Writing and selling a play : practical suggestions for the beginner

Preface

During my work as critic of play-manuscripts, the efforts, with very few exceptions, of novices in the art of play-writing, I have frequently been asked why there has been no book written which really answered the many problems of the beginner. That critics of play-manuscripts are so often asked this same question proves that the books already before the public do not entirely fill the need, either because of their nature or their cost. Many books are written on and around the subjects of play-writing and the theater, but they are chiefly academic and theoretical in treatment, serving as the professor or lecturer on the university rostrum rather than the teacher in the kindergarten. This book is intended for the infant-class in play-construction — for the tyro who has never written a play at all, or who is struggling with his first. During its progress I shall endeavor to answer as simply as possible some of the questions which arise in the mind of the aspirant ignorant of the stage, which same questions seem so simple and so obvious to those of us already connected with the theater. The present volume is in no sense meant as a substitute for any book already before the public, but rather as a sort of preface to the more theoretical literature on the subject.

vi PREFACE

Wherever possible, different points are illustrated by actual faults occurring in manuscripts brought to my notice. These serve better as examples and lessons than imaginary, or merely possible, blunders which might be made in, as yet, unwritten plays.

The example of other text-books on various subjects is followed in the use of quotations from sundry writers and recognized authorities on this and similar matters. Wherever a play, mentioned in the text, is known to be published, and of interest to the student, it will be found listed in the Bibliography.

Written, not from the academic standpoint, but from inside the theater through active connection with it, as actress, writer, and stage-director, I sincerely hope my efforts will be of some slight service to the friends made during my connection with the work.

The foundation of the following chapters is a series of articles- — about twelve thousand words — printed in The Editor, Ridgewood, N. J., January to June, 1910. Through the courtesy of that magazine, these articles have been revised and much extended.

The chapter on the " Closet " Drama and part of Chapter XXI are included through the courtesy of The Theatre.

Fanny Cannon.

New York City, 1915.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Manufacturing a Play 1

II. The Theater 5

Chapter I Manufacturing A Play Theory And Practice^

The term " manufacturing " has been frequently applied to the making or building of a play. The word may seem inapposite in reference to a branch of literary composition. However, on the purely technical side of the art, there is something of the deliberateness of manufacture, and as the purpose of this book is to explain, so far as a text-book can, the way to put a play together, the use of the expression will be better understood. This is the only part of playwriting which can be taught — the mechanical art of construction. Subject, treatment, inspiration, variation — all are individual.

Bernard Shaw, in his Dramatic Essays and Opinions, says : " The manufacture of well-made plays is not an art; it is an industry. It is not at all hard for a literary mechanic to acquire it; the only difficulty is to find a literary mechanic who is not by nature too much of an artist for the job. For nothing spoils a well-made play more infallibly than the least alloy of high art, or the least qualm of conscience on the part of the writer," and so on, in his own inimitable manner. All of which cleverly-written diatribe may offend or amuse the earnest playwright according to his humor, and you may take the term as seriously or as humorously as you please. Easy writing is not easy ; whether you approach your task as an industry or an art, in spite of the volatile Mr. Shaw, neither you nor any " literary mechanic " is going to find it any too simple. Of late, the expression, " well-made " play, always in quotation marks, has come to be a term of reproach in the modern drama, as applied to the so-called mechanical structures of Messieurs Scribe and Sardou. Both of these gentlemen, however, were indefatigable workers. And the novice is to remember, whether mentioned sarcastically or otherwise, the " well-made " play and its mechanics stand at the basis of all good playwriting.

Theories of play-writing are as many and diverse as their authors. Often they dispute each other in terms polite and academic, but none the less positive. One writer maintains that the characters make the play ; an equally decided writer contradicts him flatly — the play makes the characters: successful dramatists have used both methods. One authority insists on four acts, another on three, and so on.

In spite of these differences of opinion, " the play's the thing," and various authors have various ways of arriving at the finished product. Play-writing is an exacting, even a limited, art — with all due apolo-

MANUFACTURING A PLAY 3

gies to Mr. Shaw and Mr. Bennett for disagreeing with them — but it is not a problem in mathematics, to be solved in but one way. Any positive theory is impossible; certain fixed formulas might be determined on as the only and all-embracing laws for dramatic writing, when some genius of the theater would ignore them completely in a play which would become the basis for an entirely new set of laws. And these laws vary with each individual writer and with each period of writing. The remark of a playwright who has written more than one successful play is of interest here: "An answer to that question (i.e., how to write a play) can be only a rather confused recollection of a very intricate process which varies with each piece of work."

