3 things that make a screenwriter - and 3 things that break one

Will you become a screenwriter?

At the end of the day, that’s the honest question.

First off, let’s get the deets out of the way: you will probably never become a famous screenwriter, and you will probably struggle to sell a seven-figure script. That’s just statistics - no hard feelings.

That’s not what this question is about.

Will you become a screenwriter: will you trade your soul for sitting in front of Final Draft, writing 2 words an hour, then slamming your laptop, then getting a coffee, then pacing around the room for that perfect twist, then lurching back to your work in a frantic attempt to write down your next brilliant idea - and more importantly, will you be able to do this for days, for months, for years, for hundreds of scripts?

I must preface this list by saying I’m still not sure which side of the fence I fall on. I’ve definitely written a lot of scripts, and that mass definitely had its flaws. I sat in front of my own plan today, and I could not write a word - not even the 2 words an hour I so haughtily wrote about earlier. It made me afraid, and it made me curious.

What makes someone write - and what makes one stop writing?

I hope to answer that question for myself and anyone that is wondering. So, in the best Buzzfeed tradition, let’s think through 3 things that make a scriptwriter - and 3 things that break one - together.

Make 1: watching movies

I know, I know. To be a screenwriter, you have to watch movies. Shocker.

Still, you’d be surprised how many people that want to be screenwriters don’t actually watch a lot of films. I say this somewhat vulnerably as someone who regularly stops watching for months - and has to make a conscious effort to pull myself out and watch something for Pete’s sake. (Shoutout to my sister, an insane movie nerd, who drags me into movie theaters and puts on films I want to watch. Her mind terrifies me and I could never be her. Thanks Nastya.)

There is another group: people that restrict themselves completely arbitrarily. “I won’t watch it if it was made after 1990”, “I won’t watch it if it’s black and white”, “I won’t watch it if it’s under 60% on Rotten Tomatoes”.

You need to consume fast food to be a chef. You need to know Picasso to be a painter. Sometimes, you need to see animal guts daily if you want to be a vet.

Sometimes, you just aren’t a movie aficionado. That’s okay too. After all, there are a scary number of movie classics I haven’t watched, and I will one day catch up with that list.

But if film, by choice or by need, is something you must get into, you need to watch film.

How do I get there?

• Start with the classics. Don’t fall into my trap and watch the oldies that everyone talks about. If you don’t see why they’re iconic, at least you form your own opinion;

• Fall in love with its versatility. Citizen Kane, The Room and Avatar are all movies. Good or bad, funny or scary, pretty or real - they’re all films. Isn’t that cool?

• Don’t be ashamed to be kind to yourself. Maybe, as you watch on, you will discover that this is not for you. And that’s okay!

Break 1: not seeing your movie and story

Not in some beautiful poetic sense. Can you actually see what you’re writing about? That’s often the deciding call.

For the longest time, I was convinced I had aphantasia. After all, the apple test landed me between a 4 and a 5 on a good day, and I still cannot picture anything actually moving in my mind’s eye. With training (Reddit helps *shudder*), I was able to inch that to a 3-4 rating, and I’m glad I did.

This doesn’t matter too much when you write fiction books, but screenplays are strictly visual. There’s no way around it. (Sorry, first person POVs, you’ll stay confined to novels.)

Simply put, if you can’t see it and you can’t hear it - it has no room in a script and will only serve to waste the real estate of your work. You have 120 minutes max to make your point, and while you might cherish what your characters are thinking or feeling, if your client, director or industry worker can’t put it on a screen, it’s a lost cause.

As you can imagine, not knowing exactly how each moment looks in a scene, how the audience sees the woes of your characters, and what the audience is perceiving, not just seeing, hurts your point pretty badly.

How do I fix this?

• Write a whole script without any dialogue. Words are a crutch for your inner voice - so tell it to shut up and pass the mic to your mind’s eye.

• Watch movies intentionally. Observe, take visual notes, shamelessly steal tricks from the gurus. Ask yourself - why did this old white man point the camera that way?

• Daydream. Put your laptop down and let your 15-year-old self dream. My hot take: this is a valid and necessary part of writing, especially of a script.

Make 2: falling deeply in love with your story

A “good" story is subjective. You may doubt your screenplay is any good, but for someone else, it can be their saving grace that pulls them out of misery. I loved Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (before JKR became who she is now, just saying); to others, it was a bunch of nonsense, and they made sure to tell me about it.

Often, the key to being a good (screen)writer is simply that - being able to love your script, your story and your characters.

