David Mamet’s Memo

Following is a memo by David Mamet to the writers of the now-cancelled show The Unit. He writes to define what Drama is and why it’s an absolute necessity in Mamet’s inimitable way:

TO THE WRITERS OF THE UNIT

GREETINGS.

AS WE LEARN HOW TO WRITE THIS SHOW, A RECURRING PROBLEM BECOMES CLEAR.

THE PROBLEM IS THIS: TO DIFFERENTIATE BETWEEN *DRAMA* AND NON-DRAMA. LET ME BREAK-IT-DOWN-NOW.

EVERYONE IN CREATION IS SCREAMING AT US TO MAKE THE SHOW CLEAR. WE ARE TASKED WITH, IT SEEMS, CRAMMING A SHITLOAD OF *INFORMATION* INTO A LITTLE BIT OF TIME.

OUR FRIENDS. THE PENGUINS, THINK THAT WE, THEREFORE, ARE EMPLOYED TO COMMUNICATE *INFORMATION* — AND, SO, AT TIMES, IT SEEMS TO US.

BUT NOTE:THE AUDIENCE WILL NOT TUNE IN TO WATCH INFORMATION. YOU WOULDN’T, I WOULDN’T. NO ONE WOULD OR WILL. THE AUDIENCE WILL ONLY TUNE IN AND STAY TUNED TO WATCH DRAMA.

QUESTION:WHAT IS DRAMA? DRAMA, AGAIN, IS THE QUEST OF THE HERO TO OVERCOME THOSE THINGS WHICH PREVENT HIM FROM ACHIEVING A SPECIFIC, *ACUTE* GOAL.

SO: WE, THE WRITERS, MUST ASK OURSELVES *OF EVERY SCENE* THESE THREE QUESTIONS.

1) WHO WANTS WHAT?
2) WHAT HAPPENS IF HER DON’T GET IT?
3) WHY NOW?

THE ANSWERS TO THESE QUESTIONS ARE LITMUS PAPER. APPLY THEM, AND THEIR ANSWER WILL TELL YOU IF THE SCENE IS DRAMATIC OR NOT.

IF THE SCENE IS NOT DRAMATICALLY WRITTEN, IT WILL NOT BE DRAMATICALLY ACTED.

THERE IS NO MAGIC FAIRY DUST WHICH WILL MAKE A BORING, USELESS, REDUNDANT, OR MERELY INFORMATIVE SCENE AFTER IT LEAVES YOUR TYPEWRITER. *YOU* THE WRITERS, ARE IN CHARGE OF MAKING SURE *EVERY* SCENE IS DRAMATIC.

THIS MEANS ALL THE “LITTLE” EXPOSITIONAL SCENES OF TWO PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT A THIRD. THIS BUSHWAH (AND WE ALL TEND TO WRITE IT ON THE FIRST DRAFT) IS LESS THAN USELESS, SHOULD IT FINALLY, GOD FORBID, GET FILMED.

IF THE SCENE BORES YOU WHEN YOU READ IT, REST ASSURED IT *WILL* BORE THE ACTORS, AND WILL, THEN, BORE THE AUDIENCE, AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO BE BACK IN THE BREADLINE.

SOMEONE HAS TO MAKE THE SCENE DRAMATIC. IT IS NOT THE ACTORS JOB (THE ACTORS JOB IS TO BE TRUTHFUL). IT IS NOT THE DIRECTORS JOB. HIS OR HER JOB IS TO FILM IT STRAIGHTFORWARDLY AND REMIND THE ACTORS TO TALK FAST. IT IS *YOUR* JOB.

EVERY SCENE MUST BE DRAMATIC. THAT MEANS: THE MAIN CHARACTER MUST HAVE A SIMPLE, STRAIGHTFORWARD, PRESSING NEED WHICH IMPELS HIM OR HER TO SHOW UP IN THE SCENE.

THIS NEED IS WHY THEY *CAME*. IT IS WHAT THE SCENE IS ABOUT. THEIR ATTEMPT TO GET THIS NEED MET *WILL* LEAD, AT THE END OF THE SCENE,TO *FAILURE* – THIS IS HOW THE SCENE IS *OVER*. IT, THIS FAILURE, WILL, THEN, OF NECESSITY, PROPEL US INTO THE *NEXT* SCENE.

