During a three month jaunt around America in the 1980s, I happened to lodge for a week in a one-room apartment, for free, with a friend of a friend. I can’t remember the exact connection, but it was a relief not to have to spend my money on a hotel so I was quite happy sleeping on his floor and occasionally hanging out. This was in San Francisco, and though we did spend some time together I was out sightseeing on my own most days. Seeing the city for the first time was an amazing experience for me, having been brought up on a diet of American movies, comic books and Mad Magazine. Here it all was: diners, burgers, trams and the Golden Gate Bridge. I was in my element. I wrote a journal every day I was in the States, and I kept it safely at the bottom of the backpack that I carried with me everywhere.
On one occasion I ventured out to buy milk for us. It was a short walk to the store so I didn’t bother with my backpack. My relationship with Mike (not his actual name, it was a long time ago) had been perfectly friendly up to this point. I was a guest in a foreign country, far from home, so I was naturally respectful, deferring to him when he advised me on how to navigate my way around. The truth was, I found him egotistical and a crashing bore. Pompous and self-aggrandising, endlessly recounting his dubious accomplishments, I couldn’t wait to get away from him. (You can see where this is going). When I got back from my little errand there was an atmosphere. An obvious, discernible shift in our relationship had occurred, enough to tip me off that he had dug out my journal and read my less than flattering portrait of him.
In the movie about my American adventure, were it ever to be written, this scene would have to be featured. How to write it? There’s little in the way of dialogue. All received wisdom says, ‘Show, Don’t Tell.’ Maybe there’s a stage direction where I look into the backpack and, frowning, see that the journal is not exactly where it should be. I don’t recall doing that. At the time I just knew he had peeked. His whole demeanour had become a degree or two frostier, and no other explanation could account for it. What followed, for the remainder of my time with Mike, was a silent farce of suspicious looks and pregnant pauses with sinister overtones worthy of a Pinter play. Unable to confront me without revealing he had rummaged amongst my personal belongings, Mike was rendered mute. I, in turn, was unable to broach the subject without accusing him of the same. What if I was wrong? I knew I wasn’t. But what good would come from a full confession from either one of the players in this comedy of errors? The words in my journal condemned us both, him for being a vile sneak, me for being a pathetic ingrate. Worst of all, each of us came to realise what was going on. He knew that I knew that he … etc.
But nothing was said.
Between all people, everywhere, there are canyons of doubt uncrossable by language. We want to impress someone, but suspect it only proves we are shallow. We desire someone, but fear rejection. We value honesty above all things, but can’t bear to hurt this or that person’s feelings. We know something about someone, but are forbidden from addressing it. All these dramas are played out each day, by each of us. Our unspoken purpose throughout these dramas is to shield our sense of self-worth behind the fragile masks of our personae. As dramatists we sometimes stare into those canyons and feel that the task is beyond us. How can we be spared from this existential crisis?
By sticking to first principles:
- Actions speak louder than words. The hero of the story must have one simple goal, and he or she must stick to that goal, see it through to the bitter end. Every person on Earth is a walking universe of potentials and possibilities. But this thought-provoking nugget can only hinder the writer, who must extract from the mess of conflicting human emotions one clearly identifiable motive, one heartfelt desire for the hero to pursue. All dialogue stems from this one goal. The hero may obscure or reveal the truth to another, but in each case the words are either in pursuit, or in denial, of the goal, whatever it is. Adherence to this rule is the golden thread that leads us out of the maze of human complexity.
- No-one speaks the truth. At least, not often. It is not so much that we lie, (though we are all quite capable of it), simply that there is no ultimate ‘truth’ in human relationships. We cannot know each other’s minds with certainty, and we cannot walk in another’s shoes. We can only imagine what it might be like to do so. And as much as we strive, most of us, to conduct ourselves with honesty and openness, we can’t help but slavishly guard the personae that we have created for ourselves. Drama exists to describe those moments when our fragile masks slip, allowing our true nature to be revealed, and language is the medium by which this comes about.
- All dialogue is subject to context. Given the first two points, that we are defined by our actions, and held in check by our perception of who we are and how we wish to be perceived by others, it follows that what comes out of our mouths rarely matches up with what’s in our heads. How does this impact on our efforts to write good dialogue? There is a temptation in all of us to have our characters say exactly what they are thinking. It makes sense. After all, how else can the reader know what’s going on? But it can lead to some horribly stilted exchanges and speeches.
Above all, a play or screenplay must communicate the intention of the hero. If it is well written, each actor will know what his or her character truly wants. It’s up to them, aided by the director, to decide how much of that desire to make plain to their counterparts. The dialogue is there only as a guide.