This ‘make’ is the bread and butter of how we writers live.

Your passion relies on being deeply infatuated with every crevice of your screenplay, understanding exactly what place in your heart your story occupies, and why it draws you to wake up, pick up a laptop and keep on writing. That passion is contagious - and is often the immediate hook to make what you do truly a good work.

If your heart is not on fire for the story that you’re trying to tell, if you don’t want to shout your key message from the rooftops, if you aren’t just slightly crazy about your blorbos and your plot beats - then sorry to say, your well will be dry very soon.

We writers are fundamentally lovers. In a very messed up way, we love our own minds.

How do I get there?

• Indulge yourself. Pick a storyline that has happened to you, a character that represents a dear friend, or a lore detail that represents something only you know.

• Praise yourself very casually. The little thumbs-ups you give yourself along the way boost your confidence by a lot. Wrote a nice page or two? Tell yourself ‘good job’!

• Don’t hesitate to kill your darlings. It’s different if screenwriting is your income, but if you have the luxury of writing for yourself, don’t start if you don’t believe in an idea.

Break 2: being too smart

To all the people who think they are extremely smart and cool and sexy and fabulous - chapeau, but you, too, can suck sometimes, actually.

The average audience member is tired and doesn’t want to think. That’s not cynical commentary on the state of the world, that’s the reality of the bodies we live in. Most people don’t actually want to think even more when their brain is already being too loud. That’s how we got TikTok to take off.

Your story must be simple, and that is an essential need.

Now, what about the arthouse and the indie and the conceptual? Yes, it still pays to be simple, sharp and direct about the premise, or people will yawn themselves out of the theatre. (And notice how so many people do avoid the above for this very reason.)

In Save the Cat, Blake Snyder posits that if you can’t summarize your idea in 1 sentence, studios won’t give it the time of day. Blake Snyder’s concern with money above all is a thought for another day, but in this instance, I agree: your story must resonate with everyone, be full of raw, understandable feelings, and deliver on them in a punchy way.

Often, the smartasses of the world don’t have the heart to do this.

How do I fix this?

• Run a simple checklist. Is your idea clearly understood by everyone? Do you know why they feel that way? Do you see them staying for the whole 90-120 minutes?

• Summarize the movies that became icons in 10 words max. Ordinary farmboy rebels and stomps a dictator. Yep, I can see why millennial teenagers loved Star Wars;

• Feel your own feelings, deeply. You’d be surprised how much more profound and relatable your stories get once you stop intellectualizing and cry for yourself.

Make 3: locking in

Screenwriting is a lot less fun than people think. A lot of your time is spent forcing yourself to write just a little bit. Yes, without a podcast to muddle your brain with words. Yes, without a YouTube short to rot your brain further. Yes, without a girl treat to keep you going (okay, maybe that one’s alright sometimes).

At the end of the day, all you can do is write - and that’s actually pretty frustrating.

Sometimes, you will fail to even open that damn project file. Sometimes, the world will seem like it’s out to get you and your creation. Sometimes, your dopamine rush wears off and you just don’t see the point anymore.

And yet, you must keep writing.

Your idea is probably awesome, but nobody is going to read it until it’s done, and chasing the next sparkling butterfly is what kills your work the fastest. Screenwriting is often seen as this passionate, driven, inspired hobby. Most of the time, it’s plain boring discipline.

Being comfortable with being lazy, stupid or depressed - and writing anyway. That’s often what makes or breaks a script.

If this process isn’t done, who’s going to care about your great concept of an idea?

How do I get there?

• Remember your key message. If you don’t burn to tell the world something, you’ll run out of gas. What made you write this in the first place? Hold on to that;

• Use a calendar! Scripts, fundamentally, are a boring numbers game. X pages by Y date - that’s the formula, and it’s much more trusty than chasing a vibe;

• Rest, a lot, and don’t be a dick to yourself about it, but write at least something every single damn day. Sometimes, all it will be is 1 line, and that’s ok.

Break 3: going by the vibes

You are in love and you know how to write - great! Perhaps you can even attract your audience’s attention, impart some knowledge upon them, or inspire them.

Turns out, once your big writer pants are on, you might discover you don’t know how to write.

For my part, I was convinced for quite some time that I understood how storytelling works. After all, I could finish a story, and people liked it. When I started writing for others, though, I quickly realized there is much more for me to learn than what I could do without deep study. What do you tell the person you’re writing for when they come back with “the pace just feels kind of off”? When they “just hate how this guy sounds”? When “idk, I don’t really feel the narrative” is your only feedback piece?

