Carl Sagan on Earth as a pale blue dot in a vast universe.

“Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there-on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.” 

If Your Story Happened to You, Keep that to Yourself

I am absolutely convinced, based on several experiences, that it is never a good idea to announce that a script you are working on is based on your own personal life or experience.  To make such an assertion achieves nothing, and can, on the other hand, get in the way. 

 

Years ago, in the first playwriting group I belonged to, a colleague made a comment that he couldn’t believe that a character in the scene being critiqued would do a particular act, whatever it was (I don’t remember the specifics).  The author of the scene, a young writer, protested saying, “of course he would; it happened to me!” as if that pronouncement would make the critic come to his senses.  Unfortunately, the young writer did not understand that, in writing, reality is no defense.  It’s irrelevant that the given action or moment was grounded in a real event.  The writer simply had not succeeded in recreating the event, or motivating the character, so that the theatrical version of the true moment was credible.  The writer needed to understand that the moment just wasn’t working, regardless of its basis in his life. 

 

Also years ago, while I was at T. Schreiber Studio, we were beginning rehearsal for the first of my plays to be produced, a play called Casino.  I had been jumped while in an Atlantic City casino by an irate casino patron who accused me of stealing thousands of dollars in chips from him.  A case of mistaken identity.  After I was cleared and returned home, my reaction was to turn this traumatic experience into a play.  When it was completed, I very freely let it be known around the studio that the play was based on this awful experience that happened to me (probably subconsciously seeking sympathetic outrage that something like that should befall such a nice guy like me). 

 

Anyway, on the first day of rehearsal we had the customary sit-around-a-table reading by the cast.  After the script reading was concluded, there was this spontaneous burst of enthusiasm and animated chatter among the actors.  I was thrilled.  In that moment of excitement, one of the actors commented that the character of Joe was a real jerk.  Almost instantly an embarrassed hush came over the table.  Like the toppling of dominoes, heads turned in my direction as each actor in turn recalled that the character of Joe was based on me.  I quickly assured the cast that I was not offended, and that they needed to feel free to say whatever they wanted and to do their work without inhibition.  The uncomfortable moment dissipated, but I had hard time shaking the suspicion that some of the actors were being careful around me. 

 

The bottom line is this: the surest way to protect oneself against candid and constructive, if stinging, criticism and feedback is to let it be known that the work is based on your life.  That will quickly discourage many from offering honest criticism and it will insulate you from feedback you might need to hear. 

Theft of Someone Else’s Work

There’s been a lengthy debate in a playwrights’ discussion forum on LinkedIn about the difficulty of getting the rights to use someone else’s music in a play.  After you send an inquiry, most often it’s a waiting game, with no guarantee you will even hear back from the rights-holders.  One fellow (let’s call him Fred) admitted that he’d gotten so frustrated at not getting a response that he went ahead and used the music anyway, and no one was the wiser. 

 

I would strongly caution against Fred's strategy.  That's like asking to rent someone's car, and, if you don't get a response, you go ahead and drive it away.  I don't have to tell you what that's called.  That Fred got away with it was his good fortune.  I'm no lawyer but I'd say he was very lucky because, if the rights-holders had found out, they could have, at best, demanded that he cease and desist and pay them what they asked (at which point he would have had little choice) or, at worst, they could have taken him to court for copyright infringement and/or theft of services.  It's happened, and it is no defense to say, "but, your honor, they didn't respond to my inquiries."  

 

As playwrights, we own our work the moment we create it.  Ownership does not obligate us as rights-owners to respond to inquiries about producing our plays (not that we wouldn’t jump at the opportunity).  But the point is, we have no obligation to respond to each and every communication if we don’t feel like it.  And we certainly wouldn't expect that a theatre would go ahead and produce our plays anyway because we did not respond. 

 

As I've said before, when you use anyone else's copyrighted material of any sort, get written permission (and pay the royalty, if there is one), and do it sooner than later. 

