The virtue of 'Not Wrong'

We have a tendency to look for the right, the best or even perfect choice, also when we are creating drama. Obviously there are good reasons to do that, but the mindset of the right and perfect also has a number of creative traps. As many creative people have realised, the mistake, the error, is a rich source for new developments.

In my work I utilize a category called 'not wrong'. In my process material which might not seem or feel absolutely right or perfect, I think of as 'not wrong' while I let it stay in the mix, until at some later point, the final material is ready to manifest itself.

The 'not wrong' material often end up in this category because I can see value in it; in some ways it is not wrong, but it lacks that special something, which cannot always be found in the first or even ninth take. I examine and ask questions to the material. Looking both for the qualities which makes it 'not wrong' and 'not perfect'.

The major trap in the mindset of perfection is the notion of only one, single perfect solution. And either-or-mindset. That its either perfect or wrong. Even if your way of thinking is not that extreme, most of us are in some degree conditioned by our culture's and society's mind-set about perfection. Practicing the discipline of 'not-wrong' helps avoiding the traps of perfection.

Speaking of perfect and mindset, after living in Greece, I integrated their version and understanding of perfect in mine. The word for perfect, Telios, also means final or in a variant, the end (as seen in the end of Greek films). So for the Greeks perfection is not necessarily the sublime, but that which finalizes a process.  And in that light, the 'not wrong' is a step in the process to reach the final expression, which might not even have the quality of perfection.

Allowing ourselves to avoid the trap of perfection, gives us the possibility to stay in a process, ask unbiased questions to the material and leave room for the kind of answers, which could surprise both us and our audience.

Stop building castles in the sand

People who have worked with me, know I'm often using the sandpile-metaphor in relation to the creative process or to the script or performance itself. Especially as a correction of perception when people get stuck, get anxious or get too eager to determine the outcome. This metaphor comes from the scientific experiment made by Per Bak in 1987, which was the first discovery of self-organizing criticality in a complex system. In my eyes this is one of the later years major breakthroughs in science, as it has far greater implications on our perception of reality than most are aware of. When I encountered this research in 2004 through two books, Per Bak's "How Nature Works" and the more popular scientific "Ubiquity" by Mark Buchanan, it radically changed my approach to my work in the dramatic arts. Or it gave me the solid foundation to implement, what I had already been toiling with the last four years. It delivered the framework of understanding, which confirmed many of my own notions about dramaturgy, drama and the creative process.

Ordinary physics and much of our modern way of thinking rely on a Newtonian understanding of the world. The cause and effect; the idea, that if we know enough about a system, we can control it. The sandpile experiment was an extremely simple experiment, which would undermine the Newtonian paradigm. Under the Newtonian world view, the world, and within it, the human beings, are all like a machine. Know enough about the machine, and you can master it. This realisation freed us from religion and superstition; allowed our culture to find belief in ourselves to shape our destiny, instead of a remote God. That was great and much needed, but the other truth, the part of the world, which doesn't operate like a machine, has been left to superstition and the irrational.

In dramaturgy the Newtonian outlook gradually helped us develop the many models for how a play or film script works. They are all linear, they all rely on a cause-and-effect-thinking. They're all driven by the idea of a perfect form. And they fitted perfectly with the Hollywood-movie-making-machine's control-freak-mind-set.
As I read the two books about our complex world, mentioned above, I had reached a point where I understood the models, but was beginning to doubt they could be anything but a superficial truth. I was looking for the DNA behind the outer forms, thinking that the dramaturgic models had to be like the drawings the early biology-researchers, who went out into the world and drew pictures of how an oak leaf looked, or should look, ignoring the fact, that all leafs look very different, even though there are basic similarities. Later with the discovery of DNA biology found the simple code, which gives rise the multitude of forms.

