A reading from the Book of Dialogue, chapter 1

In reading the dialogues, I noticed that most of them were good examples of something that I find very difficult: writing characters that listen to each other and react naturally. The best example of this was in the Closer dialogue. The two couples were splitting up, but it wasn’t under jovial conditions. Larry and Anna had a very compelling dialogue to finish the pages, and each question brought on more and more anger to Larry. He kept delving deeper and deeper into the sexual exploits of Anna and Dan, and every fact made him want to ask more. A natural progression within the dialogue that leads to heavy emotional responses is a difficult thing to create, but closer did it very well.

The Death of a Salesman dialogue had a similar quality, but highlighted some different facets of dialogue that smack of realism. The status of a character dictates his words and actions in a scene. Willy had to keep himself in check throughout the interview, while Howard seemed fairly bored and apathetic. The words in the scene reflected exactly the statuses of the characters. The use of status permitted the scene to take on an additional element of realism, and allowed the readers to invest themselves in the dialogue. I have seen scenes before that called for one of the employees to berate their boss, which typically doesn’t happen. The scene made me feel more uncomfortable than interested because status wasn’t being respected.

In dialogue, I have noticed a slice of fantasy. Not supernaturality, but fantasy in the wording. When I was first getting into plays I absolutely hated Neil Simon and Tennessee Williams because I kept saying to myself “nobody would say that!” when the characters would act. I am just now realizing that plays and playwriting aren’t trying to show us the real world. If we wanted that we could go to a coffee shop or an office building. Plays are trying to show us something else. It may be human in all respects, but the world we are seeing is not our world. For this reason, Neil Simon’s characters can say anything they feel like saying because they are in their own world – a world in which my day to day interactions would seem as foreign as theirs do to me. It then struck me that in plays, the characters are allowed to do things that I would like to do, but can’t because I am bound by the laws of this world. In Closer, Larry asked Anna a series of questions that, although I would secretly and masochistically want to know, I would never have the guts to ask. In that way, dialogue allows the audience an outlet for their own desires and passions. It acts in a “well if I can’t, at least somebody can,” kind of way. Shakespearean dialogue may be so enticing to the reader because it is so beautiful and untouchable. Even if someone practiced their whole life, they probably wouldn’t be able to converse in Shakespearean English like the characters in the plays can. Watching dialogue is a way for the audience to live out their fantasy of being like the characters on stage, if only for a moment.

The dialogue samples we read also maintained their subjects very well. When I am trying to write dialogue I find I can never keep character, subject, and relative realism consistent – one thing always drops off. The dialogue we read seemed to do a good job of maintaining a balance amongst the three. If I was asked, I think I could describe in a few words the subject of the dialogue. The same can not be said for all dialogue, and a departure from either character, subject, or realism is typically difficult for me to become invested in.

Monologue reading and ill-gotten thoughts

I thought that the one aspect that differentiated a good monologue from a bad one was heart. Characters interest me the most when they are speaking from experience and truth, a quality which many of The Vagina Monologues and The Laramie Project’s characters seemed to have. I particularly like a monologue that seems like someone is telling me a secret – something that they are dying to tell someone, and the monologue that they are giving is their only outlet. The Vagina Monologues especially were begging to be heard. The words were forcing themselves out of the characters, and that necessity drew me inexplicably to the speeches. There is often a fine line between a character with heart and a grandiose monologue, and it may come from characterization. It is easy to hear the difference in real life. If the speaker is nervous that people won’t think they are genuine or smart, the result is often a pompous speech that has lost much of its meaning. I didn’t feel that this happened in the Vagina Monologues, or very often in The Laramie Project or Sonnets for an Old Century.

Some of the speeches in the Laramie Project didn’t have the heart that the Vagina Monologues did because the speakers had to maintain continuity with the story and had to direct their feelings toward an interviewer. This makes me think that whenever possible, a monologue should be about the most emotionally important thing to that character. The Vagina Monologues and the Laramie Project naturally create that connection through a strong emotional bond with their subject matter.

The monologues in the reading all gave me the “oh, that’s why” feeling once I finished them. The beauty of a monologue is the internal story arc that is opened, explored, and closed almost immediately. When a speaker is talking it becomes a game to figure out what they are talking about. All of a sudden and without warning the speaker reveals fact after fact, breathing life and explanation into an enigma Before I have had the time to decide how I feel about the character, the monologue is over and I am left feeling like a part of me has been removed. Most of the monologues I read followed that pattern or a similar one.

I don’t like Neil Simon plays because the characters seem contrived. Their words are so perfect and balanced that they rub me the wrong way. I didn’t connect to Sonnets for an Old Century as much as I did the other readings for the same reason. People don’t often repeat the beginning of a phrase and vary the end over and over again. It sounds nice, but ultimately means almost nothing. Stories aren’t usually linear in someone head, so when the linearity was pristine it made me gag a little. People are imperfect. They stumble over words or say things out of order. Confusion is a reality. I like to struggle because it makes me feel like I have a real connection with a character. If the meaning, story line, and metaphors are packaged up with an instruction manual, chances are I'm not going to enjoy it.

I like monologues because of the self-exploration. In the audience I am a spy looking into someone’s life. They are pouring personal secrets onto the stage and I am lapping them up one after another. I am on a stakeout in their bedroom and I am privy to all of their imperfections, insecurities, and self blame. I am saying nothing about myself to reciprocate. Hearing something truthful and deeply, personally emotional is my goal as a listener, and I feel cheated when the speaker uses this time as a soapbox to show how smart and passionate they are. A good rule of thumb for me is that if the character wouldn't dare say their monologue in polite company or on a first date, it is probably a decent monologue. Safety and security must be shed to make way for heart.

WILLIAMS OUT

Gettin' stoked

Oh, I'm totally stoked. Dangerously stoked. Hey, somebody watch out for this guy.