ALL THESE ATTEMPTS, TAKEN TOGETHER, WILL, OVER THE COURSE OF THE EPISODE, CONSTITUTE THE *PLOT*.

ANY SCENE, THUS, WHICH DOES NOT BOTH ADVANCE THE PLOT, AND STANDALONE (THAT IS, DRAMATICALLY, BY ITSELF, ON ITS OWN MERITS) IS EITHER SUPERFLUOUS, OR INCORRECTLY WRITTEN.

YES BUT YES BUT YES BUT, YOU SAY: WHAT ABOUT THE NECESSITY OF WRITING IN ALL THAT “INFORMATION?”

AND I RESPOND “*FIGURE IT OUT*” ANY DICKHEAD WITH A BLUESUIT CAN BE (AND IS) TAUGHT TO SAY “MAKE IT CLEARER”, AND “I WANT TO KNOW MORE *ABOUT* HIM”.

WHEN YOU’VE MADE IT SO CLEAR THAT EVEN THIS BLUESUITED PENGUIN IS HAPPY, BOTH YOU AND HE OR SHE *WILL* BE OUT OF A JOB.

THE JOB OF THE DRAMATIST IS TO MAKE THE AUDIENCE WONDER WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. *NOT* TO EXPLAIN TO THEM WHAT JUST HAPPENED, OR TO*SUGGEST* TO THEM WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

ANY DICKHEAD, AS ABOVE, CAN WRITE, “BUT, JIM, IF WE DON’T ASSASSINATE THE PRIME MINISTER IN THE NEXT SCENE, ALL EUROPE WILL BE ENGULFED IN FLAME”

WE ARE NOT GETTING PAID TO *REALIZE* THAT THE AUDIENCE NEEDS THIS INFORMATION TO UNDERSTAND THE NEXT SCENE, BUT TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO WRITE THE SCENE BEFORE US SUCH THAT THE AUDIENCE WILL BE INTERESTED IN WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

YES BUT, YES BUT YES *BUT* YOU REITERATE.

AND I RESPOND *FIGURE IT OUT*.

*HOW* DOES ONE STRIKE THE BALANCE BETWEEN WITHHOLDING AND VOUCHSAFING INFORMATION? *THAT* IS THE ESSENTIAL TASK OF THE DRAMATIST. AND THE ABILITY TO *DO* THAT IS WHAT SEPARATES YOU FROM THE LESSER SPECIES IN THEIR BLUE SUITS.

FIGURE IT OUT.

START, EVERY TIME, WITH THIS INVIOLABLE RULE: THE *SCENE MUST BE DRAMATIC*. it must start because the hero HAS A PROBLEM, AND IT MUST CULMINATE WITH THE HERO FINDING HIM OR HERSELF EITHER THWARTED OR EDUCATED THAT ANOTHER WAY EXISTS.

LOOK AT YOUR LOG LINES. ANY LOGLINE READING “BOB AND SUE DISCUSS…” IS NOT DESCRIBING A DRAMATIC SCENE.

PLEASE NOTE THAT OUR OUTLINES ARE, GENERALLY, SPECTACULAR. THE DRAMA FLOWS OUT BETWEEN THE OUTLINE AND THE FIRST DRAFT.

THINK LIKE A FILMMAKER RATHER THAN A FUNCTIONARY, BECAUSE, IN TRUTH, *YOU* ARE MAKING THE FILM. WHAT YOU WRITE, THEY WILL SHOOT.

HERE ARE THE DANGER SIGNALS. ANY TIME TWO CHARACTERS ARE TALKING ABOUT A THIRD, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

ANY TIME ANY CHARACTER IS SAYING TO ANOTHER “AS YOU KNOW”, THAT IS, TELLING ANOTHER CHARACTER WHAT YOU, THE WRITER, NEED THE AUDIENCE TO KNOW, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

DO *NOT* WRITE A CROCK OF SHIT. WRITE A RIPPING THREE, FOUR, SEVEN MINUTE SCENE WHICH MOVES THE STORY ALONG, AND YOU CAN, VERY SOON, BUY A HOUSE IN BEL AIR *AND* HIRE SOMEONE TO LIVE THERE FOR YOU.