Misconceptions about Using Someone Else's Music in Your Play

When it comes to using someone else's music in your play, misconceptions and convenient but dangerous rationalizations abound.  As someone who has integrated copyrighted music into plays (The Devil's Music: The Life and Blues of Bessie Smith and another that I'm working on now), I'm here to say that pretty much everything people tell you is wrong.

Misconception:  Go to the Voluteer Lawyers for the Arts and they will make a contract for you.  They have standard contracts. 
I have consulted with the Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts, and, although they are generous and well meaning, they knew no more about acquiring music rights than I already knew when I consulted them (to my disappoinment).

And, no, there is no standard contract with respect to acquiring music rights.  Each agreement is particular to the show. How many songs are you using? How many different writers of those songs are involved? Are the songs used cabaret style (meaning sung anywhere in the show for entertainment value) or are they used to advance the plot? (It makes a difference.) In a standard musical, the royalties are usually divided into three equal portions among the composer, lyricist, and librettist (script writer). Consequently, if you're writing a musical using already existing music, you may be asked to divide as much as two-thirds of the royalties among those who hold the music rights. One tries to negotiate less, of course, but this is what you may be up against.

Misconception:  You don't need to worry about rights until you're ready for production. 
You absolutely do need to concern yourself about music rights long before you go into production. Acquiring music rights can take many months, even as long as a year. Music companies and other rights holders move at a glacial pace. If you wait until the last minute to acquire rights, you risk delaying or blowing your production.  Or worse, you might find that the rights are not available. 

Misconception:  Acquiring music rights will be done by the producer. 
Acquiring music rights is up to the creators of the show, not the producers, not the director, nor the hosting theatre. When you sign a production contract, you will see in no uncertain terms that the playwright (or creators if it's a team) is responsible for acquiring all necessary rights and permissions, and, more ominously, if a lawsuit is brought against the production for violation of copyright, you (the author) are liable.

Misconception:   It's okay to use a few bars of someone else's music without getting permission.  There is no such right to use a few bars of music or any other bits of copyrighted material without the permission of the author. That is, for lack of a better way of putting it, an urban legend. It is true that it's not likely MGM is going to come after you for using two bars of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," but you could get a cease-and-desist letter.

There is no way around it; you need to get permission when you use any material belonging to someone else, and the sooner the better. 

12 Not-So-Secret Secrets to Success in Playwriting (and Other Writing, too!)

1.  Create a clear Protagonist
Be sure you create a clearly identifiable protagonist – the character whose journey the audience is following.  The audience needs to know up front who to root for. 

2.  Create a Formidable Antagonist

Be sure your protagonist faces a character (or thing) that presents ongoing and escalating obstacles to the protagonist’s success.  Never make it easy for your protagonist. 

3.  Know Your Characters as Well as You Know Your Best Friend

The key to successful characters is detail.  The more you know about your character, the more genuine his/her behavior will be.  Think of all the things you know about your best friend.  When your knowledge of your characters - all of them - is as detailed and intimate as is your knowledge of your best friend, then you will instinctively know what your characters will do and say under the given circumstances of your play.  How to do this?  Write the biographies of each of your characters. 

4.  Be Sure There is Continual Conflict

The essence of compelling dramatic writing is conflict.  And conflict is not argument.  Conflict is characters having opposing objectives, desperately struggling to come out on top. 

5.  Be Sure the Stakes are Clear and Important

It should be clear to the audience why the protagonist’s mission or goal is vitally important to him/her.  When the audience understands, the audience cares what happens and emotionally goes on the journey with the protagonist. 

6.  Write a Tightly Structured Story

It all starts with the story.  Your story should have a clear spine (also referred to as the story’s “arc” or “through-line”), meaning it should have:  a beginning (the introduction of the characters and launch of the protagonist’s journey); a middle (the protagonist’s struggles to achieve his/her goal against the efforts of the antagonist); and an end (the climax, the moment the audience learns if the protagonist succeeds ... or crashes and burns). 

7.  When You’re Stuck, Get Mean

When you’re stuck for what happens next, ask yourself this question, “What’s the worst thing that could happened to my protagonist at this moment?”  And make it happen to him/her. 