Nevertheless, the mechanism of the theater, the stage itself, require that certain laws be recognized. These laws, this part of play-writing, cannot be safely set aside. The play must be presented by actors, and witnessed by an audience ; neither body can be ignored. (The so-called " Closet-drama " will be touched on in a later chapter.) Other laws, made from time to time by different writers, may or may not be transgressed according to the skill of the playwright. Laws are made and genius breaks them. Books of this kind, therefore, are not written for genius. Yet— I would humbly parenthesize — genius could not play a violin solo the first time the instrument was taken into the hand, so it is prudent to assume that even the heaven-born require some slight directing at first.

You must, for that reason, make the acquaintance of the instrument on which even the greatest of dramatists must play his solo — the stage. Also, as Charles Frohman once said : " Study construction, not for the construction's sake, but as the neatest, swiftest way of telling dramatically whatever you have to tell." Sometimes, a poor idea, skillfully and cleverly rendered into the play-form, will serve its purpose better than a great idea, weakly and incoherently expressed.

Chapter II The Theater Parts Of The House The Platform-stage The

STAGE THE WINGS THE FLIES PROPERTIES

DROPS SCENERY STAGE-DIRECTIONS LIGHTS

DIAGRAM

Parts of the house. For a few moments we will stand with the spectator in the auditorium facing the stage. The appearance is that of a gigantic pictureframe. This frame is called the proscenium, or proscenium arch. In it, on either ride, are located the boxes. Hanging in the frame or proscenium is the asbestos or fire-curtain, demanded by the firedepartment in most cities. This curtain remains down only from the time a theater opens for a performance until the orchestra leader lifts his baton for the beginning of the overture. It is always ready to be lowered quickly in case of emergency. Behind this asbestos curtain is the regular curtain or actdrop, which rises at the beginning of the play and is used between all acts. In front of the curtain a stretch of the stage is visible, bordered on the side nearest the spectator by the footlights. This strip of stage is called the " apron." It is a remnant of the old platform-stage of other days, when the stage projected into the auditorium, and part of the audience actually sat on it. No wonder, in those days, the " aside " and the monologue, addressed to the spectators, were so popular. The actor was standing practically in the midst of his audience; speaking to them direct seemed in no way incongruous. As the stage receded more and more and all action took place back of the proscenium, this platform narrowed, until to-day, in the average modern theater, it is the merest strip; in some theaters the hanging curtain actually touches the footlights. There are a few exceptions, chiefly in old theaters still in use — notably the Academy of Music, in New York, which was built for Grand Opera. One new theater has a striking example of a wide " apron," giving us in a very large way some impression of the old platform-stage ; this is the New York Hippodrome, where the " apron " is about equal in depth to the stage itself. But, again, this theater was built for a definite purpose — scenic spectacles and circus performances. Otherwise, for all ordinary playhouses, the " apron " is practically no more.

The stage. When there is no performance taking place in a theater, the curtains are " up " and the bare stage is visible from the auditorium. By going through one of the boxes we reach this land of mystery and from now on place ourselves in the position of the people of the theater.

The entire stage stretches from footlights to rear-wall, from side-wall to side-wall. Of this expanse the only part visible to a spectator at a performance is that inclosed by the scenery. On this visible section, at all times, is stretched a floor-cloth or ground-cloth, which prevents any hollow noises from the boards beneath. Over this cloth are stretched the various carpets and ground-pieces required in different plays.

Traps. The space underneath the stage has also its uses. The chief of these which may concern the playwright is the' use of " traps," as they are called. These are openings in the floor of the stage. Originally intended for the sudden entrance and exit of characters in fairy pieces, moralities, and the like, to-day they are used almost entirely as wells for staircases supposed to lead to a lower part of the house in which the playwright's characters are living and of which the audience sees but a section; or as openings into supposed cellars or dungeons — or in any of the ways modern realism requires. There is a " trap " at the New York Hippodrome which, opened, permits the inflow of water deep and wide enough to enable horses and men to swim. Other traps are mere holes in the floor, through which electric-light wires are passed as needed.

The wings. On either side of the stage-proper — that is, the part visible to the spectator during a performance — we have the " wings." Here an actor waits for his cue before entering the scene. In the earlier days of the drama all scenes, whether exteriors or interiors, were represented by sections of canvas stretched on frames, which were shoved on to the stage in grooves intended for the purpose.