REMEMBER YOU ARE WRITING FOR A VISUAL MEDIUM. *MOST* TELEVISION WRITING, OURS INCLUDED, SOUNDS LIKE *RADIO*. THE *CAMERA* CAN DO THE EXPLAINING FOR YOU. *LET* IT. WHAT ARE THE CHARACTERS *DOING* -*LITERALLY*. WHAT ARE THEY HANDLING, WHAT ARE THEY READING. WHAT ARE THEY WATCHING ON TELEVISION, WHAT ARE THEY *SEEING*.

IF YOU PRETEND THE CHARACTERS CANT SPEAK, AND WRITE A SILENT MOVIE, YOU WILL BE WRITING GREAT DRAMA.

IF YOU DEPRIVE YOURSELF OF THE CRUTCH OF NARRATION, EXPOSITION,INDEED, OF *SPEECH*. YOU WILL BE FORGED TO WORK IN A NEW MEDIUM - TELLING THE STORY IN PICTURES (ALSO KNOWN AS SCREENWRITING)

THIS IS A NEW SKILL. NO ONE DOES IT NATURALLY. YOU CAN TRAIN YOURSELVES TO DO IT, BUT YOU NEED TO *START*.

I CLOSE WITH THE ONE THOUGHT: LOOK AT THE *SCENE* AND ASK YOURSELF “IS IT DRAMATIC? IS IT *ESSENTIAL*? DOES IT ADVANCE THE PLOT?

ANSWER TRUTHFULLY.

IF THE ANSWER IS “NO” WRITE IT AGAIN OR THROW IT OUT. IF YOU’VE GOT ANY QUESTIONS, CALL ME UP.

LOVE, DAVE MAMET
SANTA MONICA 19 OCTO 05

(IT IS *NOT* YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO KNOW THE ANSWERS, BUT IT IS YOUR, AND MY, RESPONSIBILITY TO KNOW AND TO *ASK THE RIGHT Questions* OVER AND OVER. UNTIL IT BECOMES SECOND NATURE. I BELIEVE THEY ARE LISTED ABOVE.)

I have no idea if it’s real, but it sure does sound good.

Tough Questions

What went wrong?  Why didn't that guy duck?  No one can be that stupid, can they?  Why is she with him?  No one told her it was going down?

Every story is an unconscious game between the storyteller and the audience; a puzzle with a race to The Answer.  That Answer is what the storyteller is trying to keep from the audience as long as possible while the audience is nimbly trying to guess it.

How quickly can the audience guess all the answers if at all?  If it's too soon, we dismiss the tale—too easy, too pat.  If we don't or can't or God help you, won't guess it at all, then the pivotal point is whether we can't because the story is incredibly cryptic and/or illogical or because the story's development is sluggish (not enough clues in the proper places) and the tale becomes boring.  However, the salient characteristic here revolves around questions and as a storyteller, you'd better be ready for them.

So, here's the deal: better to ask yourself those questions now while you're building your story than afterwards.  And here's another deal: those questions have to be tough, the ones that blow holes in your story.

You know the ones.

To refer back to my chess analogy once again: you've got to play both sides and mercilessly so.  You've got to ask and answer those tough questions and you'd better answer those questions with a modicum of logic or you'll really anger your audience who will have invested the time.

If the audience is not able to guess correctly, then they'd better be able to follow the logic of the story backwards after the revelation.  This is one of the best scenarios and it can be seen to good effect in The Usual Suspects.  As an audience member myself, realizing who Keyser Soze was in the few final scenes brought on an immediate series of interconnections spanning the length of the story as I asked myself: did it make sense that this man is Keyser?  And after, when those questions were asked and answered adequately, I realized how much I enjoyed the tale.

So prepare for those questions and if, in crafting your tale, the answers are too pat, or too easy, or too difficult, or too illogical, revise the story.

