The Belgariad

A few years ago, I was looking for something new to read. I’m a big sci-fi/fantasy geek, and so I asked my friends what a good book series was that I could read. Many of them suggested the late David Eddings’ trilogy The Belgariad, about a young man who goes off to save the world.

From the start I knew I was reading a solidly written book. It had characters that were immediately recognizable archetypes, a well-defined and detailed world in which they reside, a clear antagonist and protagonist, rising action, climax, denouement, and conclusion. The writing followed every rule and cliche in the book, and I can find no fault with the composition, the grammar, the spelling, the character development, or the plot arc. Quite simply and objectively speaking, it’s a well-written book.

But subjectively I don’t like it. It’s boring. It’s predictable. Eddings literally followed every rule in the book. The science of writing was perfect, but the art and soul was missing. Any reader can (or should be able to) objectively look at this trilogy and say “The writing is solid.” Even those who don’t like The Belgariad, as I don’t, should be able to look at it and say “Look, there’s nothing technically wrong with the novel.”

Exit, Pursued by a Bear

Lauren Gunderson penned a play titled after the most famous stage direction in Shakespeare’s canon (from The Winter’s Tale, if you care). Her story focused on a woman in an abusive relationship with her husband, and how she was going to get back at him for the abuse.

Lauren’s script was one of the most solid I’ve ever heard. Not a single line, as near as I can tell, was wasted. Everything either developed a character or pushed the story forward. The technical decisions supported the script; the lighting was spot-on (see what I did there?) and the use of video and projectors, much maligned though they may be, worked within the confines of the script. There were no unnecessary scenes, no wasted time, and each scene flowed smoothly into the next. There wasn’t a moment where the story faltered. It was a really tight script.

Objectively speaking, it was a solid script.

And subjectively speaking, I loved it. EXIT, PURSUED BY A BEAR is easily one of the best plays I’ve seen in years. The acting was superb, and I truly believed Nan was upset at her husband’s actions, that Sweetheart was an actress and really, really good friend, and that Simon was the prima donna gay BFF that would do anything to help Nan get away from her husband. Rachel May’s direction was strong and took some daring risks that paid off handsomely.

But none of the above would have worked if the script hadn’t been so great. Or at the very least, it would have been way, way, way, waaaaay harder to pull off.

The Debate

The other day on Twitter I suggested that many plays get produced that shouldn’t be. As a writer, I think the script should be the strongest part of any production. There are many reasons why I think this, starting with the fact that the writer has the most time to develop his piece. I can take a year to write my script, if I want, reading it and editing it and tweaking it to make it perfect. I can run it by friends and colleagues for opinions. I can stage readings or workshops.

When an author submits a novel for publication, an editor has to read it. If the editor thinks it shows promise, they edit it and send it back. The author rewrites and submits again. So on and so forth, ad nauseum, until the editor is convinced that it’s good enough to go on to the next step. I don’t know exactly what the next step is, but I assume the chief editor (or some equivalent) has to approve it before it gets published.

Then, and only then, does a play reach publication. (We’ll conveniently ignore self-publication, which, I believe, is the source of many, many shitty novels.)

Note: People have reminded me that sometimes things get published or produced because of financial concerns, but we won’t consider those, because we’re talking about art, here, and art shouldn’t be produced to make money but rather to produce, you know, good art.

The Backbone

I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I go see a play, I can pretty easily tell what was an actor/director choice and what was a writer choice. If there are unnecessary scenes, then the script contained those scenes. If the show goes on too long, that’s in the script. (I’m fully aware that acting/scene changes/etc can influence show times, though more often I see directors actually cutting scenes because the script is too long, at which point I ask myself “Why do this script?”. But I digress…). If the story is bland and cliche (like Eddings’ “The Belgariad”), that’s in the script.

