Exposition: Who Needs it? Storytellers, That’s Who!

Concerning exposition – the bugaboo of all storytellers, especially scriptwriters – someone I know floated this description:  “I would define exposition as anything that the actors* and the audience can reasonably be assumed to already know.  New information to all is not exposition.  Information that the actors should already know is the worst offense.”  (*By “actors,” I’m assuming he meant “characters.”) 

Unfortunately, there’s a lot wrong with this definition.  First, it’s a mistake to lump the “characters” and the audience together.  In most plays, there are many things the characters know that the audience does not.  At the beginning of Hamlet, Hamlet is majorly bummed.  He knows why, but the audience does not (unless of course, the audience is familiar with the play).  Before Shakespeare’s play begins, Hamlet’s much beloved dad dies and mother-dearest quickly remarries Hamlet’s uncle.  Enough to give anyone a migraine, but, the point is, our boy Hamlet knows these things – the backstory - but the audience does not ... that is until those influential events are revealed through exposition. 

Then there is the reverse situation, which is the hallmark of suspense stories: the audience (or reader) knows something the main character doesn’t.  That causes us to worry that the protagonist will fall victim to the apple we know to be poisoned, the armed murderer we know lurks just beyond the squeaky door, etc. 

“New information to all is not exposition,” the definition continues.  Au contraire: good exposition is exactly that – new information, information new to the audience.  Here’s my definition of exposition in plays:  exposition is the strategic revelation of information (backstory), usually through dialogue, that the audience needs to know to understand what's going on.  Exposition is an essential component of storytelling.  Meaning it’s far from a bad thing in and of itself; how the revelations are handled is the issue.  The challenge is to trot out the information when it's relevant – "information as ammunition" – and not when the writer feels it's convenient.  The best exposition is that which comes out when a character needs to bring out the information to achieve a purpose (at the same time providing information that pays off later).  Knowing that Hamlet is in an emotionally turbulent state over his late father and “o’erhasty” mother easily explains why he’s willing embark on a journey of revenge that ends in a body count rivaling any action-adventure film. 

Lastly, “Information the [characters] should already know is the worst offense.”  Here our friend is onto something.  When characters in a story stand around telling each other information they both already know just to bring the audience up to speed, you’ve got clunky exposition.  Think of it this way.  It’s probably very rare that a person and his/her significant other sit around recalling mundane events that they both experienced together and, thus, both already know.  However, when one is trying to best the other – as in an argument – past events come rolling out as evidence for one side or the other.  In other words, the information comes out in an organic and motivated way.  And that’s the difference between good, purposeful exposition and exposition that’s randomly placed and draws yawns. 

What good are one-act plays, anyway?

Someone in a Dramatists Guild discussion on LinkedIn asked the playwriting question:  “what good are one-act plays, anyway?”  The implication being, you never see one-act plays being done on the Great White Way or in major regional theatres around the country.  Consequently, what’s the point of short plays?  The first thing that needs to be addressed is “never.”  I would substitute the word “rarely,” because occasionally you do see a collection of three or so one-act plays presented as an evening of theatre in major venues.  In 2011, Relatively Speaking, a collection of one-act plays by Woody Allen, Elaine May, and Ethan Coen, ran on Broadway.  And, of course, you have the fine compilations of one-act plays by Neil Simon – Plaza Suite and California Suite – also on Broadway.  But those are the exceptions that prove the rule, and, of course, such accomplished writers as Woody Allen and Neil Simon are in a class of their own. 

So what good are one-acts to mere mortals such as us?  One-act plays are very valuable to new playwrights.  One wouldn’t likely run a marathon without having tackled shorter races first to learn the technical aspects of running and to build up to the longer distances.  That’s also true of playwriting.  Working on short plays before attempting full-lengths helps new writers learn the essentials of playwriting – storytelling and plotting, character development, and dialogue writing – without the burden of having to turn out 100 pages of script. 

Another advantage of one-acts is that they can serve as calling cards for new writers.  One-act plays are perfect for national playwriting competitions.  These contests of short plays provide new playwrights with exposure and maybe even a production of a play in one of the many one-act play festivals around the country.   Not to mention the possibility of winning a prize that would look peachy on the résumé. 

