Do You Know the Story of Each of Your Characters? See the Benefits in Nordost

"On Wednesday October 23, at 9:05PM, 42 Chechens attacked a theatre in Moscow. They interrupted a performance of the musical Nord-Ost and took the entire audience hostage."

A piece of paper handed me by one of the young actors set the stage for this hugely gripping Company of Angels and Salisbury Playhouse theatre play, but despite its blockbuster feature film sound, it’s told on a static set through three monologues. It shows how inventive theatre can be, but more interesting, from a scriptwriting perspective, shows how knowing the journey of each of your main characters, and considering fresh perspectives, can help you write a better story.

Nordost follows the attempt of a Chechen leader to use young women who lost their husbands in the struggle, known as black widows, to hold hostage a theatre until Russian troops pull out of Chechnya. The three monologues are from the point of view of Olga, a lady who treats her husband and nine year-old daughter to the family musical, Tamara, a doctor whose daughter is in the theatre with a friend, and Zura, one of the black widows.

It gets off to a choppy start as each character introduces life before the event, but when it becomes clear that each is heading towards the theatre, the monologues rapidly cross-cut to a spectacular midpoint where the terrorists take over, and things go from bad to worse.

Although it’s dramatic to see victims endure their ordeal, it’s Zura who really brings Nordost together. It’s her story and follows her change from loving death to loving life. She’s less driven by revenge for her husband than she is her desire for the terrorist leader, who takes a liking to her when he asks her to remove her Burka so he can take a look at her skin. She’s thrown into a dilemma when her nerves take over before the event, and gradually starts to question the raid when she befriends Olga and admires her courage with which she protects her family and others, and gradually, after a betrayal from the leader during the final siege, she manages to escape. It’s tragic as we know she’ll be on the run forever, but she wants to repent for her sins and embrace life, and there's hope she’ll find peace in the future.

The end was once again choppy as we followed the resolution for each character, but there was something interesting in the depth of knowing the ins and outs of each journey. I felt empathetic and didn’t want anything bad to happen to any of them, creating real moral grey areas, making the play more about inherent evil in the world, and the impact of war on individuals and how it can drive them to extremes.

Even more impressive was the choice to tell the story of one of the black widows. It could easily have been told from the point of view of Russian forces and their attempt to save the hostages, making the terrorists cardboard cut-out evil. Instead, it made Zura the protagonist and showed us how she was lured into this by another, misguided and misled, grappling with loss, anger, her place in her community, and its moral and psychological implications.

When writing a story, don’t just know your characters, like favourite hair products and breakfast cereals, know their stories. Tell us how they change. Even Olga changes from bubbly to vengeful and bitter, a great mirror to how Zura starts the story. Think also about whose point of view it would be more interesting to follow. What would happen if we focused on the criminals rather than the heroes? The victimiser than the victim?

Check out Nordost until Saturday 27th at Salisbury Playhouse, 7-8 May at the Egg in Bath, and 14-15 may at North Wall, Oxford. Nordost is written by Torsten Buchsteiner.

Theatre Writing South West – The Art of Adaptation Workshop

The Salisbury Playhouse was buzzing with creative minds during Saturday’s latest workshop from Theatre Writing South West. Both new and established creatives came for a series of lectures and workshops on developing and adapting stories, with a networking event, and hot drinks and lunch bundled into an intense, yet highly rewarding and informative day.

Playwright Nell Leyshon gave a speech about the benefits of developing stories across multiple formats, and discussed the different features of novels, radio and theatre.  She put emphasis on working out what kind of a writer you are, whether you write alone or devise ideas with others, and suggested no play be entirely written in a vacuum. She encouraged writers to think about their scenes visually, for example, she uses A3 charts with boxes for key theatrical moments, which she adds to in later versions. Her session ended with the group considering the challenges of adapting the short story, Ashputtel to the stage, which revealed a bad habit of writers using narration and other non-visual cheats to get out of problems, and once again emphasised her point on developing more story through visuals.

The Playhouse’s creative director, Gareth Machin, spoke on his keenness for new writing, which he feels will allow him to stage something more modern about the issues of today. He favours unique pieces that stand up on their own, and gets excited when he has to adapt moments that are seemingly impossible to stage.