You try to learn. A lot.

There are a lot of ways to do so. Story structures (Hero’s Journey, Save the Cat, the story circle, etc.), numerous books on (screen)writing (Syd Field’s ”Screenplay”, Joseph Campbell’s “The Hero with A Thousand Faces”, Stephen King’s “On Writing”), countless podcasts (not really a podcast kind of gal, but someone out there must be) - a lot of variety exists for you, and it’s a mandatory step to writing quality and knowing how you did it.

How do I fix it?

• Research what you would like to do, then dive deeply into that genre, that trope, that audience. Research what the best in the field use, then pick up that theory;

• Consume a lot of media. Movies are a must, we already established that, but even reading, playing video games or listening to music exposes you to stories;

• Be humble. You’re not too good to study. You’re not too advanced for the basics. You aren’t a prodigy that can succeed without understanding how you did all that.

Well, that’s the list.

If anyone ever finishes this all the way through, I’m in your corner. Every writer worth their chops must go through a crisis sometimes, and if that’s where you are at, consider this a badge of honor and a ‘you made it’ moment.

Will we become screenwriters? Dude, I don’t know. But I’m here for the ride, and until my engine dies, I will continue the drive.

Now, if you’ve made it this far, can you maybe message me? I’m stuck writing a scene about washing blood from white hair.

Written by Anna Galtsova, a dedicated Writing Committee member!

You can find Anna on Instagram: @gal.tsova

Speak it like Beckett

December 17th.

Today I have lost the ability to speak to people. I opened my mouth but I could not find the words. Nothing was adequate.

My father made me an omelette. I could not thank him. Our eyes passed each other by and waved while my mouth kept twitching. At one point I opened wide, teeth out, silent. Dad laughed and brought me another chunk of the yellow-black, overdone slop. I could not eat it but finished it anyway. “Hhmphg,” I grunted. Dad turned to me and asked: “It was that good, huh?” Another grunt. Nothing was adequate.

I went up to the tree that grew through the middle of the living room. Maybe, at least, I could get myself to say something here, address it to the branches. Somebody had left a massive softcover copy of Samuel Beckett’s Collected works floored blunt on the roots. I saw it and I finally, for the first time that long morning, knew what to say. “Samuel Beckett’s collected works,” I told the tree. The tree said nothing. Maybe it was just that sort of day, and my family’s deranged living symbol had also lost its ability to speak. Who else?

I picked up the book. It was surprisingly light. Light meant smart and quick and easy. This Beckett would teach me how to speak again.

I went back to face my father. My vocal chords redirected all the formed sounds back into my lungs. U-turn cop-out. Nothing was adequate.

My middle part of the day was spent on the park bench peering at the Beckett pages through a polka-dot scarf.

December 18th.

It’s been a week or maybe a month and a week since I have lost my ability to speak. Beckett’s helping.

In the morning, the woman at the grocery store, with her usual look of profound pity, asked me if I wanted a plastic bag. I thought of the usual pictures of dead leather-shelled turtles. “It was a little child that fell out of the carriage, Ma’am,” I told her. “Oh god, oh god oh god, what happened?” She said, pitying me or maybe the little girl. I left the store carrying the milk, carrots and bananas I had bought cradled precariously in my hands.

The middle part of my day was spent on the park bench helping the wind flip the pages of Beckett’s collected works.

December 19th.

Yesterday I lost my ability to speak.

Beckett teaches that one does not have to speak. I can be A, or perhaps B, from the Act Without Words II.

My father made me an omelette today. It was burnt and smelled of pinched needles. I sat down on the chair and demonstratively crossed my legs. In my shirt pocket I found a carrot and a banana. I put the banana back in my pocket and chewed on the carrot. It tasted like metal. It had soaked in the stench of the room. The message I wanted to communicate to my Dad was this: it is alright, I do not need the omelette, you can sit down and relax and not work so hard. My father frowned and pushed the omelette towards me. I kept chewing the carrot. Snap and crunch.

“Yes I know, it’s a little burnt, but you have to eat… you haven’t been yourself,” Dad crooned.

After a while, he reluctantly shuffled the plate back away from me. His eyes searched mine. His mouth opened to speak, but stopped short. His hands threw the plate vigorously onto the floor, where it smashed against the roots. The tree would be happy; the tree would feed, burnt or not.

Beckett’s words twirled and pranced around in my skull.

Nothing was adequate. Tomorrow I would have known what to say.

I spent the middle of the day periodically wiping fallen leaves and dust off Beckett’s collected words.

December 20th.