And, finally, I quote Sigmund Freud who once admitted, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”  By which he meant, often a thing is just what it is and nothing more.  If the subject matter you want to write about can be dealt with adequately in the one-act format, then it’s a one-act play.  In other words, like it or not, a one-act play might be all that’s needed for the amount of material in the story you want to tell.  So, don’t knock ‘em.  One-act plays can be very useful ... and rewarding. 

Should I expand my one-act play to a full-length?

Almost every playwright I know (myself included) who has written successful one-act plays has, at one time or another, been told by well-meaning folks (including theatre professionals who should know better) that the play ought to be expanded to a full-length.  And, whenever that's attempted simply by stretching what's already there, it results in transforming a tight and focused one-act into a meandering and overwritten full-length.  That being said, if you feel that there's more story to be told (new events in the journey or new subplots that impact the main plot or new characters that might add complexity to the story) then go ahead and give it a try.  But my rule of thumb is this: if there had been a full-length play there in the first place, that's probably what you would have written.  Don't be swayed by enthusiastic people who love your one-act so much that they insist on more.  Sometimes less is more.  And, to be further cliché about it, remember the old showbiz adage:  "always leave ’em wanting more."  In other words, rather than reworking an old one-act, wow 'em with a new full-length. 

Psssst. Have I Got an Idea for You!

Inevitably, once you’re known to be playwright, people will seek you out to bring to you ideas.  It will happen, I promise you.  Someone will approach you at a party, take you aside, and say something like:  “I’ve got this great idea for a play, but, I’m not a writer.  So I’ll tell you my idea, you write it out, and we’ll go 50-50 on the money it makes.”  Very generous.  But my standard – and respectful – response is:  “Thank you very much, but I’ve got a long list of ideas of my own, more ideas than I have time for.  But thanks anyway; I appreciate your confidence in me.”  What these well-meaning folks don’t realize is that ideas are, comparatively speaking, the easy part; writing is the hard part.  There also is the danger of lawsuits.  If you listen to, say, Joe Smith’s idea, and later you write a play that Joe Smith thinks is based on his idea, don’t be surprised if you get a letter from Joe’s lawyer.  While an idea can’t be copyrighted or owned by anyone, it doesn’t mean someone can’t sue you.  (A lawsuit puts you to the time and expense of having to defend yourself in court.)  However, this is not to suggest you should never listen to an idea being pitched to you.  If the person approaching you is an accomplished director or producer who can make a production happen, or if the person is a published author looking for someone to work on a play adaptation, or if the person is willing to pay you to write the play, in cases like these a proposal could be worth entertaining.  (This all assumes, of course, that the subject of the proposed play is of interest to you.)  In short, avoid the suggestions of others.  But, if someone makes you an offer you can’t refuse, make sure your agreement, whatever it is, is in writing.  You'd be surprised how fuzzy memories become when money is involved.  (More on contracts another time.) 

To Be or Not to Be Me or the Character

I was recently asked who my favorite actor is.  (And, of course, today we use “actor” to include both male and female thespians.)  I could not come up with just one; there are so many compelling performers doing wonderful stage and screen roles.  But what I was able to do was to identify two broad types of actors:  1. those who bring the role to themselves, and, 2. those who go to the role. 

Those who bring the role to themselves.  By this I mean actors who are themselves no matter what role they play.  For example, Bruce Willis is Bruce Willis whether he’s doing John McClane in the Diehard series or the self-unaware Dr. Malcolm Crowe in The Sixth Sense.  His cool persona is always the same; his mischievous smirk omnipresent.  For those of us with longer memories, John Wayne was another actor who was essentially always “The Duke” no matter what character he was doing. 

Those go to the role.  Then you have the actors who adopt the persona of the character so fully and so totally immerse themselves in each role they play that you lose sight of the actor and take in only the wonderfully developed character.  Johnny Depp is such an actor.  From Depp’s Edward Scissorhands to Johnny Brasco and from pirate Jack Sparrow to Sweeney Todd, you can hardly imagine a more diverse range of characters.  Another actor unafraid to lose herself in her roles is the magnificent Meryl Streep, e.g., from Julia Child to Margaret Thatcher. 

What kind of actor do you prefer, and who might be your favorite? 

From Silent Films to Manufactured-People Films?