So back in 1987 Per Bak, Chao Tang and Kurt Wiesenfeld made the sandpile experiment, which is a computer simulation of the creation of a sandpile. One by one grains of sand fall from above to a flat surface. In the beginning everything that happens can be predicted (by laws of gravity etc), but eventually as a pile forms, and the slopes of the pile becomes so steep, that avalanches can occur, what was a predictable, newtonian system changes into an unpredictable, complex system. All the grains of sand in the pile are in essence connected. A new grain of sand landing on the slopes can send a multiplying chain reaction throughout the pile and trigger avalanches – but if, when, how many or how big is impossible to predict. A Newtonian mind might say; "Well, it's only a matter of knowing all the interactions in the pile", but it isn't – what Per Bak proved that day in '87, was that when a system becomes complex, it is also unpredictable and thereby uncontrollable.

It shouldn't really come as a surprise to anyone who lives in reality. We know inherently that life is unpredictable, we see the meteorologists get it wrong again and again, we see the stock markets crash, revolutions spring up when least expected, earth quakes happen – all events that not only seem unpredictable, but which Per Bak proved actually are so. And so is the human system in itself, and so is the creative process.

This is what I want you to take away from the lesson of the sandpile – you can't control it, so stop trying – you can't predict the outcome, so stop trying – instead what you can do, is to make sure the grains of sand land in a pile – where they'll pile up, and eventually avalanches will occur – which in this metaphor is the ideas or even the great idea. And if you stop worrying about predicting and controlling, you'll be much better able to catch that idea, when it breaks loose from the pile.

So stop building castles in the sand and just pile on instead.

Wanna surprise your audience? Surprise yourself!

Often we think of plot twists, when it comes to surprising an audience. And some writers will go far out of their way to create a twist, perhaps even so far, that they will inadvertently have left their good senses behind. Twisting the plot is just the most obvious, but not only way of keeping your audience on their toes. Surprising material exist at many levels, from the way a character phrase a question to the grand dramaturgy in your arrangement of scenes.

It all comes down to striking a balance between repetition and development. We want to repeat patterns, because it establishes recognition and awareness. Both comedy and tragedy relies on the repetition to establish a motif and then on a surprising development to exact the laugh or the tears.

Often I find that the balance is off in many dramatic productions. Either there's too little development. The pattern is being established, but in the most predictable way, and in the worst cases, so the pay-off is seen miles away. The other extreme is when the motif is not established properly, because the creator is simply afraid to repeat himself or afraid to bore the audience and jumps all over the place with new ideas. For me the key is not to be afraid of repetition, but instead have a bit of fun with it – by creating variations along the way. This also helps to keep the audience guessing and hopefully not see the pay-off before it arrives.

In my own work, I keep challenging myself to create small surprises in everything. It's not about being clever, but about opening your senses; feel if you are boring yourself a bit with the stuff you come up with. And if you do, surprise yourself by choosing a different path. No, they are not going to kiss, even though the moment is perfect. Instead he asks her, if she thinks, he is that easy to get. She has been wearing dresses in different colours – but suddenly she's in a grey, dirty coverall. You are your own audience – are you surprising yourself or just keeping ourself busy by putting words together, painting-by-numbers-style?

It's both far more difficult and far too easy to second-guess an audience, you'll most probably never even meet. Can you master the discipline of being your own audience, then you have the best test at hand, to see if you are being trite or surprising – just surprise yourself.

Don't answer that question

Writing dialogue many writers have a habit of making their characters answer every question another character may ask. You'll also often see this habit in improvisation with actors. It's not a very good habit in a dramatic context.

I'm not saying questions shouldn't be answered at all, but often – also in real life – it becomes interesting, when questions are not answered – for the very simple reason, that it generates a conflict. 

Character A wants to know, what Character B had for dinner, but B ignores the question and talks about the weather. Even in this very ordinary situation, as an audience I will begin to wonder if B is hiding something, how A feels about getting the question ignored, and what A will do to get the answer; I'm engaged in the conflict and it's outcome.

This little trick is also something which could save any of the unbelieveable many exposition-scenes, where only information is being narrated. Come on, dear writers, it's easy to add a conflict. Just have A make a question, and then B doesn't answer, but delivers a bunch of information.

What was your question again? Well, see you later.

Wanna think outside the box? Stay inside it.

Obviously this metaphor holds a value, in the sense that you shouldn't allow yourself to be boxed in by conventional thinking. Viewed from my principled design-based approach to the creative process, it doesn't really make a lot of sense. Recently I was reminded about this by my old teacher, Ingolf Gabold, who is both a wise and gifted dramaturge.