Opposing Force

One thing you will learn about me if you read this blog for any length of time is that I'm a voracious, rapacious reader.  Sometimes (who am I kidding, all the time), I read several books at once.

Don't ask me if I remember what I read.  Alas, only splinters of outstanding, excellent information remain.  There are some books that require re-reading (Story by McKee is one that comes to mind) and some that quickly start gathering dust.

The one I'm reading now (in addition to three others) is 20 Master Plots (And How to Build Them) by Ronald B. Tobias.  For those with a love of plotting story, this is a must-have.

Here's a thought for the day from Tobias:

Writing a story without presenting a meaningful opposing force is propaganda.

Think on that for a while if you can.  This is an important and deep thought that will benefit almost any writer.

It is also the reason for the downfall of such movies as Lions for Lambs and many politically-motivated movies.  Forcing one's characters into a stereotypical response or characterization is foolhardy storytelling.

Tobias continues:

As a writer you have your point of view—your prejudices, if you will.  Let's say you were a battered wife for twelve years, the victim of a controlling and abusive husband.  When you go to write about it, the story unfolds as it happened:

He storms in from work at night, throws his jacket down on the sofa and demands, “What's for dinner?”

“I made you a lovely duck a l'orange, dear.”  The table is set with their best china and crystal; the candles are lit.  She's obviously gone to a lot of trouble for him.

“Duck!  You know I hate duck.  Can't you ever do anything right?  Make me a sandwich.”

A tear collects in the corner of her eye, but she accepts his abuse stoically.  “What kind of sandwich?”

“I don't care,” he says abruptly.  “And get me a beer.”

He turns on the television and is gone.

Enough.

I don't have to go on.  You know the score and you know the story.  The characters are already defined as types.  She is the silent-suffering, kind-hearted, devoted wife; he is the loud, obnoxious, cruel husband.  You can't wait for him to get his comeuppance.  You hope he suffers.

But this is propaganda.

Propaganda?

The author's point of view here is obvious and one-sided.  I've sided with the wife and exaggerated her just as I've exaggerated the husband beyond belief.  They're types. “Begin with an individual and you find that you have created a type,” wrote F. Scott Fitzgerald, “begin with a type and you find that you have created—nothing.”  The author is trying to settle a personal score.  The fiction may be therapeutic and help the writer work out hostility, but that's not the purpose of fiction if you intend to show it to someone else.  The purpose of fiction is to tell a story, not to get even or to work out your own personal problems.

You can always tell propaganda because the writer has a cause.  The writer is on a soapbox lecturing, telling us who is good and who is bad and what is right and what is wrong.  Lord knows we get lectured enough in the real world; we don't read or go to the movies so someone else can lecture to use some more.  If you use your characters to say what you want them to say, you're writing propaganda.  If you characters say what they want to say, you're writing fiction.  Isaac Bashevis Singer claimed characters had their own lives and their own logic, and that the writer had to act accordingly.  You manipulate the characters in the sense that you make them conform to the basic requirements of your plot.  You don't let them run roughshod over you.  In a sense, you build a corral for your characters to run around in.  The fence keeps them confined to the limitations of the plot.  But where they run inside the corral is a function of each character's freedom to be what or who he/she wants within the confines of the plot itself.

Jorge Luis Borges said it best: “Many of my characters are fools and they're always playing tricks on me and treating me badly.”

More of a slave than a god.

How, then, do you  avoid writing propaganda?  First start with your attitude.  If you have a score to settle or a point to make, or if you're intent on making the world see things your way, go write an essay.  If you're interested in telling a story, a story that grabs us and fascinates us, a story that captivates the paradoxes of living in this upside-down world, write fiction.

Start with a premise, not a conclusion.  Start with a situation.

Unity

This topic came to me as I was playing the Royal Game a few months back. The Royal Game is of course, chess.

In chess, it is imperative that every move made fulfill several requirements at once. That move not only has to be the best possible move, it also has to fit in with the game plan.

There are some moves that need not be so strictly categorized. There is a need for considerable flexibility, but the general guidelines are that a move perform the duties outlined earlier.