There are still theaters in small towns where this primitive method is used. The appearance is very much that of the toy-theaters of the shops, when each piece of the cardboard scenery is shoved into the groove intended for it. To-day, only an exterior has use for this old system, when these " wings " represent trees, and so forth, permitting the performer to enter at various points of the stage as one might in any open space. They are no longer run in grooves, but braced to the floor by special irons, or braces. All interiors are now closed in by " flats," like the walls of an actual room, these flats being braced to the floor, but the space outside is still called the wings. The stage no longer slopes, as in other days, from the rear-wall down to the footlights ; instead, the auditorium slopes and the stage is level.

The flies. Over the stage, the space between the proscenium arch and the roof is greater than the height from the stage-floor to the top of the proscenium. Looking up, one sees multitudinous ropes, stretches of electric lights, hanging scenery and borders, and so on. This space is called the flies. The fly-gallery runs along the sides, from which stage-hands manipulate the many ropes and lights used in the course of a performance.

That place of wit and fascination, the green-room, is no more, except, perhaps, as a remnant of other days in some old theater, or as an especial courtesy to the players in some ultra-modern playhouse. Actors wait in their dressing-rooms or in the wings.

Properties. The " properties " of a play include everything which is used in any way by the actors or which is required by the playwright, from the billet-doux handed to the heroine to the safe blown open by the villain.

Drops. The " drops " are curtains used during the progress of a play. The back-drop may represent a panorama of land, sea, or sky ; it is rarely necessary in interior scenes, except when visible through open doors or windows.

Scenery. Modern scenery is' very wonderful in realism and intricacy ; there is hardly a demand which a writer can make which cannot be met. But in any scene there are certain things meant only to be looked at, while others must be used. These latter we call " practicable " or " practical." Good writers use both terms. The former is correct from the standpoint of good English; your stage-hand almost invariably says " practical." If we say, " At back, left, is a practicable window " or " Down right is a book-case with practical books," we mean that the window must be built so that it will open and shut, that the book-case must have real books which can be taken out. Otherwise, the book-case would be made with painted or simulated book-backs, and the window would merely look like a window without actually being one.

Stage-directions. Stage-directions are always given from the point of view of the actor. Thus, if we say " right," we mean the actor's right, not that of the audience. If we say " down-stage," we mean down toward the audience from the actor. Therefore, " up-stage " is at the back, " down-stage " is near the footlights, " right " is to the actor's right, facing the audience, and " left " to his left.

The center of the stage speaks for itself; taking a line from the footlights to the back we have up- or down-center. A line half -way to the right from front to back would be about right center, or, in professional manuscripts, R.C. The upper end of this line would be upper right center, and so on. All entrances and exits in the sides are right and left, or in the director's MS., R. and L. We say down R. or up L. When more exact, we say right second entrance, L. 3d entrance, or wherever the particular door or entrance is placed. In his MS., your experienced playwright is apt to say : " At about R. 2 is a window ; at R. 4 is a door." This dates back to the time when all entrances were made between canvas flats or wings, as mentioned earlier in this chapter. These spaces between the wings were called first, second, third, fourth or more, entrances, the first being the entrance nearest the footlights. Therefore, the above direction would mean that a window must be placed at the point where in the old days was the second space between the wings. The canvas flat nearest the footlights is still called the tormenter. An ancient legend is sometimes found scrawled on this piece of canvas even in these days, which puns on the spelling — " Whoso spitteth on the tormenter maketh himself a tormentor." A door at about the middle of the side-wall of a " set " would be spoken of as R. 2 or R. S; or, if there was but one door in the wall, simply as " door R."

I know that very admirable writer, William Archer, jeers at these abbreviations in no uncertain terms, as " condemnable " and " abhorrent jargon." Nevertheless, the professional manuscript placed by the writer in the hands of the manager and stage-director nearly always uses just these abbreviations: they save time to write and are easily understood. A play intended for the publisher would, of necessity, be revised for the benefit of the non-theatrical reader. Such directions, however, are to be sparingly used by the novice, as I will explain later.