A session of speed-networking had delegates darting between tables and discussing what they’d like out of theatre and skills they can offer. It was great not just for finding out about initiatives, like pop-up venues and fringe theatre groups, but for working out what it really is you want out of theatre, and discovering useful skills you might not have thought you had.

It was interesting to hear from Paul Milton, creative director at the Everyman theatre in Cheltenham, and his challenges staging Nick Dark’s adaptation of Laurie Lee’s, Cider with Rosie. Paul was unable to show the darker side of the original piece as his hands were tied by the Lee family. These restraints are often something we don’t consider as writers, and perhaps emphasises Nell’s point that adaptations require more collaborative development.

The day closed with Rebecca Manson-Jones and her work-in-progress adapting Henrik Ibsen’s, An Enemy of The People into a modern day setting (which I was interested to hear was the inspiration behind Spielberg’s Jaws). Her final advice on writing a compelling story made for a nice close; “Show me a story with people affected by the world in which we live.”

I got a much needed confidence boost after hearing from all these passionate, creative people. Nell reassured us not to take writing so seriously; we don’t necessarily need any formal training, just the willingness to write every day. With people willing to collaborate, opportunities for performances in theatres and pop-up venues, and producing theatres keen to support new writing, it’s certainly an exciting time to be a part of the theatre scene.

You can find out more about Theatre Writing South West on their blog page

When Writing Meets Directing; How Listening to Your Characters Can Bring Your Scene Alive

A few weeks ago, I had my scene performed in front of an audience, which was an absolute blast, but the real joy came from seeing a director at work. She understood my characters better than me, and saw under the surface of every line, emphasizing juicy subtext to create a bouncy, witty opening. In this post I hope to give some thoughts on how writers can develop their characters to create more dramatic scenes.

We'd each been asked to write a new scene of a play as part of the Out of Joint Writer's Academy at Salisbury Playhouse. I normally spend months writing treatments and was totally unprepared to be writing scenes, but the deadline was fast approaching.

I was a little nervous when two weeks later I entered a room of actors and a director working on a fellows piece. I'd never worked with a  director before. I wasn't really sure what they did beside organising the actors and perhaps telling them how to say their lines. I dreaded it. My work was unready, but thankfully, the director could see its potential, and did so much more than I thought.

She summed up her thoughts and started to go through line by line with the actors, refering to me when a question came up. What was interesting to see, was the level of detail with which she worked. With every line, she asked, why are they saying that? What does that mean? What are the relationships to the other characters? Do they like each other, and how much? An interesting thing Max Stafford-Clark likes to do is show a card with a number, and that number is how much a character likes another character. It's not just like or dislike, there are levels.

With this in mind, a few interesting discoveries were made in my scene.

Firstly, I had a group of pals role-playing, two boys, Danny and Robb, and a tom-boy called Fran. The joke of the scene is that Fran wants to be the knight so forces Robb to wear the dress, and Robb, hiding in a make-believe tower, moans as he itches and scratches at the uncomfortable dress.

At which point, the director asked about a particular line, where one of the boys asks the other, "You all right mate?" In my mind, this was a genuine, are you okay? They're friends, of course they care about each other. The director looked past that. She looked deeper. These 'friends' are forcing this guy into a dress and have a go at him when he doesn't want to. Would Danny be concerned about Robb? Really? We changed a few actions, and had Danny pull Robb out the bush when his moaning puts them off their game, and say the line. Now it had subtext. It was the Beta animal telling the Omega, don't you mess up our game. You'll wear that dress and like it.

Now I hadn't picked up on that, so a lesson there. Ask yourself why is my character saying that line? Ask deeper. Why are my characters doing the things they are doing, and what does that say about them, and how can I use that  to show how they interact with others? Consider unseen hierarchies within groups of people, even friends. How can we play on those to make a scene more dramatic?

Second, when the group need money to buy a costume to enter a role-play event and discuss how they will afford them, Robb tells the group when asked, "I'll probably buy one." Again, the line I delivered was matter of fact. He told us what he was going to do. The director asked why he said the line, and we looked. Robb finally had a one up on Fran, the top dog. He was sticking it to her in a play for more power. Knowing this, Frans later snap comment to Robb was her putting Robb back in his place.

I was amazed at how much I'd missed, and it made me see every single line of dialogue should have a deeper function. How can we make this? How is this possible? I'm still not one hundred percent sure, but seeing as hierarchies helped this scene, I'm willing to say they could help most other scenes too.

