Алан Милн - The Sunny Side

Let us, to give an example of how this method works, go back again to the play we have been discussing.

Enter Hamlet. He walks quickly across the room to the telephone, and takes up the receiver impatiently.

Ham . Hallo! Hallo! I want double–nine—hal– lo ! I want double–nine two—hal– lo ! Double–nine two three, Elsinore…. Double– nine , yes…. Hallo, is that you, Horatio? Hamlet speaking. I say, I've been wondering about this business. To be or not to be, that is the question; whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows—What? No, Hamlet speaking. What ? Aren't you Horatio? I want double–nine two three—sorry…. Is that you, Exchange? You gave me double– five , I want double– nine …. Hallo, is that you, Horatio? Hamlet speaking. I've been wondering about this business. To be or not to be, that is the—What? No, I said, To be or not to be…. No, "be"—b–e. Yes, that's right. To be or not to be, that is the question; whether 'tis nobler—

And so on. You see how effective it is.

But there is still another way of avoiding the soliloquy, which is sometimes used with good results. It is to let Hamlet, if that happen to be the name of your character, enter with a small dog, pet falcon, mongoose, tame bear or whatever animal is most in keeping with the part, and confide in this animal such sorrows, hopes or secret history as the audience has got to know. This has the additional advantage of putting the audience immediately in sympathy with your hero. "How sweet of him," all the ladies say, "to tell his little bantam about it!"

If you are not yet tired (as I am) of the Prince of Denmark, I will explain (for the last time) how a modern author might re–write his speech.

Enter Hamlet with his favourite boar–hound.

Ham. (to B.–H.) . To be or not to be—ah, Fido, Fido! That is the question—eh, old Fido, boy? Whether 'tis nobler in—how now, a rat! Rats, Fido, fetch 'em—in the mind to suffer the slings and— down , Sir!—arrows—put it down! Arrows of— drop it, Fido; good old dog—

And so on. Which strikes me as rather sweet and natural.

Let us now pass on to the very important question of

EXITS AND ENTRANCES

To the young playwright, the difficulty of getting his characters on to the stage would seem much less than the difficulty of finding them something to say when they are there. He writes gaily and without hesitation " Enter Lord Arthur Fluffinose," and only then begins to bite the end of his penholder and gaze round his library for inspiration. Yet it is on that one word "Enter" that his reputation for dramatic technique will hang. Why did Lord Arthur Fluffinose enter? The obvious answer, that the firm which is mentioned in the programme as supplying his trousers would be annoyed if he didn't, is not enough; nor is it enough to say that the whole plot of the piece hinges on him, and that without him the drama would languish. What the critic wants to know is why Lord Arthur chose that very moment to come in—the very moment when Lady Larkspur was left alone in the oak–beamed hall of Larkspur Towers. Was it only a coincidence? And if the young dramatist answers callously, "Yes," it simply shows that he has no feeling for the stage whatever. In that case I needn't go on with this article.

However, it will be more convenient to assume, dear reader, that in your play Lord Arthur had a good reason for coming in. If that be so, he must explain it. It won't do to write like this:―

Enter Lord Arthur. Lady Larkspur starts suddenly and turns towards him.

Lady Larkspur . Arthur! You here? ( He gives a nod of confirmation. She pauses a moment, and then with a sudden passionate movement flings herself into his arms .) Take me away, Arthur. I can't bear this life any longer. Larkspur bit me again this morning for the third time. I want to get away from it all. [ Swoons .]

The subsequent scene may be so pathetic that on the hundredth night it is still bringing tears to the eyes of the fireman, but you must not expect to be treated as a serious dramatist. You will see this for yourself if you consider the passage as it should properly have been written:—

Enter Lord Arthur Fluffinose. Lady Larkspur looks at him with amazement .

Lady Larkspur . Arthur, what are you doing here?

Lord Arthur . I caught the 2.3 from town. It gets in at 3.37, and I walked over from the station. It's only a mile. (At this point he looks at the grandfather clock in the corner, and the audience, following his eyes, sees that it is seven minutes to four, which appears delightfully natural.) I came to tell Larkspur to sell Bungoes. They are going down.

Lady Larkspur (folding her hands over her chest and gazing broodingly at the footlights) . Larkspur!

Lord Arthur (anxiously) . What is it? (Suddenly.) Has he been ill–treating you again?

Lady Larkspur (flinging herself into his arms) . Oh, Arthur, Arthur, take me away!

And so on.

But it may well be that Lord Larkspur has an intrigue of his own with his secretary, Miss Devereux, and, if their big scene is to take place on the stage too, the hall has got to be cleared for them in some way. Your natural instinct will be to say, " Exeunt Fluffinose and Lady Larkspur, R. Enter Lord Larkspur and Miss Devereux, L ." This is very immature, even if you are quite clear as to which side of the stage is L. and which is R. You must make the evolutions seem natural. Thus:—

Enter from the left Miss Devereux. She stops in surprise at seeing Lord Arthur and holds out her hand .

Miss D . Why, Lord Arthur! Whatever—

Lord A . How d'you do? I've just run down to tell Lord Larkspur to—

Miss D . He's in the library. At least he—

Lord A. (taking out his watch .) Ah, then perhaps I'd better—

[ Exit by door on left. ]

Miss D. ( to Lady L.). Have you seen "The Times" about here? There is a set of verses in the Financial Supplement which Lord Larkspur wanted to—( She wanders vaguely round the room. Enter Lord Larkspur by door at back. ) Why, here you are! I've just sent Lord Arthur into the library to—

Lord L . I went out to speak to the gardener about—

Lady L . Ah, then I'll go and tell Arthur— [Exit to library, leaving Miss Devereux and Lord Larkspur alone .

And there you are. You will, of course, appreciate that the unfinished sentences not only save time, but also make the manoeuvring very much more natural.

So far I have been writing as if you were already in the thick of your play; but it may well be that the enormous difficulty of getting the first character on has been too much for you. How, you may be wondering, are you to begin your masterpiece?

The answer to this will depend upon the length of the play, for upon the length depends the hour at which the curtain rises. If yours is an 8.15 play you may be sure that the stalls will not fill up till 8.30, and you should therefore let loose the lesser–paid members of the cast on the opening scene, keeping your fifty–pounders in reserve. In an 8.45 play the audience may be plunged into the drama at once. But this is much the more difficult thing to do, and for the beginner I should certainly recommend the 8.15 play, for which the recipe is simple.

As soon as the lights go down, and while the bald, stout gentleman is kicking our top–hat out of his way, treading heavily on our toes and wheezing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a buzz begins behind the curtain. What the players are saying is not distinguishable, but a merry girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by the short sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of the world. Then the curtain rises, and it is apparent that we are assisting at an At Home of considerable splendour. Most of the characters seem to be on the stage, and for once we do not ask how they got there. We presume they have all been invited. Thus you have had no difficulty with your entrances.