One of the fundamental aspects of the principle of unity is that a piece of drama is one system, and a system is defined by a set of borders. So if you go outside those borders, you will undermine your system.

This happens quite often, when people write, direct and perform drama. We will always get ideas and notions, that are outside the box, the system of the drama, and perhaps include them. One or two might actually be working for you and for the system, because of the old adage – the exception that proves the rule. Or you might, if your are disciplined and experienced, come to realise, your system has a different set of borders. But often its not working, and just weakens the material, because it doesn't add to the complexity of meaning.

Working as a consultant for others, or working in groups with devising, I have often seen a pattern in behaviour, when people begin to get the un-useful outside-the-box-ideas. Very often it happens as a reaction to difficulty with the existing material, the system as it is, and there might be real problems, that needs fixing – but instead of confronting those problems inside the box, people tend to jump outside the box to find a quick fix, or even being drawn by the allure of the grass is always greener..

And this is not a very productive behaviour, you'll waste time, energy and only find new material, which at first looks great, all new and shining, but will also present difficult problems later on, as it needs to be developed and incorporated into the system – something which might not even be possible if it is foreign to the system – and again, there's also a time factor in our design process – we need to go over our material and refine it. If you bring in new material late in the process, it may end up never being properly developed.

Instead we need to stay inside the box and confront the problems we have, because often the answer is there, hiding in plain view. We need to dig deeper and ask the difficult questions and the very simple questions to our material – what is the conflict, who is this character, what are the needs, the intention? And we need to be truthful with ourselves in answering – why am I bored with this? what do I really want as a creator? And we need to be patient and wait for the right answer to arise from the questioning.

And this can difficult because it can challenge our faith in ourselves as creators, our faith in the material we have chosen to work with – and even in the worst cases our faith in ourselves as human beings.

And when you find yourself in such a crisis of creation, you can either run or stay inside the box, in the zone.

The African Ploughing Method

Way back when I went to the National Playwright Education of Denmark, we had for a short while a guest teacher, Erling Jepsen, one of Denmark's most productive playwrights, and in his later years also a successful novelist. Two of his books have been turned into successful feature films, "Terribly Happy" and "The Art of Crying", that's really worth your time, if you don't know them. Erling Jepsen is one-of-a-kind with a unique dark tone and good ear for dialogue and conflict. In person he can seem shy and is never boastful of his accomplishments.

Back in '94 Erling Jepsen taught us one very simple thing, which I've been applying to my work ever since. Many writers probably do it. He called it The African Plough Method and explained that in Africa, when the farmer wants to plough a field, it's a great challenge, because the soil has been baked into a hard shell by the merciless sun. The first day of ploughing the farmer can only manage to get through a small corner of the field. When he returns the second day, he will again plough the same small corner, but now, because the soil is softer, he can manage to go a bit further and extend his corner of the field – and so he continues day by day – always beginning by ploughing the soil, he has already softened, extending the ploughed area every day.

This is also a great way of doing your writing, especially when you are working your way through a full script. You begin every new day by reading and editing the pages, you've already have written. You correct small mistakes, you consider and vary language, you find opportunities you missed in the first write, you erase unnecessary lines of dialogue, you connect dots begging to be connected and you get into your fictional universe and warmed up for the moment when you reach the part, the fully unploughed field, you haven't written yet.

In context with my own principles, The African Plough Method is great, because it helps you to build the unity of your drama. Every day as I begin from the top, I keep most of my attention on the elements I have already put into play; are they 'talking' to other elements, can I enhance their exchange; the way they 'speak' to each other – create new connections. The standard technique in scriptwriting is about set-up and pay-off, which is the most obvious version of doing this. On every level of you drama, you should be setting-up and paying-off. And by meticulously ploughing through your script every day, from the top, you can manage to do that – make every detail count, and every detail relate to other details.

So get your horses out, get ploughing and always begin from the top. For your procrastination, here is a trailer for "Terribly Happy":

You're not a writer..

This is what I often tell novice students at courses, I do on scriptwriting. And it is not to belittle their talent or aspirations, but to adjust their understanding of what it is, we are actually doing, when we create drama.