I woke up some time ago and found I could not speak. This did not last very long. After months of studying Beckett I am able to speak like him without quoting him directly. The key is to imagine the person I am talking to is not really there, and the words I am saying are addressed to Beckett, while He is testing me on the adequacy of my interpretation of his collected works.

Several times people have gotten up in a fury over my conversation.

“Nobody talks like that,” they say, lips taut. But I know somebody talks like that. And I know, as well (and this is something He teaches) that words and patterns create universes, and sooner or later the power of my unique form will convince my co-conversationalists that there is a world beyond “everybody”, a specific place where how I speak is the law of things. Speech and motion and their repetition are what makes life, and saying that my speech does not correspond to reality is to simply be outdated. As I speak, I update what is possible and what is real. In this I follow Beckett and his collected works. His characters never spoke “realistically”, instead they birthed patterns of words, and words make logic and logic builds an understanding of the world.

I spent the middle part of my day peeling bananas and throwing the peels down to feed the park grass. I did some reading too.

December 21st

Beckett teaches that my father is not my father, but a father. He is also a signifier, or a variable. A,B,C, maybe D or X or 23 or Dad. He is a signifier who has attributes and lines. One of those attributes is that today he has made me an omelette. Another is that he, along with Beckett, will die tomorrow. 22nd of December, Beckett’s death day. I don’t feel much connection to him. Or my father for that matter. Like his characters, I now feel like I have nothing to do with anyone else. I am adequate for nobody.

The worlds I have spoken into existence have all disappeared the very next second. I am increasingly certain, however, that most ideas are best explained by  well placed picture words. A couple words that do not try to explain but let you feel the presence of the things described, invoked; this is how you plant the seeds of ideas. Beckett may have had something to do with that thought.

The middle part of my day was spent wondering where the later parts of my days go.

22.12.

Here I note, in some attempt to calm my scurrying thoughts, the case of the matter. I found this diary just now, the evening of the 22nd of December, in my room, on my bedside table. It does not belong to me.

My own father has been dead for 7 years. I have not read a page of Samuel Beckett in my life. Maybe I have seen Waiting for Godot staged in a park some summer, but I’m not sure -- that may have been me imagining someone’s retelling of that event. Whatever. What disturbs me more is this, on my table. Whoever wrote this is definitely not me, so how did it get here? We bear one similarity, me and this time-addled author. We both have a tree growing through the middle of our living room. The parallels end there. I will ask around, then try to forget. But right now, there is such silence. I feel like my breath has been vacuumed out of me. I am starting to think the earth might be uninhabited.

Written by Yan Nesterenko, a dedicated Writing Committee member! 

You can find Yan on Instagram: @n_strenkyn

A Sinful Cast Interview: WILDe's Next Murder Mystery

Written by Anna Galtsova, a dedicated Writing Committee member!

You can find Anna on Instagram: @gal.tsova

Performance v.18

FINAL_FINAL_LAST_VERSION_Performance_v.18.docx

"Performance"

INT. SOUNDSTAGE - EMPTY SET

Curtains open.

White lights fade in, revealing a bare stage. The back and side curtains are pulled up, letting the audience see into the wings. Ropes swing by the side of the set. A ladder creaks. There is nobody there, but the full technical equipment of the theatre is exposed, vulnerable.

Backstage, there is a low rumble. Conversations echo through the wall and increase in volume quickly with manic energy. The tension builds. Someone yells. Something clangs against the floor. A switch flicks on and off and on again. A distant piano plays a song off-tune. Noise, noise, noise,

And suddenly, silence.

The first backstage door swings open.

THE SKILL walks in through stage right with a solemn look. He wears a feathered hat and historic clothing. He walks center stage, downstage.

There is a moment of quiet as he stares into the audience, before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

THE SKILL

(Dramatically.) All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages–

A laugh is heard from stage-right, and THE SKILL flinches.

THE PASSION walks in through the second backstage door with a confident smile. He wears a glamorous modern suit, sparkling in the stage lights.

THE SKILL turns towards him, annoyed.

THE SKILL

What? What is it?

THE PASSION walks forward, standing stage-right. THE SKILL steps back.

THE PASSION

Nothing, nothing. (Beat.) I just… find it silly. Don’t you think that monologue is a little outdated?

THE SKILL

It's Shakespeare.

THE PASSION

Exactly. Why are you doing that dumb posh voice?

SKILL

(Offended.) I'm not doing a voice. This is the character. I'm playing a role.

THE PASSION

Isn’t ‘As You Like It’ a comedy? You sound waaay too serious.

