This has been doing the internet rounds and thanks to Robin Kelly, where I saw it.
To the writers of THE UNIT
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 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.
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.
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.
Love, Dave Mamet
Santa Monica 19 Oct 05
What I love about this is that David Mamet is probably more known for his dialogue than anything else. And yet here he is, extolling the virtues and importance of not only visual story telling, but the difference between necessary and great dialogue - with really, really bad dialogue. For me the message is clear. It's not about the anti-dialogue brigade. I like writing dialogue. I'm good at it. And I think many screewriters feel this way. But it has to have meaning, it has to be relevant, and it can't just be exposition. That's what separates those living in Bel Air and those living in Belmont. (No disrespect to them!)