We are not writers in the sense a writer of novels or poetry is a literary writer. For them the words on paper is the final work of art. The words, we put down on paper, are just a means to communicate to our collaborators, who will be making the film, tv-show or theater performance. What we make is more like  a blueprint for a building or the score for a piece of music. This is also why, at the top of this blog, it says "Principles and tricks for creating scripts.." and not writing.

The fundamental construction of a piece of drama is also much more important, than the actual lines of dialogue. It's great if you write brilliant dialogue, but don't despair if you don't, because it's not the main thing. Joss Whedon, the creator of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, was hailed for his great and witty dialogue on that show, and at some point this came to frustrate him, because was that really the only thing, he was good at, and the only thing that made the show great? He decided to challenge himself by making an episode with very little dialogue – "Hush" – which became one of the best episodes in all 7 seasons of the show.

Directors and actors will be able to improve on your dialogue quite easily, but it is much more difficult to fix the construction of a piece of drama, while in the midst of rehearsing or shooting it. Your main responsibility is to get the construction right. This is all about the premise, the structure of the acts and in staying on target with your main conflict. If you don't get this right, your clever dialogue will only serve as window dressing for a drama, which will collapse somewhere in 2nd or 3rd act, and leave audiences frustrated in a bad way.

Drama is more like music than like literature. The rhythm, the timing, the weaving of themes, motifs and the build of crescendo is so much more important for drama and music, than for literature. The simple fact, that our works of art are played out in real time, second for second, moment to moment makes it so. Our audiences experiences it in a flow of time, so each second counts, the rhythm matters, the timing matters. And you need to be very precise in your communication, because the audience can't re-read a line or a page, or turn back a page to see, what the character was named – no, it happens now, and it happens in a flow.

You're not a writer. Don't feel bad about it. Enjoy creating drama, be proud of it. Or stop and become an author of literature instead.

J.A.C.E

J.A.C.E. - One of the Greek films I was consulting on has a trailer out now.

Live Theater at Edinburgh Showcase

Two trends has been present in the shows, I have seen at the Edinburgh Showcase 2011 presented by British Council. Both which make the question of why we make and watch live theater present.

Trend 1: shows that rely on new media, often to the degree where the live performers are either almost absent or reduced to pawns in a tightly scripted show.
Trend 2: shows that rely on live performers and the audience, often in a minimalistic set-up, where lights, effects and set are almost absent.

The weakness of trend 1 is that it takes us away from the immediacy and humanity of theater. We as an audience are reduced to pawns, silent consumers of a finished and non-live product. We might admire the cleverness, the effects and the skill of the production, but we are not a part of it.
The strength is that even with a weak idea, such a show, might exactly survive because of the effects and cleverness.

Trend 2-shows have nothing but the idea and the courage of the performers to succeed by. So even with a strong idea, if that idea hasn't been pursued with courage, analysis and imagination, the show can easily fall short. The advantage of these shows is the courage and humanity of the performer, which can save a mediocre idea.

To me trend 1-shows are a dead end for live theater. It baffles me to see a live performance, where the performers are not really alive, but puppets in a machinery. I really don't understand why anyone would go about making a live performance and then reduce it to something like a re-enacted film. It's like going to a concert where the singer lip-syncs, where the music is exactly like on the record.

In Teater 770° Celsius where I do my work, we search for the full live-experience of theater, we allow the mistake, the unexpected, to happen and enrich us and audience. I saw a lot of the same pursuit in the trend 2-shows at the showcase, which made me happy even when they didn't entirely succeed in that pursuit.

ISFO Competition

The International Student Film Organisation has asked me to post about their current short film screenwriting competition. Among the judges are Julie Gray, who has a good eye for scripts and deliver great feedback. Which is worth mentioning because the third prize for the 20 best scripts is a review of the script by the judges. Could be more valuable than the first prize of Mariner Writers Suite and the second prize, a scriptwriting book: "Screenwriting they can't resist".

So if you're curious, read more about it at their site.

And best of luck if you compete.