THE SKILL rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

THE SKILL

The character, Jaques, is supposed to be cynical. He is a philosopher. His overindulgence in melancholy is intentional. He stands apart from the world in order to understand it.

THE PASSION

That doesn’t sound very comedic, I’ll be honest.

THE SKILL turns to fully face him.

THE SKILL
(Frustrated.) Then go complain to Shakespeare’s grave. ‘As You Like It’ is a traditional classic. It’s great. You just have poor taste.

THE PASSION
My taste is great, it’s just a lot more modern. So, you know, it actually applies to my life. I don’t really care for stories that aren’t relatable.

THE SKILLS
Old stories are just as relatable! The themes and ideas are still there, even if the words themselves can be somewhat out of style. I’m just honoring the text.

THE PASSION

No, you’re obeying it. There’s no honor in that.

THE SKILL stiffens.

THE SKILL

Excuse me?

THE PASSION

You heard me. You’re obeying, not honoring.

THE SKILL
This delivery is just… It’s just how it’s always been performed, okay? All actors before me have echoed the author’s voice, to convey the correct message. It’s just how it always is. I won’t change it.

THE SKILL adjusts his clothes with a stubborn arrogance. He steps forward elegantly to return to his monologue, but THE PASSION quickly pulls him back. They split the stage half-and-half.

THE PASSION

Yes, sure, but enough time has passed. Things change. You’re preserving the text, not the thought behind it.

THE SKILL

The thought is the text, that’s the point. You can’t honor a performance without understanding what it was originally meant to achieve, and the writers’ intentions can only shine through in their words. Meaning doesn’t exist without form.

THE PASSION

I disagree. For starters, most of Willie’s old plays were for the commonfolk, not the wealthy. He'd be rolling in his grave if he heard how pretentious you're sounding.

THE SKILL puts his foot down, pushing THE PASSION a bit farther away.

THE SKILL

Will you stop critiquing my accent? I know what I'm doing.

THE PASSION

Do you? Sounds to me like you're just copying better actors.

THE SKILL pauses, visibly upset at the comment.

A beat.

For a moment, it looks like THE PASSION’s face reveals a glint of regret; a sudden sadness he isn’t voicing.

Just as THE PASSION goes to step forward — perhaps to apologize — THE SKILL takes a step upstage in a dramatic faux reverence.

THE SKILL

(Sarcastically.) Well, then, oh, great director. Show us how to do it right. Please, enlighten us with your amazing ability.

THE PASSION pauses for a brief moment, before he walks forward defiantly, a dance-like flow to his step. He looks off to the side with a flame in his eyes, gesticulating vaguely in the air as he talks. He glances right at the audience, even directly locking eyes with some front-row audience members. He has an ambitious charm.

THE PASSION

Life is like a play with no script,
and everyone follows along in their roles.
We come into the world, and eventually leave it;
but in between, we force ourselves to put on masks.
We pretend to know where to go, what to do,
but we all play seven roles–

THE SKILL rushes forward, dropping his face in his hands.

THE SKILL

Stop, stop.

THE PASSION

What now?

THE SKILL

You got it all wrong. That isn’t the monologue. At all.

THE PASSION

Yes, it is.

THE SKILL

No, you’re just babbling some vague ideas.

THE PASSION steps forward, looking ahead as he delivers his monologue. He gets lost in his thoughts as he speaks.

THE PASSION

But that's what it feels like, isn't it? We all live our lives in a performance. The world is a stage, while everyone else is watching and judging. People are born, they grow, they fear, they change, they fail, they learn, and then they die at the end. The idea is the same, right?

THE SKILL paces behind him, disappointed.

THE SKILL

You’re doing a disservice to the original text. There’s so much value, so much history, in the original choice of words. You can’t just improv your way through them because you feel like it.

THE PASSION turns back around.

THE PASSION
(Resolutely.) Yes, I can. It’s how the text makes me feel, so that’s how I’ll say it.

THE SKILL

If everyone bends the text into whatever they believe in, it becomes arbitrary. Theatre isn’t here for you to overwrite nuance with your own worldview, just so you can, what, feel seen? Characters aren’t supposed to be your mirrors.

THE PASSION walks towards him.

THE PASSION

But how am I even supposed to perform a role I don’t see myself in? What’s the value of speaking words I can’t believe in? It’s not acting if you’re just reading the text.

THE SKILL

Actors are vessels. We carry fictional worlds, stories, morals, so much larger than ourselves. It’s not acting if you’re just being yourself. Then it’s just reality.