           The superbly quirky, clever, surprising, and touching movie, The Artist, takes audiences back to the late-1920s when the movie industry almost overnight transitioned from silent films to “talkies” (films with synchronized, recorded dialogue).  It was not a bloodless evolution.  Actors, whose larger-than-life acting techniques or personal idiosyncrasies did not translate well to talking pictures, fell by the wayside.  This pitiless development is depicted lightheartedly in the movie musical classic, Singin’ in the Rain, and treated with a bit more emotional punch in The Artist. 

           What strikes me is that the movie industry might be undergoing another profound, if not overnight, transition.  More and more animated films are appearing (some so lifelike it’s eerie, like Polar Express and Avatar).  Are we seeing another upheaval in cinema that’s trending toward films in which, ironically, only the voices of actors are used?  And what happens when computer technology “progresses” to the point where computer-generated speech is perfectly identical to human speech?  Between computer-generated images and computer-generated speech, film acting as a profession could become a thing of the past.  Even in many of today’s live-action films (as opposed to animation), it’s virtually impossible to distinguish between computer-generated background images and scenes shot with flesh-and-blood actors on location.  A tempest in a teakettle?  Don’t tell that to the various actor unions which are scrambling to decide how to deal with this burgeoning threat to their profession. 

           Maybe decades from now we’ll see entertaining and touching animated films portraying the quaint old early 21^st century when the movie industry transitioned from real-people films to totally computer-made, manufactured-people feature films.

"Look Back in Anger" as Angry as Ever

I just saw Roundabout Theatre Company's production of the (in its time) groundbreaking play, Look Back in Anger, by John Osborne. It’s a play that sizzles with rage and resentment, and it’s the play that gave rise to the term, “angry young men.” This production is slightly trimmed from the 1956 original; a scene and character were deleted (presumably with the permission of the copyright owner), but even so the play is as brilliant and disturbing and heartbreaking as ever, excellently well-played by the cast. It’s unrelenting fury and tragic sadness over a generation’s sense of alienation and powerlessness make you squirm in your seat. Though there is humor – and some surprises – it’s like a bloody traffic accident you can’t take your eyes off of. The staging is minimal, stark, and dreary – just right for the mood needed. Matthew Rhys’s playing of the inconsolably angry Jimmy Porter eerily evokes a young Richard Burton. It's a piece of theatre history you probably don't want to miss – particularly if you write plays. This production clearly demonstrates the power of theatre to provoke and evoke. But fasten your seatbelt; it’s a turbulent ride. (Go to http://www.roundabouttheatre.org/Shows-Events/Look-Back-in-Anger.aspx.)

Originality? Don’t Sweat the Big Stuff!

Many writers bedevil themselves with the perceived need to be original. They hope to come up with some idea for their play, novel, short story, poem, whatever, that’s never been done before. Here’s the good news: don’t sweat the big stuff. Originality is rarely found in the plot; it comes in the treatment and details of the story. It’s in the characters you create, the setting of the story, and the language of the characters.

The classic musical, West Side Story, is really what? Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet of course, brought to the gang-plagued West Side of Manhattan of the 1950s. In fact, Arthur Laurents, Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, and Jerome Robbins did their best to stick faithfully to Shakespeare’s storyline. The features that make WSS its own classic – and original – work of theatre are the specific and appealing characters created, the resetting of the story in (then) modern-day New York, and, of course, the addition of music, song, and dance.

Take a look at the hit TV series, House. While there are, yes, slight variations, the plot is essentially the same week after week. Dr. House is presented with a seemingly impossible case to diagnose. He badgers and bullies his diagnostic team until he comes up with the brainstorm that leads to the solution, and the patient is saved. Yet despite the repetitious pattern, millions are addicted to the show, fascinated by the quirky characters, the fast-paced and edgy dialogue, and the havoc House wreaks as the mystery unfolds.

So don’t get hung up on the notion of finding an unprecedented plot. There probably is no such thing. Your creative juices are better spent putting your personal spin on an idea that intrigues you.

And, not incidentally, Will S. did not originate the Romeo and Juliet story. It was “borrowed” from a 1562 narrative poem, “The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet” by Arthur Brooke, which, in turn was probably based on an earlier Italian novella, which in turn was ...