Out of Book

An expression from the world of chess, describes the phase of the game, when you leave behind the known opening moves and systems of 'the chess book'. This is where real players prefer to be, where the challenge happens. This is the critical state, in between chaos and order, where inspiration and new ideas emerge almost by themselves.

This is also where we should aim to put ourselves when working with drama, be it as writers, directors or actors. As professionals we have an understanding of the rules and systems of drama, and often we need to follow them strictly for a while, as we build up our game. But as soon as we have enough elements brought into play, we need to get out of book.

In my experience, by understanding the rules and systems from a more principled, dynamic view-point rather than as a rule-book, we put ourselves at a starting point, from where we'll quicker reach the 'out of book'-phase. Where the magic and the 'cooking-with-gas' happens.

By disciplining ourselves to constantly look for the unexpected, by reversing our own expectations, by letting any of our own mistakes or stupid criticism from others be a potential source to bring us out of book, we can get there, and stay there, and bring our game beyond book.

True complexity and sandbox-dramaturgy

Based on my effort to understand dramaturgy as principles rather than forms and my experience from creating two theater performances, developed and performed without a script, written or virtual, but with the principled dramaturgy along with devising and improv-techniques, I'm gradually getting ready to talk about sandbox-dramaturgy.

Often complexity is considered an essential quality in art. This is obviously true, but often misunderstood. An incomprehensible piece of art is not necessarily complex, but perhaps just meaningless on every level, hiding behind avant-garde rhetorics. A case of the emperors new clothes.

Science has some very simple definitions of complexity, which could or even should be applied in the understanding of art. Put simply, complexity arises when enough elements within the borders of a system are able to interact and influence each other. And enough elements are quite many, like every word, line, visual, sound etc. in a film. They all need to have connections. They need to operate within the boundaries of a system, or else their connections are not valid, but accidental and not contributing to the accumulation of complexity.

In art this creates the effect that fx. a play can be interpreted in many ways in new performances, while still remaining true to the original text. There are many connections to be made validly within the system of the play, and within its context of the larger system of the theater as an art form, and the even larger system of the human experience.

This is also why art will always be most exciting on the crossroads of the avant-garde; the formulation of new system rules; and the tradition; the established golden system rules which refer to the accumulated system experience of both the art form and human experience. If you leave the tradition completely behind, there are not really any system boundaries, and then no complexity. If you stay completely inside traditional rules, the connections of elements inside the system are bereft of value, as they have all been understood and explored long ago, and thus no real interaction and influence happens between the elements.

My sandbox dramaturgy is an attempt to define tools needed to create the framework for a live theater performance, which is both consistent and satisfying dramatically and yet never repeats itself, but will be different in every performance.

The sandbox-dramaturgy consist of building system boundaries for a dramatic universe, using simple, understandable dramatic tools, like place, time and basic conflict and theme. This is the sandbox. Then it needs to be filled with sand by using the dramatic principles to create elements inside the system; primarily the characters, but also visual, text and other elements, which can be brought into play inside the system boundaries. And actually, if this is for a theater performance, you also need a steady inflow of new elements. Which can both come from the audience, the performers/creators and/or any other other outside source.

This creates a performance, where complexity emerges by itself, which will be constantly renewed in new performances, by meeting a new audience, by accumulating experience, redefining rules as the old ones fades in substantial meaning, but still remaining the same system, exploring the same dramatic territory.

This kind of work is hugely fascinating as a scriptwriter/director, and as you let go of your control of the detail and every moment, you'll discover much more about what drama is and can do. Experiences which can also be brought into more traditional ways of creating drama.

Jokums sprogområde

Debatindlæg til Politiken, d.10/3 2011 - uredigeret version

(For english readers, this is an opinion piece I wrote for a Danish newspaper, about the lack of proper development of new writing in Denmark, especially at The Royal Theatre)

Jokums sprogområde

Jokum Rohdes nye stykke, "Manson", der lige nu spiller på Det Kongelige Teater, er fremragende eksempel på, hvad der galt med udviklingen af ny scenedramatik i vores lille sprogområde og især på Det Kongelige Teater. Det stykke skulle aldrig være sat op, men det sker det desværre alt for ofte, at ufærdigt eller dårligt håndværk sættes på scenen. Magter det teater overhovedet at løfte deres lovbundne opgave om at spille ny dansk dramatik?