THE PASSION

Well, I think–

THE SKILL

No one cares what you think. This is about the story, not about you.

THE PASSION steps back at THE SKILL’s confrontation, in surprise and offense. He turns away in frustration, facing the audience for a moment before slowly walking away stage-left in anger.

THE SKILL

Theatre isn’t about your own indulgence. You have to understand the craft, the insight, the versions of stories told before… You can’t get so lost in your own delusions, in the beating in your chest, that you forget the message you’re actually trying to tell. The audience will leave empty-handed. You can have all the fantasies you want, but without effort, without structure–

THE PASSION, lost in his thoughts, stops at the stage’s edge.

THE SKILL

–You’ll overstep without knowing the way forward. You’ll just fall into the pit.

THE PASSION pauses at the edge off to the side of the stage, just before the orchestral pit. He looks down into the dark pit. He sighs, before sitting down right at the ledge and letting his legs swing.

THE PASSION

But, if actors speak what they don’t believe, the stage becomes a lie. And you know the audience can sense that, too.

He looks up at the audience as he speaks. THE SKILL moves closer.

THE PASSION

There’s no point in living so systematically, so performatively, you forget to actually live. Why do you think every theatre production is so different? People’s experiences are all unique to them.

THE PASSION turns quickly towards THE SKILL, and he freezes, embarrassed for getting caught in his interest.

THE PASSION

You can read all the books about theatre guidelines and memorize all the little key terms, but there’s no rules or laws to real emotion.

THE PASSION turns back forward, while THE SKILL mumbles to himself, tired of the discussion. He pulls out a small notepad from his pocket and begins to flick through the pages.

THE PASSION

I’d rather fall than not have spoken at all. And yeah, sure, okay. Characters aren’t mirrors, but our job is to make them feel real. They’re fragments of us, in one way or another, just as we take fragments of them into ourselves.

THE PASSION waits for a rebuttal, but THE SKILL stays quiet.

Instead, THE SKILL walks forward and sits down beside him. He takes a pen out of his pocket and clicks it.

THE PASSION looks back at him, confused.

THE PASSION

What are you doing?

THE SKILL

Tallying.

THE PASSION

(Disillusioned.) … Really?

THE SKILL

Yes. This is the… 18th time we’ve had this argument.

THE PASSION

(Scoffing.) You really never change tradition, do you? We keep going in circles, and still you never actually listen to me.

THE SKILL

I can listen to you just fine. You literally never shut up about anything.

THE PASSION

How can I be quiet? (Sighing gently.) There are so many beautiful things to feel.

THE SKILL

Too many, maybe.

THE PASSION

I won’t be silent about my excitement when given a spotlight.

THE SKILL flicks through his notepad a few more times, before putting it back in his pocket.

THE SKILL

I’m afraid I’ll never properly understand you, but I…

He hesitates, as if he couldn’t believe he was admitting this.

THE SKILL

I don’t dislike you.

THE PASSION

(Prickly.) You act like you do.

THE SKILL

(Softer.) Of course I do. A performance feels safer, doesn’t it?

THE PASSION looks up suddenly, in concern. There is a deep understanding in his eyes as they share a look. THE SKILL looks back down, flustered.

THE SKILL

But I’ve studied enough to know your importance. There’s not much point in writing a story if there’s nothing to write about. You matter just as much.

THE PASSION takes a moment to process this, looking away. He smiles to himself sweetly, before a sudden realization pops into his head.

THE PASSION

(With sass.) …I know what you’re trying to do.

THE SKILL

Do you?

THE PASSION

You’re trying to get me to admit that I still need your technical knowledge, that my excitement can’t flourish anywhere without your little structures and rulebooks.

THE SKILL grins to himself.

THE SKILL
Oh, hm, am I?

THE PASSION

Yes, you are! You’re always like this. If you’re trying to get me to confess that I need you, then I have bad news.

THE SKILL scooches closer, leaning over THE PASSION.

THE SKILL

I’m not trying to do anything; you already wear your heart on your sleeve. We both know you would be nowhere without me. I can read between the lines just fine.

THE PASSION grins madly, a sneaky tone in his voice.

THE PASSION

…Oh?

THE SKILL

What?

THE PASSION

So you say… there’s meaning between the lines? It’s almost like–

THE SKILL pulls away, embarrassed.

THE SKILL

Don’t.

THE PASSION

It’s almost like… you can tell the meaning… without the text.

THE SKILL

Stop that.

THE PASSION

It’s like the feeling matters more than the form, or something. Woaaaah, that’s crazy.