8. Include but Limit Exposition

Exposition is the judicious and skillful revelation of past events (things that happened before the play).  But include only those events that are absolutely necessary to make the characters' motivations and stakes and the story clear.  And the exposition should come into play only when the characters need to trot out the information – in other words, exposition as ammunition.  Rule of thumb on exposition:  less is more. 

9.  Don’t Sweat Originality – it Ain’t What it’s Cracked up to Be

Don’t knock yourself out trying to find a subject or story that’s never been dramatized before.  Storytelling has been around as long as humans have, so you’re not likely to come up with a plot no one has ever come up with before.  Originality lies in how you handle a subject – your spin, your characters, your dialogue, your retelling of the story.  After all, what is West Side Story?  What is Titanic (the James Cameron version)?  They’re both Romeo and Juliet with their own unique take on the timeless plot:  young lovers kept apart be forces beyond their control. 

10.  Care About Your Play

Write about something you care about, something that’s important to you.  A play can take anywhere from a year to two or more years to write, develop, and stage.  It’s your passion for the subject matter that will sustain you when the going gets tough.  (And it usually does.) 

11.  Don’t Try to Hide

Theatre is not a place in which you can hide.  The unique gift you have to offer the world is you – what you think, what you have experienced, and how you see the world.  Anyone can learn technique.  What will set you apart is how much of yourself you’re willing to share.  Put another way, the best place to hide is out in the open.  “Let it all hang out,” as the hippies used to say, and your plays will engage audiences and touch hearts. 

12.  Buy Playwriting for Dummies

Run over to your local Barnes and Noble or go online to Amazon.com, whatever, and get yourself a copy of Playwriting for Dummies.  It’s the most practical, thorough, readable, savvy, and fun book on playwriting ever written ... ever written by me that is.  It’s both a great primer for beginners and an invaluable refresher for experienced playwrights. 

Is "Formal" Training Necessary for Playwriting?

Recently, a neophyte playwright posted online the question whether "formal" training is necessary to be a successful playwright.  In a word, it's a must.  (Okay, three words.) 

Formal training - be it in a school, a playwriting workshop, or with a theatre organization that offers courses - in my opinion, provides a number of important advantages. First and foremost, as I tell my students (and wrote in my book "Playwriting for Dummies"), know the rules before your break them. If you want to take theatre in a whole new direction fine, just know what it is you're departing from. As Newton (Isaac, not Wayne) said, "If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants."

Second, participating in a playwriting program of some sort teaches you how to take and make use of constructive criticism. It's something some of us do better than others but something we all must learn. It's better to find out early, in a supportive environment, that your play needs work than it is to find out before a paying audience of strangers. 

A third reason is networking. When you're in a playwriting program, you meet people whose experience and contacts you can benefit from. As competitive is playwriting is in terms of the relatively few production opportunities, I've always found playwriting colleagues to be willing to share contacts and point out relevant opportunities.

Fourth, theatre is a collaborative medium. Writing a script is not the endpoint but only the beginning of the journey, a journey that involves a host of other people with different skills. So you might as well get comfortable with the give and take of collaboration sooner than later.

Last (for now), is the opportunity to have public developmental readings of your play in progress. Yes, you can arrange a reading on your own, but it is much easier (and safer for your fragile psyche) and the audiences much larger when your reading is arranged and moderated by a school or theatre organization. 

Adapting a "True Story" to a Play or Movie

Recently this question was posted on a theatre industry chat site:  Would anyone have any advice on how to proceed with getting a book made into a play or a movie? A friend of mine wrote an award-winning true account about having been a hidden child during the Second World War and the characters would lend themselves to a fantastic movie. I'm trying to get the word out about it.  This was my contribution to the discussion. 

 

Your question is difficult to answer because you mention adaptation to a "play or a movie."  The processes of writing, developing, and producing plays and movies are different.  Nevertheless, there are some thoughts I can offer. 

