Xmas mystery: Adoration of the magi

At my recent workshop in Edinburgh, it seemed that the principle of mystery awoke most questions and curiosity. Especially about it's practical application. So here I'll give a small example of my own process.

Boticelli was one among many renaissance painters to render "the adoration of the magi", a scene depicting the three wise men bowing before the newborn Jesus. The image has always struck me as a supreme capture of the mystery of the holy child; the human infant incarnating the god - beginning and eternity in one body. What in particular thrills me about the image is the three wise men acknowledging the child as an entity even they should bow before. This is a mystery. They are the wisest, adult, fully formed men, cultivated and at their peak. Yet they kneel for a newborn child. Why?

Christmas has become a celebration of the child; the presents, the Santa Claus and the decorated tree - joys of the child. These days I'm working on an idea for a Christmas play for next Christmas. Without thinking about the Adoration of the Magi, I had inserted a child, a stillborn child, into the situation. And I kept returning to this child, thinking about how to use it, when suddenly I realized that it was the central theme and mystery of my piece; the holy child. I already had a notion that somehow this child would come back from the dead, and now with my new realization I'm sure of this. What remains is how to plot the route to this miraculous event. This will demand two things from me.

First to delve more into the mystery of the holy child. It's a variation on 'life renewed', but also different. More about the miracle that life can happen at all. That out of a lifeless cosmos, life can spring forth. And about the way a newborn is full of promise, still connected to the great unknown. Where did it come from? Who will it become? And what are the mythical circumstances under which this miracle will happen? 'Life renewed' happens when life is dying. When the times are dark and at their end. Is it the same for 'the holy child'?

Secondly I need to figure out what obstacles and conflicts are blocking the way to the miracle for my two main characters. What tests do they need to undergo? What is their problem, their unbalance and how can they resolve it? If the miracle happens in the darkest hour, I'll need to get them to exactly that point.

I'm also trying to remember great dramas with this mystery at the centre. Maybe "The Seventh Seal" by Bergmann? Or "Small Change" by Truffaut, where the midpoint is an infant's miraculous survival of a fall out of a window from 4th floor - quite contrary to Antichrist's inciting incident, where the infant dies and sends the parents into the woods to experience an altogether different mystery. Perhaps there are not a whole lot of drama based upon the mystery of the miraculous child?

This is where I am with my idea for a Christmas play. I began at a more superficial level, but with an awareness to keep my eyes open for the deeper mystery. The question which put me on the right track was: "why do we celebrate Christmas?".

Please, don't kill your darlings

How many times have you heard the expression "Kill your darlings"?. It has become an almost universally accepted cliché applied to any kind of problematic element of a script. How many stop to examine the wisdom of the expression? Or what it really means?

Oh, Darling? Who are you?

A real darling is an element, which the creator has a somewhat passionate and irrational relationship to. The creator cannot offer a reasonable explanation to why it should be in the script and how it relates to the other elements. There's good reason to single out such elements, as they can disrupt an otherwise well-functioning script. And if the darling is crucial to the premise of a script, it can sour the whole affair. So the advice of killing off darlings could seem quite rational.

It is most certainly more easy, than to examine if there's a deeper rationale behind the darling. Especially for producers and script consultants. But it is more like treating a symptom, than the disease. Or like aborting a passionate love affair, even before it has begun, because its not practical.

Your mystery lover

Obeying to the dramatic principle of mystery, we should instead engage the mysterious darling. It could be the hidden river, the deep well, the source from where the underlying mystery of a great drama springs. Imagine your were Ted Tally in the early stages of adapting the book for "The SIlence of the Lambs". You are having problems incorporating the idea of Clarice Starling's childhood experience with the screaming lambs. It has become a darling for you, but it doesn't really make sense. The script consultant, the producer, everybody tells you it slows down the action, that the flashback to her childhood are clumsy and irrelevant. They tell you the film is about a young female detective trying to save another woman in a man's world, not about lambs and childhood. Under the pressure you are ready to abandon, or kill your darling. But there's just something about this image, a girl, all alone in the world, listening to the screaming of the lambs, wanting to save just one of them, that you are immensely attracted to. Then it strikes you - its about loneliness. Clarice Starling's struggle is not really about being a hero and saving others, but about escaping her own loneliness. It not about being a woman in a man's world - that's only a circumstance, an aspect of her loneliness. Its a heroic, tragic struggle, but one ultimately doomed to fail, as we are always alone. That's the deeper mystery of your drama - so even if she succeeds in saving the woman from the serial killer, she is still alone. Suddenly all the pieces begin to fall into place, you see how loneliness is present in the material; the conversations with Hannibal Lecter, who's also an immensely lonely figure, the single touch between them, the final line from him: "Tell me, Clarice, has the lambs stopped screaming" - and her lack of answer.