The drop-curtain. Except in revivals of old melodramas, a scene played in front of a " drop " near the footlights is a rare thing. If used, the drop is so painted as to give the appearance of depth and distance. Such a drop was used in the last act of The Bird of Paradise; the scene was a dark one and the drop represented the distant volcano very effectively. But I do not advise the use of it, especially for the novice. Old devices must be used skillfully to hide their artificiality. In vaudeville, monologists and singers appear in front of the drop — what is called by the fraternity " an act in one," meaning between the footlights and the first entrance — but that is because of the continuous nature of the performance; something must be going on while the stage is being set for larger scenes.

Lights. With the lights on the stage the playwright may have much or little to do. If there are no especial light effects required, he will not have to worry himself about the matter; it may safely be left to the theater electrician. But an author who directs his own plays likes to know something of the lights to be used; it will do the novice no harm to know a little of them and where they are placed. The principal light on the stage is furnished by an almost continuous square frame of banks of lamps — two or three rows — around the proscenium arch and across the floor of the stage. These, in turn, are called the footlights, the proscenium lights at either side, and the first border lights across the top just back of the first hanging strip of canvas or masking-cloth. These strips of canvas are called " borders," and back of each one, to the last border, may hang strips of border lights, if the scene is an exterior. Also at each side may hang strips of lights, parallel to the proscenium lights, to keep the scenery from casting unnatural shadows. These are usually hung on the back of the scenery wings. There may even be additional footlights in certain exterior scenes, though these are chiefly in spectacular productions.

To illuminate the outside of a window, or the hallway into which a door may be supposed to open, we have bunch-lights, or " bunches," and arc lamps. The former are clusters of lights arranged with each bulb radiating from the center and placed in front of a large reflector, all standing on a long, slender iron rod about five or six feet tall. Other forms of bunches are in oblong or square reflectors, the bulbs pointing toward each other from top to bottom. This last arrangement is the one used chiefly when different colors are needed in sunset or dark scenes. The arc lamps, or " olivettes," are also arranged in reflectors, and on standards. Screens, of a size to be easily handled, are of wood framing isinglass of the required shade — red, blue, green, yellow — and are placed by the electrician in front of the light as required. Formerly, all lights were white; now, except for the " spot light," which is an arc lamp, thrown from a gallery on some especial player or scene (usually in comic opera or vaudeville), very few white lights are to be seen. The usual daylight scene requires a yellow light, much less trying to the actors and far more natural. There are also in each bank of lights bulbs of various other colors, used to represent different hours of the day or conditions of the atmosphere. The " bunches " are generally used outside an opening door to light what is supposed to be another room or hall. The arc is used for exteriors, and wherever stronger lights are required. More and more is there being made an effort to get these lights as near as possible to the ordinary conditions and aspects they are supposed to represent. This special subject is one that Gordon Craig, the son of Ellen Terry, has been working on for years.

One use of the arc is in what is known as the " baby-spot." It throws a strong light just about the size of the human face. To produce the right effect, it is placed either on the fly-gallery, in the wings, or pointing in through a window, the light falling directly on the face of the actor who may be playing an important scene in which it is necessary to see his expression clearly. On a stage otherwise lighted the audience is hardly aware of this " spot " ; it merely is able to see a certain face a little more clearly without sensing why.

There is just one other point before we leave this question of the purely mechanical side of the stage. Every playwright should be something of an architect, not only in metaphor but in fact. He must know something of the house in which his characters live, though he show his audience but one room. One often sees, even in the best plays, curious happenings like the following: an actor exits through a door and turns off in a direction which, if we are to judge by the appearance of the vista just outside the window next the door, would carry him out into space. And he is not supposed to be going out, but upstairs ! Or he will re-enter from a side of the stage which he could not possibly reach from his point of exit, unless the house turned around. Sardou is often accused of being a mere mechanic of the theater, yet some of his methods of work should be a guide and inspiration to many a novice. Jerome A. Hart, in Sardou and the Sardou Plays, tells us that Sardou not only drew up plans of the houses in which his action took place, but made maps of the imaginary vicinities where his people lived. He showed a friend on one occasion a sketch : " That is a pen-and-ink map of Pontarey, the scene of my latest play. Pontarey exists only in my imagination, and to avoid any mistakes or confusion as to the movements of the personages, I have drawn this."

These things are only to inform the novice. Until he knows more about it, there is no need to fill his manuscript up with directions as to the positions of his characters. Unless he is used to stage-direction, he is almost certain to get it wrong. The fewer stage-directions, the better — until he knows his business. Incorrect directions are worse than none at all.

The accompanying diagram will be a help.