THE SKILL

(Chuckling.) Your understanding of comedy is very twisted.

THE PASSION

And still, you laugh.

The two share a small laugh, before THE SKILL gets up. He extends a hand to THE PASSION, who takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up.

THE SKILL turns to the audience, smiling fondly.

THE SKILL

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances…

He turns towards THE PASSION, and loses track of his thoughts.

THE PASSION
But we keep forgetting the script, don’t we?

THE SKILL laughs quietly to himself. He takes a deep breath.

THE SKILL

Let’s go from the top.

BLACKOUT.

(Come to the Night of Short Plays!)

Written by Ana Clara Martins, a dedicated Writing & Marketing Committee member!

You can find Ana Clara on Instagram: @anaa.logy

The Fifty Shades of Grey in “The Gradient”

"There is probably no genre more realistic than satire. If novel is a mirror carried along a high road, like Stendhal claimed, satire is a stone thrown at it to show you what’s hidden behind. And while it is depressing to admire your face in a shattered mirror, and it might bring you seven years of bad luck, it sometimes is just high time we stop staring at that piece of reality that is conveniently framed into what we feel comfortable examining. “The Gradient” is a stone that flies smoothly, almost deceitfully, and shatters your comfort zone slowly, piece by piece. It leaves you frustrated and uncomfortable. Wishing someone would hang that mirror back up there. Or a generic photograph that comes together with an IKEA frame. And it does all that in such a satisfying manner that you almost fail to notice.

Realism Behind VR Glasses

            The feeling of frustration is not caused by the plot itself (however unbearable some characters are), as much as by the disappointing realisation that we’ve just witnessed the reality in which we find ourselves on a daily basis. The way the play was constructed enhanced this impression. It sometimes felt like we were spectating a regular conversation in an office, especially whenever Tess and Louis appeared on the scene together. Witnessing the development of their friendship gave me a sense of comfort, and was like an anchor of safety in the emotionally wrecking journey of the therapy sessions, Natalia’s disturbing speeches, and all the corporate crap. It was just necessary to shutter that seemingly working relationship, and Del Rosso did it with outstanding artistry. By making Tess do every mistake she worked on fixing in others.

“I know a thousand Jacksons” says Tess, and everyone in the audience puts an expression of solidarity on their face. We all know Jackson, we’ve met him hundreds of times. How does he manage to get away every single time then? How is he still a successful CEO of a tech company; someone’s boyfriend, husband, or a father; someone’s friend or a neighbour? And if we all feel about him the way Tess does, how does he succeed? The play doesn’t give us a hopeful outlook or a moral lesson. It almost feels like despite the main character’s powerful display of female rage, which is something I’d love to see more of in popular media, it is Jackson’s monologue that is the triumph. We can firmly believe that we deserve better than him, and that we are so much more than he could ever be, but somehow he still manages to figure out any algorithm that prevents him from getting what he wants. He knows exactly what values to put into equations that lead to a fast track to anything he lays his eyes on. This is what frustrates in that story.

The Clockwork Pink

            If Jackson actually learnt about empathy, active listening, consent, and what makes a good apology, can we say he improved? Even if he doesn’t believe in it and uses this knowledge merely as a tool, he still shows desirable behaviours. And behaviour is the most objective way of measuring one’s psyche. Can we programme a good person? Is that concept ethically correct?

Tess’s burning enthusiasm about The Gradient quickly evaporates in order to leave space for the growing disagreement and doubt. She realises that math and science will only take you so far, but it is were conflicting interests of stakeholders, power plays, and human flaws come together that the real innovation takes place. The numbers don’t lie, unlike the patients. Natalia, just like her new employee, believed in the algorithm, but what makes her different from Tess is that she did not try to change the game and learnt to play by its rules instead. She certainly excelled in that art. She is actually a mirrored image of Jackson. She makes the algorithm, he is the one to crack it. He plays her game, but it was never hers to begin with. Tess wanted to kill them both, but they were the ones to kill her.

One of the most important monologues of Jackson was the one about a stir fry of sorry’s, however foolish it might have seemed. What he actually did was to accidentally (or perhaps very cunningly) reveal what The Gradient really is about – mass producing apologies and thoughtless patterns of behaviours. It is nothing more or less than cooking a big, greasy stir fry that will satisfy you for a day, and then give you a terrible food poisoning the day after. Even though the therapy was tailored to each individual, at the end of the day it was the same process for everyone. It was demonstrated in a spectacular way through having one actor play all Tess’s patients, and rapidly switch between them without any additional cues other than the different mannerisms, speech patterns, and body language. It was an impressive, attention-grabbing move that ultimately lead the audience to notice how little room for different shades of people The Gradient had to offer.