By way of example, about to make a move, a player notices that the opponent's piece is unguarded or en prise as chess players call it. Some questions pop up: is that piece really unguarded or is it a trap? Has my opponent been playing badly or well so far? That answer will go some way to understanding whether or not that piece is really up for grabs without repercussion.

I haven't played competitive chess in a while, but the other night I happened to be at a local Borders Bookstore on chess night. I decided to put down the book I was reading (Aristotle's Poetics) and play a game.

As I started adjusting the pieces, I wondered if it would be possible to apply any dramatic principles to the game. The Aristotelian principles of unity was uppermost in my mind as I made the first move as black. Since the white side always moves first, I was responding to his move and I almost always play the Caro-Kann defense as black.

The Caro-Kann is a specific sequence of moves in response to those also of a specific sequence made by the player on the white side. That sequence, regardless of the opening, usually ends after about 10 to 12 moves. It's been worked out by strong players which the best moves are up to a point; chess players call this “theory.” After that, the players leave that realm (Vogler's the “ordinary world”) and attempt to construct plans that will take them from the opening into the middle game and hopefully, into the endgame.

Sound familiar?

Since I hadn't played in a while, I remembered only the very first few moves (around five) and I hoped he wouldn't divert quickly from theory. This is the great danger of simply memorizing theoretical moves: your opponent doesn't cooperate and that's it, you're lost. Indeed, after only a few moves, I noticed my opponent was quickly veering off the well-trodden path.

I resolved then to play each move for maximum efficiency and kept up the mantra of unity: each move had to be based on a plan. I remembered that the black side of the Caro-Kann usually ended up attacking on the queen side of the board so every move I made, I needed to maneuver pieces over to that side while making sure I wasn't too particularly open on the king side.

White's general plan in the Caro-Kann is to attack on the king side. The reason this is dangerous for black is that chess is decided by the “capture” of the king, the checkmate. While the black side was playing to attack white's queen side—a decidedly less dangerous option as you may imagine—white would be gunning for my king so I had to juggle these two options (attack while simultaneously defending), a type of dilemma I guess.

I'll be talking about dilemma in one of my next few posts. I'm intrigued by this tool that Jeff Kitchen explores in his book, Writing a Great Movie.

So every move I made had to do almost triple duty: defend, attack, or stabilize. Sometimes one more than the other two but very often all three. This is not an easy thing to do need I say? Jeff Kitchen says that structuring a play is like being in a fight in which you can only throw one punch. Well I was in a fight now.

I ended up winning the game because my plan was better. It was better and faster and balanced. I got to demolish white's queen side faster than he got to my king. I started making him react to me rather than the other way around even though I started the game by reacting. This is something you'll notice not only in chess, but in many other fields: the person reacting is usually the loser.

In drama, the protagonist may end up having to react for a while, and certainly to an inciting incident at first. However, as the story proceeds, the protagonist of necessity is no longer reacting. She now drives the story and subsequent reactions are no longer hers but (usually) the antagonist's.

I apologize for the rambling nature of the post, but achieving unity even in posts is a very difficult thing to do. (Grin.)

So, unity. Everything that occurs in a dramatic story not only has to be reactionary—each event or beat leads to the other, like dominoes—but also relevant. Relevance is unity. One has to choose wisely and parsimoniously those events that move the story forward, but which are also dramatically necessary. Otherwise, you'll have committed the dreaded crime (in Aristotle's view) of episodic writing.

People react in all sorts of ways up to and including irrationally. In fact, one may make the argument that humans almost always make the irrational choice, but that's another post. In drama, one has to choose the dramatically “correct” action, no matter the infinite number of actions possible. That action has got to be in unity with the story.

An antagonist, say, who does something completely out of character is a useless antagonist. In fact, he is no longer an antagonist because he's no longer dramatically relevant. In the setup that is Act I, the audience will have come to understand that no matter what happens, even if surprising, a character's actions are indeed possible, and of course!, we knew it all along that he would do such and such. In the spectrum of possibilities, dramatic characters are forced to choose from only a small chunk of choices in order to dramatic unity.