On the use of Acting Directions
This article is chiefly about writing for the theatre. You might think it has limited relevance to writing for the screen and are free to skip on to other sections if you wish. I’ve included it here because I believe that the role of a dramatist shares many similarities with that of a screenwriter.
A script is, at a basic level, a set of instructions to the actors, director, technicians and set-builders. A good set of instructions is clear, unconfusing and allows for some competence on behalf of the reader. Some writers pepper their scripts with detailed instructions to the actors, elaborate descriptions of sets and characters and even asides to the reader. Others confine themselves to the barest necessities; indicating only simple actions, exits and entrances and a nominal description of the setting.
In the era of box sets and proscenium arches, stage and set directions were more plentiful and detailed. Then there was a reversion to a more epic style of presentation with minimal stage props and no curtains to mark scene changes and the number of stage directions diminished accordingly. Some of this can be attributed to vogue and some to the individual style of playwrights.
There are no rules that dictate the quality and quantity of stage directions but there are underlying factors worth considering. A dramatist who embellishes his text with highly detailed instructions can be viewed in two ways: as a perfectionist who has a precise vision of what he wants or as an insecure individual who has no faith in the abilities of his cast or director to interpret his work.
If he has built a reputation he is more likely to be regarded as belonging in the first category but more usually these are seen as the hallmarks of a beginner who hasn’t yet developed sufficient confidence in his writing. Excessive stage directions won’t, of course, hide the merit of a genuinely good play any more than they will compensate for the faults of a bad one.
In the ideal world, a dramatist is on hand to collaborate with the director and designer on the first production of a new piece. Hopefully, this collaboration is built on mutual trust. It’s assumed that everyone concerned likes and admires the writing to some degree or they wouldn’t become involved (unfortunately this isn’t always the case).
When the writer is actively participating, she contributes to the rehearsal process. In her absence, the text must stand or fall according to its merits or demerits. But, in either case, she must accept she will have only limited control over the interpretation of her work.
Set descriptions and technical directions aren’t really that problematic except in terms of the feasibility of mounting a production. Basic stage-craft should tell you that actors need time to change costumes, that sets are expensive to build, lighting-rigs tricky to operate etcetera; and that this affects the chances of getting a play produced.
Directions to actors cost nothing to include but they may justifiably irritate a director who can see them as a usurpation of his role and some will even instruct actors to delete them from a text before rehearsals begin.
Acting directions in the script
The Acting Direction in Parentheses is the most commonly found. An adverb or adjective in brackets instructing the actor on how to deliver a line. The only justification for this is when the intended sub-text contradicts the actual text: e.g. “I hate you” delivered lovingly or a line which is meant to be sarcastic, ironic etc.
But this is a very grey area and can easily lead the writer to annotate with all kinds of inflections; in effect, dictating sub-text as well as text. The question it begs is whether an actor who is incapable of finding a contradictory sub-text for himself (ie. irony) will be any better off being specifically told what is required. And if he is capable, won’t it kill the spontaneity of finding that inflection for himself?
The best strategy, I think, is to present the actor with a “problem” through the dialogue which he is forced to solve himself by examining the context, the choice of words and the general thrust of the scene. If he still fails to solve it, even with the help of a director, then no amount of parenthetical direction will help.
Silences
Harold Pinter directing actor Michael Horden: “Michael, I wrote three dots and you’re only giving me two … “
The Pause is another ubiquitous direction that crops up in a number of forms: a “beat”, a “silence” or a simple ellipses ( … ). This is trickier to prescribe. Some writers will eschew any such direction and trust wholly in the actors to find natural breaks in the action. If it is felt necessary to indicate these breaks, they should be used consistently or hierarchically (if different types of caesura are required) so that a clear “vocabulary” is established distinguishing, for example, a “pause” from a “silence”.