It could have been you, so please, stop killing your darlings. Or other people's darlings. Engage the mystery lover.

Spank your darlings

The real wisdom of Kill Your Darlings lies in the cynical treatment of something which can be sentimental or even sacrosanct to the creator. The darling might need a rough hand, before the true love can be revealed. And if it is true love, then it should be able to endure some spanking and rough questions.

When I work as either creator or consultant on dramatic scripts, I'll be the first top defend even the most absurd darlings against the meddling of producers, but also the first to ask the really difficult questions, but questions aimed at revealing the darling's real nature. Questions about how it could relate to other elements, what it reminds us of (principle of unity). Or about what kind of conflict it does or could involves (principle of conflict). How it's tonality sounds, is it comedic, tragic, and how (principle of tonality). Overall seeking an underlying theme, truth or what have we; the mystery. In this process you might very well discover that your darling doesn't really belong in the present script, but at least you will know a bit more about why, and perhaps have a strong idea for new script.

So please, spank your darlings, but don't kill them.

Workshop in Edinburgh

Workshop, Friday 17th of December, 2-5 pm, Edinburgh.

As a dramatic writer, you can easily get lost in the woods of rules and dramaturgical models. I've tried go beneath the surface of models and rules in search for the basic principles of drama - to let them lead me in my own work as both a dramatic writer and stage director. So far I operate with 5 basic principles:

1. Conflict: This is the basis of drama, change and consciousness. Obvious, but the importance often overlooked.

2. Tonality: We have two fundamental tonalities in drama; comedy and tragedy - they are of huge importance for the construction of a drama, which has more similarities to the construction of music than to litterature.

3. Character: The old discussion, plot or character, I argue that character comes first, especially the will of the character.

4. Mystery: Drama has its origin in the ancient Greek religious mystery-plays. It still plays a vital part for the construction of drama.

5. Unity: Aristoteles old principle still holds great value, when applied and understood as a principle.

I'll introduce these principles and demonstrate their application in some quick exercises. If you plan to attend the workshop, you should bring a scene of around 2 minutes length for the exercises. You can also read more about the principles on this blog. To sign up for the workshop and further info, contact me at tcjakobsen@gmail.com

Troels Christian Jakobsen graduated from The National Danish Playwright Education in 1997. He has worked as a dramaturge at the Royal Theater of Denmark, as a writer for TV, film and theater, scriptconsultant for many Greek feature films and as a stage director.

Allied with the actor

Here we go further examining the writers potential alliance with the actor.

Actors will often have a sense of the well-proportioned scene. It can both be a intellectual or primary, bodily sense of drama's structure. But most of all, actors are worth listening to as a scriptwriter because they will be living with your fictional work, taking responsibility for it, investing it with their own bodies and minds. They'll sense when lines doesn't work, are surplus or go in a wrong direction.

Of course, sometimes an actor can have problems with a line or element which is difficult for them personally. It might provoke a fear in them, often unconsciously, and so they will try to argue rationally, objectively why the line or element is bad. If you sense this is the case, be happy, because it is a great opportunity to strengthen the alliance with the actor. If you can explore the actors objection to the element and reach a satisfying resolution without antagonizing him or her, you'll have expanded your mutual trust.

One of my main tools to exploring differences of opinion, both in relation to actors, but also when working with writers/directors/producers, is to focus on asking questions and establishing a mutual agreement on the primary logic and mechanics of a script/scene. Its a bit Socratic, but without the didactic approach. The key is to allow for the possibility that you are wrong, even when you damn sure you're absolutely right.

In such conversations I listen a lot after what I call 'hidden gems'. Because often hidden in an objection, no matter how rational or irrational, you can find an unknown treasure. An experience, an emotion, a story or a moment which can bring a new aspect to the script.

Actors are the writer's best ally, alone for the reason that they have the most to win by making you better, by helping you to succeed - and many of the understand how to be truly collaborative.