First and foremost (and forgive me for saying so), if I were a producer and you pitched to me the project as described above, my answer would be "been there, done that."  What I mean is there are lots of stories of people being hidden to save their lives during WWII, not the least of which is "Diary of Anne Frank."  Does that mean you're dead in the water?  No.  You, as the writer, need to be very, very clear on what makes your story different from the others out there.  What's your "hook"?  In other words, it's not the sameness of your story (no matter how worthwhile) that will interest a producer, it's the uniqueness.  And you need to identify and be able to speak passionately on what is great about your story and what sets it apart from the others. 

Second, execute an agreement between you and your friend, the book author.  I can't tell you how many times I've heard people say, "but we're good friends.  Why do we need a contract?"  Why?  To stay friends.  Memory can play tricks on people, particularly when it comes to who has final say in a disagreement or how money is to be divided if the project succeeds.  You don't need a lawyer.  The Dramatists Guild has a collaboration agreement that can be customized to your needs.  Or you can probably find an adaptation agreement template on the Internet.  The agreement should specify these things:  you have exclusive rights to make a play and movie adaptation of the book for a certain period of time (24 months is common).  You should specify how much you're paying for the rights to do these things (you can put down $1 if you like).  It should be specified who (you) has final say if you disagree on something in the script (the considerations for writing a successful play or movie script are different from those in writing a book, and book authors sometimes forget this.  Which is one of the reasons why savvy script writers do not give script approval to the book authors).

Finally, that the story happened does not carry as much weight as you might think.  The fact it is the "reality" can sometimes hinder progress.  You can't allow yourself to get stuck on the facts.  The writer of a play or movie needs to have the flexibility to fictionalize.  Sometimes events need to be changed or dramatized (events in life, while powerful for the participants, are not necessarily a compelling story for others); events need to be created to make the story flow more smoothly; tons of characters (okay in a book) need to be pared down or combined into fewer characters (especially for a play).  If you want a lesson in the freedom to make things up, read the factual news accounts and then see the "based on a true story" movie "Argo."  Much of the film script, particularly the ending, was fabricated to make the movie a nail-biter.  But who cares?  It was a whale of a ride.  In other words, don't let the facts get in the way of creating a great script.

Musicals: They Ain't Just Plays with Songs

Recently, a novelist who is writing a musical based on a book she wrote, asked for general advice from those who've written musicals.  What I told her is this ...

While it is possible for folks to give you a valuable pointer or two about writing the book (script) for a musical, if you've never done it before you'll need more than a handful of tips from colleagues.  The expectations and constraints that relate to the writing musicals are different from those concerning the writing of a play.  As the author of the critically acclaimed show, The Devil's Music: The Life and Blues of Bessie Smith, and Playwriting for Dummies, I would strongly suggest you go to Amazon.com for a book or two about writing musicals.  There are lots of them, like The Musical Theatre Writer's Survival Guide by David Spencer or Making Musicals by Tom Jones.  If you're a beginner when it comes to musicals, it almost doesn't matter which book on musicals you read, but do do your homework. 

All that being said, I do have one important piece of advice:  remember that the songs in a musical are part of the storytelling.  Songs (and dances) are not thrown in randomly for the purpose entertainment only.  The songs in a musical are, in effect, musical dialogue, and must either reveal character or advance the plot.  If you can take a song out or move it to another spot in the show with no impact on the show, then that song is superfluous.  If you were to take "I Feel Pretty" out of West Side Story, you would not understand the depth of Maria's elation and the validation she is experiencing over having connected with Tony the night before.  And the song helps explain why she is willing to so quickly and fully commit herself to Tony.  In other words "I Feel Pretty" is a wonderful song and dance, but it serves an important dramaturgical purpose. 

The Seductive "Jukebox" Musical

In recent decades, there's been a proliferation of the "jukebox" musical, a musical show that takes a collecton of songs of a group or of a period, and tries to wrap a story around them.  Unfortunately, what might seem like a simple way of creating a musical is not at all simple. 