Directions that describe a Dramatic Moment with no dialogue or essential action are more the province of Film than theatre scripts but they do occur. There is a case for including such descriptions but it wise to restrict prescriptive adjectives to the minimum. A reader might be impressed by a chunk of prose inserted into the text but an actor is more likely to be inhibited. (Actors really don’t like to be told in advance about “the desired effect” because it kills their creativity stone dead).
Finally, there are less intrusive and possibly more useful typographic indicators. Some of these are pretty well-accepted conventions (ie: italics for emphasis, CAPITALS for extremes of emotion and/or volume) and some of them are invented by writers to mimic the vagaries of speech.
Writers like Howard Brenton space out their dialogue in a “verse form”; leaving blank spaces on the page which are open to wide interpretation. Caryl Churchill uses a slash-mark for over-lapping dialogue while David Mamet employs ellipses and small case lettering. Again, there is room for experimentation as long as the convention is both helpful and clear.
David Clough ©1995
Subtext and signposting
“Hey,” said the director, hearing the reactions of a first night audience to my play, “They’re laughing! They think it’s funny.” The fact that he was surprised tells you all you need to know. He was a terrible director.
Of course, it was funny. I had worked very hard to make it funny, creating a subtext for the actors to discover and use. The one thing I had never done was say it was funny. I thought that was obvious but then I had never expected to be stuck with such a bad director directing my work.
I read somewhere an interview with a writer who said that writing a script was four times as hard as writing a novel because it required four times as much decision making. That might be true or not but what is true is that it is a qualitatively different task requiring a much more concentrated effort.
Because I started out as an actor, I think of scriptwriting as spending time in an imaginary rehearsal room. Here is where you get to test and explore your story, seeking the truth of each moment and setting a course that you hope your director and actors will follow.
I’ve always regarded this as a delicate process and the standard advice I’ve given to students is not to micro-manage. Avoid the use, for example, of over explicit acting directions. “Bury the treasure” has been my maxim; trust in the sensitivity and judgement of the artists who interpret your work to discover your intentions and make them their own.
Hard experience has led me to think that I may have been overly optimistic about that. Here is Alex Epstein again:
… Your script will, if you’re incredibly lucky, run a gauntlet of a dozen readers, development assistants, development execs, execs, agents’ assistants, managers’ assistants and actors. All of them are trying to get through a huge stack of bad scripts. They will not give your script the benefit of the doubt … If a line is not blazingly obvious, they’ll just be confused … Confusion is your enemy. Most readers never recover from it, because they will almost never take the time to figure out what went wrong …”
Here’s the problem.
If you’re an established writer, when they look at your script, readers will assume that it works. However puzzled they are, they will give you the benefit of the doubt.
If you’re unknown to them, they will not only not give you the benefit of that doubt, they will be more disposed to assume that it doesn’t work.
Harsh but true, I’m afraid.
Signposting
Signposting is something that writers used to do in the good old days. Bernard Shaw, J.B. Priestley, Arthur Pinero were perpetrators; Rattigan and Coward have done it too. Screenwriters like William Goldman and Paddy Chayevsky often do it.
It means addressing the reader directly as an entity and either buttonholing them or tipping them the wink that this is a significant moment and, by golly, you better pay attention.
CANDIDA. Good-bye. (She takes his face in her hands; and as he divines her intention and bends his knee, she kisses his forehead. Then he flies out into the night. She turns to Morell, holding out her arms to him.) Ah, James! (They embrace. But they do not know the secret in the poet’s heart.)
Bernard Shaw, Candida
Paddy Chayefsky used fewer words but he also liked to throw in the occasional phrase to indicate how he wanted a reader to react to a moment:
DIANA sits in her chair, pulling the bathrobe around her, alone in her artic desolation.
Paddy Chayefsky, Network
Is there such a thing as being too subtle? I never used to think so but I have changed my mind.
After multiple occasions where readers have misunderstood or completely missed my intentions, I’ve revised my opinion on signposting. Even if you take them out at a later stage, they can be useful in guiding some readers; particularly those who have never seen the inside of a rehearsal room.
David Clough, 2018