Det er ikke nogen nem sag at lave dramatik - det er komplekst, selv det mest enkle, og dertil en mærkværdig blanding af subjektivt og objektivt. Fra dramatikerne, over instruktørerne til skuespillerne. Især skuespillerne, der skal stå frem og levere ordene. Derfor klapper jeg gerne efter endt forestilling, selv hvis den ikke har været synderligt god, for om ikke andet at vise skuespillerne respekt for indsatsen og modet. Men efter alle ordene i "Manson" havde lydt, kunne jeg ikke få mig selv til at slå mine hænder sammen i applaus. Stykket var for pinligt.

Sådan plejer det at være med Jokum Rohdes stykker, alt for mange ord, alt for lidt dramatik. Derfor har jeg tit undret mig over hvorfor Det Kongelige er blevet ved at bestille stykker hos netop ham - men dennegang er det bare endnu værre. Nok især fordi han forsøger at slå det største brød op, så kollapset føles så meget mere pinligt. Anmelderne er er alle mere eller mindre enige. Stoffet er interessant, der er bare for alt for mange ord. Hos Information siger Anne Middelboe f.eks. “jeg kunne næsten ikke holde ud, at teksten til Manson ikke er blevet beskåret med samme kraft som ligene i forestillingen - og at teksten endte med at lemlæste sig selv med sine alt for mange ord”.

Men det ville ikke have været nok at skære i teksten. Det som mangler er en klar dramatisk idé, som værkets struktur bygges op om. Selv hvis den idé havde været noget om kaos eller lignende. Og der kræves et håndværk til at eksekvere idéen. Det er ligesom vittigheder. De virker hvis de har en klar idé og udforming - selv hvis vittigheden er absurd. Men her mangler både dramatiker, dramaturg og instruktør tilsyneladende enhver færdighed til at finde og levere vitsen. "Manson" er det værste eksempel jeg har set. Det er vel ikke alene Jokum Rohdes skyld - han har bare skrevet af karsken bælg, opfyldt af fantasifostre og civilisationsvæmmelse. Al respekt for det, men han kan bare ikke håndværket og den klare tankegang, som gør at man kan slippe afsted med det, som han forsøger på. Men hvad jeg ikke fatter er, at Det Kongelige Teater beslutter at spille stykket. At bruge så store resurser. Vi taler om Store Scene og 12 skuespillere. Det koster kassen. Så skal man for fanden være ret sikker på at stykket virker. At vitsen er en vits - og ikke en sludder for en sladder.

Jeg har selv arbejdet en kortere periode som dramaturg på Det Kongelige og er i det hele taget godt bekendt med udviklingsprocesserne af ny dramatik i den danske teaterverden. Eller skal vi sige mangel på udvikling? At skrive dramatik er ikke nogen eksakt videnskab, og der findes en milliard måder at gøre det på, men som alt andet i verden er der mønstre og principper for hvordan dramatik fungerer. Det kan man lære og blive ved med at lære. Og et teater kan tilrettelægge udviklingsprocesser, som sikrer teatret mod at stå med et halv-godt/dårligt stykke. Men alligevel sker det igen og igen i dansk teater. Man bestiller et stykke, får et ufærdigt/klodset produkt leveret, taler lidt om beskæringer og forsøger så at få det bedste ud af det på scenen. Det er simpelthen for uproft og slapt. Og et ufatteligt resursespild.

Jokum Rohdes “Manson” er bestemt ikke en enlig svale de seneste 10-15 år. Da Claus Hoffmeyer overtog ansvaret for skuespillet var det med med en erklæring om at prioritere den nye danske dramatik og bød på en første sæson med mange nye danske stykker, der desværre stort set alle floppede. Et eksempel fra perioden er filminstruktøren Carsten Rudolfs “Genfærd”, hvor alle på teatret vidste at det var et stykke som ikke fungerede, men ingen greb ind. Under Mikkel Harder blev det ikke meget bedre, selvom han stod på en konference for ny dramatik og brystede sig med at de havde haft Jokum Rohdes nye stykke, “Pinnochios Aske”, i en udviklingsworkshop, men han glemte at fortælle, det ikke var Det Kongelige Teater, men en lille forening, Dramatikercentrum, som havde arrangeret og bekostet den nævnte workshop. Og nu har vi Emmet Feigenberg som skuespilchef og man kunne have håbet på bedre, eftersom han hentede Jesper Bergmann ind som chefdramaturg, der kommer med en masse udviklingserfaring fra radioteatret. Men når deres store satsning er “Manson”, så er det håb brast.