On the other hand, if the story is solid, the scenes all make sense together, and the show isn’t too short or too long, then that should be obvious to you. It is to me. Sure, an actor can flub lines or a director can misinterpret a script or stage a scene poorly, but that’s independent of a script. (Edit: A recent example of this is the HBO show Game of Thrones based on the book of the same name by George R.R. Martin. The book is excellent, and the script is essentially the dialog from the book. I mean that literally. However, the direction suffers from lack of understanding of the source material, as a few key scenes were flubbed, time was spent developing characters and symbolism that is irrelevant in the larger series, or giving backstory about characters that don’t matter in the first book (or the second, for that matter). Don’t get me wrong: the TV series is excellent, but it is excellent because of its amazing source material, not the directors or actors. But I digress…)

The script, then, should be the backbone, the bedrock of a production. It should be as tight and solid as possible before it goes before a paying audience. You wouldn’t build a house on a cracked foundation, would you? I didn’t think so.

All too often I go see shows having paid full price and expecting a well-made and well-thought out show, and I walk out wondering why they didn’t workshop it again, or why someone didn’t say “Hey, guys? This script is shit.” The acting might be great or it might be bad, the direction might be great or might be bad. I’m not talking about those, and I’m not talking about whether I liked it or not. As you should be able to tell from my Game of Thrones and Belgariad examples above, I’m perfectly able and willing to separate my likes and tastes from what works and what doesn’t work.

Clearly I believe that it’s possible to be objective about art, but I’m also perfectly on board with the fact that art is subjective. Another quick example: I think lettuce is absolutely disgusting. I can’t stand it. But I can look at a salad and say “That salad is well-composed, and all of the ingredients on that salad fit together in a coherent flavor profile. It works and is obviously successful as a dish.” Is it objectively well-composed? Sure. Is it subjectively delicious? Not to me.

Likewise with art, there are certain conventions and rules to which we all adhere to some extent, at which point we can step back and analyze a work of art and consider whether that art meets those criteria. If not, then we can pretty much collectively say “This isn’t working.” But did we like it? That’s entirely subjective and will vary from individual to individual.

The Conversation That Should Happen

And so I’m talking about scripts. Scripts that are written on a page, that are picked by people who have read them. People who should be able to say:

“Hey, you know, these scenes don’t work at all”
or
“I’ve seen this story a thousand times, and this script doesn’t bring anything new to the table”
or
“Everyone knows the story of the X, and this script doesn’t have a twist on it or make it any different”*

and having realized that, say “You know what? This script isn’t for us.”

*Note: the last critique is something I’ve actually, literally been told regarding one of my plays. What can I say? I thought it was neat, and it’s not. Thanks, Bob.

The End (for now)

There is absolutely no reason for a theatre to pick a mediocre script with obvious flaws. Theatre isn’t film. You can’t “fix it in post”. You do, however, have the power to pick a play that is solid from the get-go.

I’m somewhat willing to be flexible for a new script that hasn’t had a full production, but even so, given Lauren Gunderson’s EXIT, PURSUED BY A BEAR‘s world premiere and how solid it was (and that’s just one example of many I can think of), I really think we, as an industry, can do better.

I understand it’s difficult to find great plays, but even if you do find a mediocre script, you can always do workshops or staged readings or work with playwrights to improve them before mounting a full production. I’m not advocating against this at all — in fact, quite the opposite! I would love for more theatres to work with playwrights to get more solid productions running. What I’m tired of is being told I’m seeing a “full production” and then walking out disappointed.

Poor director choices? Fine. Poor acting? Fine. Technical difficulties with lights or sound? Fine. I understand a play is a very dynamic creature and that things simply go wrong. But the script should not be one of them.

See a script with some flaws in it? Talk to the playwright. Let the playwright work the flaws out. But don’t just produce it to “make it better”. That’s cheating the audience out of a good experience.

It’s just I don’t ever want to go see another play that winds up looking like a workshop, and then wonder why I paid so much for something that wasn’t the best it could be.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Thanks for reading my thoughts, and I hope if you have an opinion on the topic that you will leave a comment below. Enjoy.