Writing for Vaudeville · Chapter 6Part 6
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[1] Such ancient methods of winning laughs, however, belong to vaudeville yesterdays. It should be remembered that Mr. Nathan, who bore the labor of writing this excellent article, is blessed with a satirical soul—which, undoubtedly, is the reason why he is so excellent and so famous a dramatic critic.
Ask the orchestra leader if he is married.
Have the drummer put in an extra beat with the cymbals, then glare at him.
Always use an expression which ends with the query, "Did he not?" Then say, "He did not."
The men who elaborated this kind of thing into a classic are Messrs. Weber and Fields. They are the great presiding deities of "slap-stick" humor. They have capitalized it to enormous financial profit. They claim that Mr. Fields' favorite trick of poking his forefinger periodically in Mr. Weber's eye is worth a large fortune in itself. A peculiarity of this kind of humor is that it finds its basis in the inflicting of pain. A painful situation apparently contains elements of the ridiculous so long as the pain is not actually of a serious nature. Here, too, the stage merely mirrors life itself. We laugh at the person who falls on the ice, at the man who bumps against a chair or table in the dark, at the headache of the "morning after," at the boy who eats green apples and pays the abdominal penalty, at the woman whose shoes are so tight they hurt her, at the person who is thrown to the floor by a sudden lurch of a street-car, and at the unfortunate who sits on a pin. A man chasing his rolling hat in the street makes everybody laugh.
The most successful tricks or jokes are all based on the idea of pain or embarrassment. Tacks made of rubber, matches that explode or refuse to light, exploding cigars or cigarettes, fountain-pens that smear ink over the fingers immediately they are put to use, "electric" bells with pins secreted in their push buttons, and boutonnieres that squirt water into the face of the beholder, are a few familiar examples.
Here, then, we have the bits of business that three of the ablest producers of the legitimate stage—all graduates from vaudeville, by the way—agree upon as sure-fire for the vaudeville two-act. Paradoxically, however, they should be considered not as instructive of what you should copy, but as brilliant examples of what you should avoid. They belong more to vaudeville's Past than to its Present. Audiences laughed at them yesterday—they may not laugh at them tomorrow. If you would win success, you must invent new business in the light of the old successes. The principles underlying these laugh-getters remain the same forever.
7. Sure-Fire Laughs Depend upon Action and Situation, Not on Words
If you will read again what Weber and Fields have to say about their adventures in human nature, you will note that not once do they mention the lines with which they accompanied the business of their two-act. Several times they mention situation—which is the result of action, when it is not its cause—but the words by which they accompanied those actions and explained those situations they did not consider of enough importance to mention. Every successful two-act, every entertainment-form of which acting is an element—the playlet and the full-evening play as well—prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that what audiences laugh at—what you and I laugh at—is not words, but actions and situations.
Later on, this most important truth—the very life-blood of stage reality—will be taken up and considered at greater length in the study of the playlet. But it cannot be mentioned too often. It is a vital lesson that you must learn if you would achieve even the most fleeting success in writing for the stage in general and vaudeville in particular.
But by action is not meant running about the stage, or even wild wavings of the arms. There must be action in the idea—in the thought—even though the performers stand perfectly still.
So it is not with words, witty sayings, funny observations and topsy-turvy language alone that the writer works, when he constructs a vaudeville two-act. It is with clever ideas, expressed in laughable situations and actions, that his brain is busy when he begins to marshal to his aid the elements that enter into the preparation of two-act material.
It is very likely that in your study of "The German Senator" and "The Art of Flirtation," there has crossed your mind this thought: Both the monologue and the two-act are composed of points and gags. The only difference—besides the merely physical difference of two persons delivering the gags and the greater amount of business used to "get them over" [1]—lies in the way the gags are constructed. The very same gags—twisted just a little differently—would do equally well for either the monologue or the two-act.
[1] To get over a vaudeville line or the entire act, means to make it a success—to make it get over the foot-lights so that the audience may see and appreciate it, or "get" it.
There is just enough truth in this to make it seem an illuminating fact. For instance, take the "janitor point" in "The German Senator." We may imagine the characters of a two-act working up through a routine, and then one saying to the other:
A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to be a man and he is thoroughly educated he can go into the public school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month.
The other swiftly saying:
And the janitor gets ninety-five.
There would be a big laugh in this arrangement of this particular gag, without a doubt. But only a few points of "The German Senator" could be used for a two-act, with nearly as much effect as in the monologue form. For instance, take the introduction. Of course, that is part and parcel of the monologue form, and therefore seems hardly a fair example, yet it is particularly suggestive of the unique character of much monologic material.
But take the series of points in "The German Senator," beginning: "We were better off years ago than we are now." Picture the effect if one character said:
Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.
2nd
Life to him was a pleasure.
1st
There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.
2nd
Anything he wanted he could get.
1st
But the old fool had to get lonesome.
2nd
And that's the guy that started all our trouble etc. etc. etc.
Even before the fourth speech it all sounded flat and tiresome, didn't it? Almost unconsciously you compared it with the brighter material in "The Art of Flirtation." But, you may say: "If the business had been snappy and funny, the whole thing would have raised a laugh."