Most musicals fail because of a weak or non-existent book - the play/story component of the show (dialogue and stage directions).  In other words, creating a viable story for a group of songs that were never intended to be part of a show is a real challenge.  (See pages 244 and 311-312 in Playwriting for Dummies.)  I speak from experience (www.thedevilsmusic.biz). 

And then there's the 800-pound gorilla in the room:  the unavoidable necessity to get (and pay for) the rights to use any music created after 1923.  Never assume music rights are readily available and easy to acquire.  Check it out before getting to deep into your project.  And never ever stage a show using someone else's music without written permission.  You will be sued, "you" meaning you, the show's creator. 

The bottom line is, it's not enough to have a collection of "can't-miss" songs.  Audiences go to musicals for the music, yes, but also for an engaging and entertaining story.  Resist the temptation to skimp on the latter.  For every Jersey Boys and Mamma Mia, there are dozens of jukebox musicals that crash and burn.  When it comes to jukebox musicals, many are attempted but few succeed. 

Is My Play Idea Comedy or Drama?

Professor, is my idea comedy or drama? 

This may seem like an odd question, but, more often than you'd think, I’m asked by my playwriting students if a play idea they want to work on ought to be written as a comedy or a drama. 

Well, you can deal with almost any issue or storyline as either a comedy or drama.  Take, for instance, the story of a man’s startling discovery that his old-maid aunts have poisoned a dozen or so lonely old men, and had their bodies buried in the basement of their home.  Mass murder hardly seems a likely subject for humor; drama would appear to be the right genre for this material.  Yet the preceding is the storyline of one of the funniest stage comedies ever written, Arsenic and Old Lace by Joseph Kesselring. 

My comfort zone as a playwright is somewhere in between drama and comedy, but closer to drama than comedy.  To date, though I fancy myself as having a robust sense of humor, I’ve not been able to write an out-and-out comedy.  Because I tend to see life as a mixture of dramatic situations and humorous moments (hardly a philosophical breakthrough), when I’ve tried to write a pure comedy, the play inevitably ends up drifting back into the sphere that comes naturally to me — the drama with humor, or dramedy as the hybrid is sometimes called. 

 

The choice between comedic or dramatic treatment of an idea rests in good measure on your slant on the story.  Is your exploration of the idea primarily serious in nature, or do you see it as mostly ironic and humorous? 

As indicated above, another important factor is your particular gift as a writer.  Do you have an inclination toward envisioning and creating dramatic situations, or do you have an unrelenting sense of humor and the knack for writing witty lines?  In the final analysis, the subject matter, along with your writing skills and propensity will take you in one direction or the other. 

Don't Downplay the Director

Recently, a playwright posted online the following amazing statement:  "Playwrights should ... self-direct at least once, if for no other reason than to see that directing a play isn't the rocket science some would have you believe."  That playwright followed up with this:  "Most of directing is finding good actors, a good script, and getting out of the way." 

Yipes!  How could anyone who knows anything about theatre make such assertions!?  Directing is a specialized skill set that involves artistic insight, many hours of script study and preparation, the ability to conceive of a stage picture and blocking, excellent people and problem-solving skills, the knowledge of the different approaches to acting that actors employ, enough knowledge about set design, costumes, lighting plots, sound design, etc., to pass judgment on the designs presented by the various stagecraft people, and more.  

I studied directing for years, not because I wanted to direct, but because I wanted to know what goes into directing so that I could prepare my scripts in a way that directors would relate to and to understand what it is that directors do.  You don't learn to be a dentist by pulling your own teeth.  To put down directing as not being "rocket science" does directing and directors a grave injustice.  I can tell you that I'm personally indebted to directors who, working with actors, have elevated my work to levels even I wouldn't have imagined. 

Theatre is a collaborative medium.  Everyone brings something to the table.  And to deprive oneself of the skill and insight of one of the team players - the director - arbitrarily deprives you of a talented mind and shrewd pair of eyes.  And why would you want to do that?  To have it all your own way?  Not wise.  Directing, like acting and playwriting, is not something one does lightly and without training and learning.  Not if you respect the various disciplines.  Not if you respect theatre.  Not if you respect yourself. 

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 ...