Toot #8

Structure isn't, of course, something that is imposed on your play; it supports it from within. It doesn't constrain creativity; it liberates it; it's its launching pad. That's why, even though I like to leave myself free in a first draft to invent and explore and go on wild creative goose chases (sometimes you catch the goose, and it turns out to have been worth effort), I also like to have a skeletal notion, going in, of what the play's structure might be. It's subject to change, naturally -- in fact, I get a little antsy if it doesn't change, as I get to know the characters better, and what they want. But it gives me a sense of where I'm headed; then I can concentrate on how best to get there. Structure also has the happy effect of breaking the play down into bite-size chunks, which is helpful when you're facing the shrivelling prospect of filling 90 to 100 pages.

I'd like to look at some of the key points, or joints, in that skeleton, beginning with . . . beginnings.

I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP

There are a lot of beginnings out there. A lot of people get started on a play, go great guns for the first ten pages or so, then -- stop. When that happens, I suggest they go back and see if they have in place the three elements that seem to be necessary to get a play going -- really going. They are: setting, situation, catalyst.

The first is a no-brainer. The play has to happen somewhere, right? -- even if it's an existential wasteland with just one gnarly tree in it (we're talking Waiting for Godot.) The setting is the simple facts of where we are, and when. For example: a forest in B.C. in the present.

Within that is a situation -- a set of circumstances ripe for drama. There's potential for trouble in the air, or at least potential for change, probably as a result of events that have occurred before the play began. For example: we're in a forest in B.C. in 1997 (the setting). It's the middle of September, and it hasn't rained for six months. The forest is tinder dry. There's a situation.

Now let's make the dramatic situation even richer. Let's say there's this park warden whose job it is to protect this forest. Why? Because it's full of priceless Haida Indian cultural artefacts. Let's give him a personal stake in the job: he's Haida.

That should do for a situation.

Now we need the third and most important element, and the one most often missed, I think: the catalyst (sometimes called the 'precipitating incident.') This is what's often not yet present in the scripts of those people who can't get past page ten or so -- the reason the play hasn't achieved lift-off. The catalyst will be an event, an incident, a piece of information, the arrival of a new character, or whatever else you come up with, that presents the central character with a problem, and creates a goal for her or him. It might be hazy at first -- but trouble or change is on its way.

So: we're in this tinder-dry forest full of cultural treasures watched over by a park ranger whose ancestors created some of those treasures. Now, if nothing more happened, things would probably bubble along just fine: eventually the Fall rains would come, and our warden's paycheck would arrive in the mail every two weeks, and life (if not our play) would be good.

But, into this situation walks . . . a tourist. With a tent rolled up under one arm, carrying his propane tank in the other. All set to pitch camp and cook himself up a mess of sausages. And the park ranger sees him and says, 'Uh, sir? There's no camping in this forest. And you certainly can't have an open fire.' To which the tourist replies, 'Who's going to stop me?'

The entrance of that tourist is the catalyst. Suddenly we have a play, a drama, a conflict on the make, and our central character has a goal. One , two, three. The setting contains the situation, which contains the catalyst, kind of like the way these Russian dolls are designed to nest inside one another:



The catalyst could have been any number of things: could have been news that a lightning storm was on its way (though that sounds more like a movie), could have been the arrival of an apprentice warden who, unbeknownst to us, has a history of pyromania. Etc. It can't be just anything, though -- the warden's derelict father might show up seeking a reconciliation (or the warden might receive news that he's on his way), but that would render the fact that the forest is tinder-dry pretty irrelevant. You could go back and adjust the situation, of course; the point is that the situation is to some extent conceived with the catalyst to come in mind.

I think you will find this setting, situation, catalyst pattern in the vast majority of the plays you read and see (if you go looking for it), regardless of their style or genre or ambition or even how 'experimental' they are. If you have terrific skills with character and language, you may be able to put off the catalytic moment for quite awhile. But, in general, the sooner you get to it, the sooner you and your audience will be airborne.

Exercise 8:

Write the beginning of your play, up to the point where you've established the setting and situation and introduced the catalyst. Or, if you've already started your play, go back and see if these three elements are in place, or if any could use further development or sharpening. Or start a new play altogether, using them.

POST-IT NOTE

This post-it note isn't a craft tip. It's just a poem I love, because I think it's one of the most beautiful things Tennessee Williams ever wrote. It's from 'Night of the Iguana.'

How calmly does the orange branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair.

Sometime while night obscures the tree
The zenith of its life will be
Gone past forever, and from thence
A second history will commence.

A chronicle no longer gold,
A bargaining with mist and mould,
And finally the broken stem
The plummeting to earth; and then

An intercourse not well designed
For beings of a golden kind
Whose native green must arch above
The earth's obscene, corrupting love.

And still the ripe fruit and the branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair.

O Courage, could you not as well
Select a second place to dwell,
Not only in that golden tree
But in the frightened heart of me?

To Handout 8