The top-dog has power and wants to keep it. The runt has no power and wants to get some. With this running in the background of your scene (as long as it's relevant), you can create more conflict than previously possible, for now when characters debate how to fix a problem or how to overcome whatever conflict you invent, they can do so with an air of subtext. They can battle out for power.

Of course, you could create a number of things running in the background, it doesn't just have to be a power play. You could have scene where some characters know more than others, playing up to their friends lack of knowledge. A scene where one dislikes the other yet the other is far nicer, and play up a series of fake pleasantries. That's why I think it only works if it's relevant. I think Fran has a lesson to learn about being bossy, and needs to understand she can be an imaginative girl and have a job at the same time, and I think the power-play hierarchy will help show her character growth at the end.

That's about all I have to say how you can write a more dramatic scene. I will add that it was a lovely experience to have my scene performed. I was able to see which lines didn't work, and was able to see which scene directions got in the way of both director and actor, and thought about cutting some back. Even if you can't find a workshop like this, a group of friends around a table can help bring your scene alive too.

The Spire - Review

I saw this play with writers from Out of Joint Writer's Academy, and found it interesting as it looks and feels very much like a movie. It captured me so much that I wrote a review, which you can read here

http://www.yuppee.com/2012/12/27/the-spire-review/

Out of Joint Writer’s Academy: Last but not least

I’ve been attending classes at Salisbury Playhouse about how to write for the stage. It’s been great fun, developing familiar story techniques, whilst introducing concepts alien to film, like how to use intervals. In our final class before Christmas, we read through scenes our class had written, with Max Stafford Clark directing.

I must admit I had no clue who Max was until a bit of goggling after the session. I could tell he was a professional with years of experience under his belt. He had a set of playing cards which he used to give actors directions, such as how much characters expressed their hated of each other out of ten. His techniques helped actors improvise off the scripts, and with this example, forced two characters meeting to discuss a lover in common, to say amiable lines with an air of pure dislike. The subtext became extra juicy.

Max has directed many plays, such as Our Country’s Good by Timberlake Wertenbake, and going by his bio page on the Out-of-Joint website (his own touring company) he’s helped new writers get plays on the stage. 

This session certainly gave our writers sweaty palms. It was the first time many of us had heard each others plays, and the material was very interesting. One of my favorite pieces, simply for the fun we had reading it, felt like a student film, with a stoner and his geeky friend discovering a pigeon in the middle of their kitchen table.

After the first read, Max  established rules for a second reading. The stoner would have to laugh at various points, and the geek would have to cry. The results were fascinating. As the two characters debated what to do with the feathered carcass, they suddenly became two very different people. The stoner became laid back, carefree and fun, whilst the geek became distraught and anxious about who delivered the morbid gift. The conflict maximized as the two characters had a distinct point of view. All from a little bit of laughter, and a few tears.

I’m not saying the scene worked better due to the actors or the director alone, the lines and the conflict were already established on the page. What Max did, was emphasise the conflict already within the scene. This shows how pushing characters to their extremes can really make your scene sing, and perhaps if the writer rewrites with this in mind, can enhance the script and dialogue without Max’s directions. 

The scenes all had something in common, something I’ve been grappling with for a while. The scenes were all character driven. Before, I’ve struggled to understand this, and instead of developing character, have created more twists, reveals and external conflicts to prevent a character reaching a goal. My scenes have been plot heavy (not that plot is a bad thing, I'm just trying to work out how to write a scene with more focus on character, mainly because for me it's uncharted territory).

What these scripts all cleverly did, was establish two distinct characters from two different points of view, a wife and an ex-wife of the same man, a laid-back stoner and his anxious friend, and set-up a single plot point, the wife and ex-wife meet before the man arrives, the stoner and his friend discover a pigeon. And that’s all. The rest of the scene explored the implications of the plot point. Will the two women stay civil, or both turn against the husband? What will the two friends do with the pigeon, and will this instability affect their relationship? All the comedy, and all the subtext came out of the interaction between the two characters, and relied solely upon one incident to drive the scene. 

At least, that’s how I viewed the scripts. I think if anything, these classes have opened my eyes to new ways of storytelling, and perhaps now when I rewrite my scene for Max to read in February, I can make something just as entertaining as all the other writers who read today.