The courage

"Courage is being scared to death... and saddling up anyway" - John Wayne

The word courage has its root in the latin word for heart; cor. Courage flows from the beating heart, that wants to live in spite of fear. David Mamet argues that the most important thing the actor brings to the character is their own courage. This will give the character life; a real, living heart, so to speak, to the otherwise artificial and non-existent person.

The actor's primary virtue has always been courage. The simple act of standing in front of an audience demands courage in itself, even if you by disposition crave it and are driven to do it. One of the best pieces of advice I ever received was to connect with actors, if I wanted to write drama. As a writer, you might think you are the brain, but without the heart you are worth nothing.

After my return to Denmark, I attend more theatre performances and I meet more actors. Two of the recent performances I saw reminded me of the importance of courage. One was a grotesque, semi-spex version of Chaplin's The Gold Rush put on stage to buffoon the makers own desire to be political correct. The whole performance breathes with courage; it hides nothing, uses all the most simple, old tricks, never tries to be clever, and that is why it works so well. The courage of the performers convince. The other performance I saw was cleverly made, well-designed and full of new tricks, but in the directing and in some of the crucial parts, it lacked courage. It never left the stage. It was impressive, but without heart.

The same goes for writing and designing drama. Better to have courage than to be clever and perfect. Practice the discipline of sensing if your impulses are controlled by fear or inspired by courage and desire. I have a bunch of tricks and questions I treat myself to in the process. Like:

"What is the worst thing that could happen now?"

"- for the character?"

"- for me as a writer?"

"What is the worst possible idea I can come up with to solve this problem?"

- I leave the script and take a walk, while trying to sense and answer to: "What do I really, really want, no, not just want, but desire, crave? What can I imagine that will give me a kick?"

As writers, we have the time to reflect and ponder, so what I really admire about the courage of actors, is that they do it on stage in real time - they follow their impulses even when they know it might lead the performance astray from the planned (that is; when they do it, and not when they are just playing safe). Both in acting and writing, its the true moments of courage, where someone let go of all that is safe and well-known and take those steps into uncertainty, those are the moments, which truly touches us as an audience.

“Not just because..”

Drama is essentially an examination of what people want and what they will do to get it. This seems to be the basic mechanics of the good scene or script.

Ask what your characters want and how they go about getting it. This is the fundamental tool to make weak scenes better.

Always.

Say it out loud: Always.

Now repeat it, while hitting yourself in the head, lest you should forget it.

Your best friend, the actor.

Because writers often forget it (and don’t even get me started on the directors, whom so easily get lost in their ‘visuals’). The scenes are then weak. You end up writing something else than drama, pure expo, narration or even poetry. Maybe we get lucky and the director and/or especially the actors have plenty of dramatic instinct to infuse the scene with drama. Despite the weak scene, the actors will somehow play their characters with lots of intention. This is the hallmark of the natural actor, not being able to play without clear and present intention, no matter what ‘method’ or technique they think they are applying as actors, this is fundamentally their craft, as it is ours. So learn from them. Speak your own lines. Find the intention. Feel it. Its in the body. Not the mind. That’s why you need actors. They have bodies. Physical bodies. Authors of novels don’t need them, so in their writing they can be lyrical, reflective and even acadmic. We can’t. The actor is our siamese twin and we can’t live without them. Hell, we shouldn’t even want to.

Our profession: Existential paradise

This examination of want and will demands a certain portion of cynicism from us as creators. By ‘a certain cynicism’, I’m not thinking of a bleak outlook on life, but rather a questioning, not-taking-anything-at-face-value-attitude. Peel off the illusions to better create the illusion of a drama.

Nothing is ever ‘just because’; just because he is a good man, just because that’s how the story is, just because that’s how reality is.

No, the young man is helping the woman because he wants something. What does he want? To be considered a hero? To make her fall in love with him? To forget about his own problems?

No, a story never just is. Its always a choice. At the outset, you might be making a lot of unconscious choices, just to get going, but at some point, you need to examine your choices. Are there better choices to make? More interesting? Daring? Never accept your story at face value, just because.

OK, reality is, just because it is. But you are not constructing reality. It might remind us of reality or it might be an altogether different reality from mine. So, yes, we are back at the choices. How is the world and reality of your drama?

That’s your decisions, and you have to make them. That’s how you construct drama. Satré would be in paradise (and btw, he wrote a few decent plays himself).

This is one of the most important 'tricks' in our tool-box: Never stop being the child who asks “Why?” and the child who observes the emperor and exclaims: “But he’s not wearing any clothes!”