the total effect
of its vital oneness.