Hvis vores lille sprogområde med nogen form for stolthed skal kunne henvise til vores nationalscene, så må vi hæve udviklingsniveauet af ny dramatik. Én ting er at et mindre teatre ikke har overskuddet og kompentencen til det, men at vores nationalscene ikke har, det er pinligt. Både for de skuespillere, der hver aften skal stå på scenen og forsvare teksten – og for publikum.

Hvis Det Kongelige Teater ikke meget snart viser sig modne til til at løfte opgaven, som jo er en del af bevillings- og lovgrundlaget, bør politikerne fratage dem opgaven og overføre midlerne til et (nyt) teater, der udelukkende varetager udvikling af nyskreven dramatik, som f.eks. Royal Court Theater gør det i London.

A Child is Born

I've been commissioned to write and direct a Christmas play for Grønnegade Teatret, a regional theater here in Denmark. I'll give an account here on the blog of the process. The title will be "A Child is Born", which is the first words of a famous Danish christmas hymn. Let's recap the story of the process so far.

After sending letters to theaters around Denmark, suggesting different ideas for performances. Based on that letter I was invited by the artistic director, Peter Holst, to come up with ideas for two performances. We met and I pitched two ideas verbally. After some time and back and forth on email, they asked for a synopsis on the idea for the christmas performance. In two weeks I developed the vague idea into a full 5-page synopsis and based on that the theater commissioned the play and decided also to hire me as its director.

The initial idea was quite vague. I suggested to make a christmas performance with some edge. I told Peter Holst that I would like to work with the conflict between people who love christmas and those who hate it. In Denmark we have this expression, "hygge", which means something like being cosy. Actually its more than an expression; its a national state of mind. Something every Danish person should strive attain as often as possible. And Christmas-hygge is the ultimate kind of hygge. It is a great feeling, but of course it can also become a great pressure. Often you'll end up with families where - for the sake of 'hygge' - we never confront any issues. Still, this being a christmas performance it still has to be some kind of comedy, so I decided to have two characters, slightly exaggerated, one who loves christmas and hygge intensely, and one who hates it above all else. And to make matters worse or better, dramatically, they are married.

And as I kept thinking about christmas, I realized how much it has become the celebration of and for children. This lead me to an old fascination with the image of 'the adoration of the magi', often painted especially by the renaissance painters. It shows the three wise men bowing down before the newborn Jesus. I wrote more about it in a previous post. The main thing in my process was it made me realize the deeper level of my idea, what I call the mystery. And so I knew there had to be a child. Immediately I knew the child was dead and that this would be the reason for the two main characters' exaggerated attitudes to christmas. The mother trying to forget and move on has thrown herself into celebrating christmas like there's no tomorrow. And for the father everything is an abyss and all attempts to go on living, hollow and hypocritical.

I also felt that the child should somehow be in the play as a character. The ghost of the child, perhaps. Or as an angel? Or it could even come back from the dead. I just knew two things; I wanted the child somewhere on the stage and I wanted some kind of miracle to take place. And then I was ready to work on my synopsis. Ask all the right questions to myself about form, structure and content. A part of the set-up at the theater also demands the inclusion of some local amateur actors. And to solve this I drew upon my experience with devised, interactive, improv-theater to come up with a scenario for the play, where we can use them as guests at the wife's christmas party, along with the rest of the audience. If you are able to read Danish, you can read the resulting synopsis here.

Now I'll embark on preparing to write the play. I'll rework the synopsis with some new/modified ideas, I've had since I wrote it. I'll also take into account, that now I know my the cast - at least the actors for the two main characters, so I can write directly to their strengths and weaknesses. And here on the blog I'll try to document the process. You're welcome to comment, question or discuss.

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!”