The Theory of the Theatre | Page 4

sixteenth century. A synopsis of the play--partly narrative and partly
expository--was posted up behind the scenes. This account of what was
to happen on the stage was known technically as a scenario. The actors
consulted this scenario before they made an entrance, and then in the
acting of the scene spoke whatever words occurred to them. Harlequin
made love to Columbine and quarreled with Pantaloon in new lines
every night; and the drama gained both spontaneity and freshness from
the fact that it was created anew at each performance. Undoubtedly, if
an actor scored with a clever line, he would remember it for use in a
subsequent presentation; and in this way the dialogue of a comedy must
have gradually become more or less fixed and, in a sense, written. But
this secondary task of formulating the dialogue was left to the
performers; and the playwright contented himself with the primary task
of planning the plot.
The case of the _commedia dell'arte_ is, of course, extreme; but it
emphasises the fact that the problem of the dramatist is less a task of
writing than a task of constructing. His primary concern is so to build a
story that it will tell itself to the eye of the audience in a series of
shifting pictures. Any really good play can, to a great extent, be
appreciated even though it be acted in a foreign language. American
students in New York may find in the Yiddish dramas of the Bowery
an emphatic illustration of how closely a piece may be followed by an
auditor who does not understand the words of a single line. The recent
extraordinary development in the art of the moving picture, especially
in France, has taught us that many well-known plays may be presented
in pantomime and reproduced by the kinetoscope, with no essential loss
of intelligibility through the suppression of the dialogue. Sardou, as

represented by the biograph, is no longer a man of letters; but he
remains, scarcely less evidently than in the ordinary theatre, a skilful
and effective playwright. Hamlet, that masterpiece of meditative poetry,
would still be a good play if it were shown in moving pictures. Much,
of course, would be sacrificed through the subversion of its literary
element; but its essential interest as a play would yet remain apparent
through the unassisted power of its visual appeal.
There can be no question that, however important may be the dialogue
of a drama, the scenario is even more important; and from a full
scenario alone, before a line of dialogue is written, it is possible in most
cases to determine whether a prospective play is inherently good or bad.
Most contemporary dramatists, therefore, postpone the actual writing of
their dialogue until they have worked out their scenario in minute detail.
They begin by separating and grouping their narrative materials into
not more than three or four distinct pigeon-holes of time and
place,--thereby dividing their story roughly into acts. They then plan a
stage-setting for each act, employing whatever accessories may be
necessary for the action. If papers are to be burned, they introduce a
fireplace; if somebody is to throw a pistol through a window, they set
the window in a convenient and emphatic place; they determine how
many chairs and tables and settees are demanded for the narrative; if a
piano or a bed is needed, they place it here or there upon the floor-plan
of their stage, according to the prominence they wish to give it; and
when all such points as these have been determined, they draw a
detailed map of the stage-setting for the act. As their next step, most
playwrights, with this map before them, and using a set of chess-men or
other convenient concrete objects to represent their characters, move
the pieces about upon the stage through the successive scenes,
determine in detail where every character is to stand or sit at nearly
every moment, and note down what he is to think and feel and talk
about at the time. Only after the entire play has been planned out thus
minutely does the average playwright turn back to the beginning and
commence to write his dialogue. He completes his primary task of
play-making before he begins his secondary task of play-writing. Many
of our established dramatists,--like the late Clyde Fitch, for
example--sell their plays when the scenario is finished, arrange for the
production, select the actors, and afterwards write the dialogue with the

chosen actors constantly in mind.
This summary statement of the usual process may seem, perhaps, to
cast excessive emphasis on the constructive phase of the playwright's
problem; and allowance must of course be made for the divergent
mental habits of individual authors. But almost any playwright will tell
you that he feels as if his