Outside of each door which opens and shuts is a wing which folds like a two-leaved screen; it is used to hide the regions beyond which would otherwise be made visible by the opening door.

When all this scenery is to be taken down to make the stage ready for another act, nothing is moved until the manager calls out " Strike ! " Then, with practical celerity, each man at his special station takes apart the palatial interior and shifts each piece to some particular place, ready to be easily found at the next performance. By the time the " set " is entirely " struck," the next scene is rapidly taking shape; what seemed like wild chaos for a few minutes is wonderful order — and Act Two is ready to be " called."

Chapter III The Author Qualifications Training Study Dramatic In- Stinct General Culture

Qualifications. The very first maxim in regard to play-writing is : don't do it until you know what you are about. You would not dream of sitting down to a game of bridge without at least a working knowledge of the rules. This is doubly true of dramatic composition. Learn the rules before you play the game. Then play a while for practice before you sit down to a game with experts. The people who can write plays will write them in spite of all drawbacks. The people who cannot should be dissuaded in every way permissible to a law-abiding population. I mean the foregoing to be discouraging only to that unfortunately large class of would-be dramatists who go ahead on the blissful theory that writing a play is a mere matter of putting a number of speeches into the mouths of certain characters ; or to that smaller but more difficult class who live in the hope that to them will be given the rare capacity of doing something great by intuition and instinct alone. These people will never write a play until they realize there is something to be learned. It might be well for you at this point to turn at once to Chapter

XXIII — which is not a bad number for it, in this connection — and read it. Afterward, if your determination remains unchanged, you can be helped, and can help yourself, by study and practice.

Ask yourself honestly — just how fit are you to write a play? You say you have a story to tell. It had better stay merely a story than run the risk of being marred by a form unfamiliar to the writer. You may sometimes write an interesting story which will be readable and yet be hardly more than a sketch of. the episode — a dramatic outline like a newspaper reporter's accounts, some of which make excellent reading. But in a play you must work with people, not outlines. Their emotions, great or small according to the characters, must be human.

How much do you know of the lives you intend to portray, or of life in general? That may seem an almost laughable question. Yet it is truly amazing how many novices will rush into tremendous subjects with which their life experience has rendered them utterly unable to cope. Emily Bronte failed in a measure when she attempted certain facts of life of which she was necessarily ignorant — and she was a genius. A play came to my notice some time ago which dealt with a big and vital social problem. But the play was attempted by a girl barely out of her 'teens. She might know the facts; what could her youth and inexperience guess of the mental processes which brought them all about?

Therefore, for your first play at least — and all others, unless you are willing to collaborate — let alone what in the nature of things is outside your understanding. It would be well to remember in this connection, however, that understanding and experience are not synonymous terms ; there are many things you can find out by study and research. For instance, it is not necessary to have been a murderer to write a play around such a crime, nor to have been particeps criminis in a divorce case to plan a drama on divorce conditions.

Training. However, being sure that you have a story to tell and that you fully comprehend the subject and its emotions, the next question of your fitness is : how much do you know of the theater and its plays, the actors and their work? You say that from the audience you have witnessed plays for many years. As spectator only? Or have you dissected and analyzed as you watched? It is almost impossible to do the latter unless you are guided by someone who knows; you will not know just what to dissect. Unless you are initiated, certain important matters will utterly escape you. You might study by constant reading of printed plaj's. But the theater, like everything else, changes frequently. So, in spite of the occasional and, to me, mistaken advice to the contrary, you must know something of the playhouse and its exigencies. As one writer says: " To have been an actor is a better training for a playwright than a college education." You may writes a play without a technical knowledge of the theater, but it will have all kinds of things done to it at rehearsals, should it get so far, to pay for your ignorance of the stage and its mechanism. Still, these things can all be learned : books, teachers, and, best of all, experience, point the way.

Study. I have spoken of Sardou's methods of work. A leaf from his book is not out of place at this point, since it shows how one man, earnestly desirous of becoming a dramatist, went to work. Says Hart, in the book before mentioned: "He (Sardou) began a methodical system of analysis of Scribe's plays. For instance, he would read the first act of a play, and stop there; write the remainder himself and then compare his work with Scribe's ; or he would begin in the middle of a play, and endeavor from reading one act to construct what had gone before and was to follow. He thus acquired that stagecraft which so puzzled the critics of his earlier plays, for it is usually the fruit of long experience."