Some of the men, however, seemed to have actually realised their flaws. Their egotistical façade was broken through. But what is the next step? They did not work through their issues that let them to become insecure, self-absorbed, and so far detached from their own emotionality. Continuing their journey in a meaningful way after the release was, as Natalia said, a minority that reaches the media attention. For the rest of the wicked, all there was left was to leave a positive comment for the facility and go on with their lives with some more clearance, and a lot more confusion.

Crime and Punishment

            I have hopefully showed by now that The Gradient talks about much more than sexual assault. It does, however, talk about sexual assault as well, and that topic should never be summarised with merely a meaningful moment of silence. We should speak about it, loud and clear, with confidence. I know it feels just right that the (female!) CEO of a facility that rehabilitates people charged with sexual misconduct is a prime example of victim blaming, but If there is one action to take after having watched the play, it is to make sure this is not what actually awaits us in the not-so-distant future.  

“She remembers it every day. She thinks about it every time she has sex”.

Jackson, after hearing that, says: “I’m sure she’s moved on”. I, in my hopeful naivety, want to believe that he denies the truth because otherwise he could never look himself in the eyes again. That he tells Tess what his ex-girlfriend should hear because he would literally burn under her hollow look. That he was so happy and relieved after because the weight of his guilt has slightly lifted off his shoulders. That the image of a woman that accepts her fate instead of enjoying her first sexual experience is so engraved in his mind he can’t sleep at night. That this is the reason he was looking at his generic picture on the wall for hours. That’s the least Jackson’s ex-girlfriend and all the other women deserve. That those who shaped our understanding of sex as something to be ashamed of and to endure like a duty, at least feel bad about themselves. If not all the time, then at least half of the time. Or sometimes. We want to believe that them saying “I’m sorry you overreacted” or calling us a slut is the only way they can express that feeling. “I’m relieved”, says Jackson after hearing that the woman whose security he took away is doing fine. And yes, she is fine despite him, not without him. Relief is not meant for her.

The expression on Jackson’s face changed after Tess’s final outburst. Is it a look of remorse? Was he actually touched and at least felt bad for a moment? Would her words leave a mark on him? His response, if not prevented by the supervisor, could be a start to a dialogue. The only genuine and impactful dialogue in his therapeutic process, if not in the whole play. It takes courage to face your emotions and shout them out in someone’s face. Jackson’s ex-girlfriend would probably not have that courage. Luckily, Tess decided to not merely listen an apology not meant for her, but to also give a response in another woman’s name. Sadly, the algorithm did not teach him how to receive it and take something away from it.

Let Him Who Is Without Sin Cast The First Stone

            The biggest question the play raises is “how are YOU fucked up?”. It is not just a funny gag or a way to engage the audience. It really is the essence of “The Gradient”. Nobody is black or white. We all are in the grey area, in one way or another. Natalia addressing us, the audience, is not a wink. It’s a slap in the face. And we take it with a laugh, but really we should cry. We applaud ourselves for not being rapists, but really we should whip our own backs for everything we are instead. Liars. Cheaters. Narcissists. Slaves of our own emotions. Jealous. Angry. Greedy. Full of self-pity.

            What would be your score on empathy? How about introspection or potential for growth? We can only hope we’d get fast-tracked. We say we want to change the world, like Tess, but we have one true reason behind, just like she did – to achieve something; to feel fulfilled; better than everyone else. And what is a better way to feel good about yourself than to watch a play about evil people struggle to become any less insufferable? But we cannot just turn a blind eye on how the world has changed Tess. How it turned her from an ambitious, prosperous woman who talks to mice into someone capable of violence, struggling to maintain her own relationships, misinterpreting her coworker’s signals and failing to take responsibility for it. Her moral collapse is a more disheartening view than any of the men she gave therapy to. What is the worst part of it all, is that her biggest sin was not giving up in the fight against the senseless rules of the system governing The Gradient. Against the reality. She could have instead kept stacking clay until it falls, and then begin again. This is the only sin, however, that allows you to take the first stone and cast it. Cast it at a mirror that hangs in front of your face and shutter it to see what shade of grey you are."

Review written by Julia Kubiak, a dedicated Activities Committee member who organised this thrilling excursion to watch "The Gradient" by Homerostheater for WILDe's Members!

You can find Julia on instagram: @toreisvogel