How could business be introduced in this gag—without having the obvious effect of being lugged in by the heels? Business, to be effective, must be the body of the material's soul. The material must suggest the business, so it will seem to be made alive by it. It must be as much the obvious result of the thought as when your hand would follow the words, "I'm going to give you this. Here, take it."
Herein lies the reason why two-act material differs from monologic material. Experience alone can teach you to "feel" the difference unerringly.
Yet it is in a measure true that some of the points and gags that are used in many monologues—rarely the anecdotal gag, however, which must be acted out in non-two-act form—would be equally effective if differently treated in the two-act. But often this is not due so much to the points themselves as to the fault of the writer in considering them monologic points.
The underlying cause of many such errors may be the family likeness discernible in all stage material. Still, it is much better for the writer fully to recompense Peter, than to rob Peter to pay Paul inadequately.
Nevertheless, aside from the "feel" of the material—its individual adaptability—there is a striking similarity in the structural elements of the monologue and the two-act. Everything in the chapter on "The Nature of the Monologue" is as true of the two-act as of the monologue, if you use discrimination. Refer to what was said about humor, unity of character, compression, vividness, smoothness and blending, and read it all again in the light of the peculiar requirements of the two-act. They are the elements that make for its success.
The two-act—like all stage material in which acting plays a part—is not written; it is constructed. You may write with the greatest facility, and yet fail in writing material for the vaudeville stage. The mere wording of a two-act means little, in the final analysis. It is the action behind the words that suggests the stage effect. It is the business—combined with the acting—that causes the audience to laugh and makes the whole a success. So the two-act, like every other stage form, must—before it is written—be thought out.
In the preceding chapter, you read of the elements that enter into the construction of a two-act. They are also some of the broad foundation elements which underlie, in whole or in part, all other stage-acting—material. A few of the two-act elements that have to do more particularly with the manuscript construction have been reserved for discussion in the paragraphs on development. In this chapter we shall consider what you must have before you even begin to think out your two-act—your theme.
1. Selecting a Theme
Imitation may be the sincerest flattery, but it is dangerous for the imitator. And yet to stray too far afield alone is even more hazardous. Successful vaudeville writers are much like a band of Indians marching through an enemy's country—they follow one another in single file, stepping in each other's footprints. In other words, they obey the rules of their craft, but their mental strides, like the Indians' physical footsteps, are individual and distinct.
2. Fundamental Themes
Experience has taught effective writers that certain definite themes are peculiarly adaptable to two-act form and they follow them. But success comes to them not because they stick to certain themes only—they win because they vary these fundamental themes as much as they can and still remain within the limits of proved theatrical success.
(a) The Quarrel Theme. Search my memory as diligently as I may, I cannot now recall a single successful two-act that has not had somewhere in its routine a quarrel, while many of the most successful two-acts I remember have been constructed with a quarrel as their routine motives.
With this observation in mind, re-read "The Art of Flirtation" and you will discover that the biggest laughs precede, arise from, or are followed by quarrels. Weber and Fields in their list of the most humorous business, cite not only mildly quarrelsome actions, but actually hostile and seemingly dangerous acts. The more hostile and the more seemingly dangerous they are, the funnier they are. Run through the Cohan list and you will discover that nearly every bit of business there reported is based on a quarrel, or might easily lead to a fight.
(b) The "Fool" Theme. To quote again from Weber and Fields:
There are two other important items in human nature that we have capitalized along with others to large profit. Human nature, according to the way we analyzed it, is such a curious thing that it will invariably find cause for extreme mirth in seeing some other fellow being made a fool of, no matter who that fellow may be, and in seeing a man betting on a proposition when he cannot possibly win. We figured it out, in the first place, that nothing pleased a man much more than when he saw another man being made to look silly in the eyes of others.
For example, don't you laugh when you observe a dignified looking individual strutting down the street wearing a paper tail that has been pinned to his coat by some mischievous boys? [1]
[1] From the Weber and Fields article already quoted.
Note how the "fool" theme runs all through "The Art of Flirtation." Go to see as many two-acts as you can and you will find that one or another of the characters is always trying to "show up" the other.
(c) The "Sucker" Theme.
As for the quirk in human nature that shows great gratification at the sight of a man betting on something where he is bound to be the loser: in inelegant language, this relates simply to the universal impulse to laugh at a "sucker." It is just like standing in front of a sideshow tent after you have paid your good money, gone in, and been "stung," and laughing at everyone else who pays his good money, comes out, and has been equally "stung." You laugh at a man when he loses the money he has bet on a race that has already been run when the wager has been posted. You laugh at a man who bets a man ten dollars "receive" is spelled "recieve," when you have just looked at the dictionary and appreciate that he hasn't a chance. . . . Comedy that lives year after year—no matter whether you choose to call it "refined" or not—never comes to its exploiters by accident. The intrinsic idea, the germ, may come accidentally; but the figuring out of the elaboration and execution of the comedy takes thinking and a pretty fair knowledge of your fellow men. [1]
[1] From the Weber and Fields article.
Although there are very many two-acts—among them "The Art of Flirtation"—which do not make use of this third fundamental theme, there are a great many that depend for their biggest laughs upon this sure-fire subject.
In common with the "fool" theme, the "sucker" theme lends itself to use as a part or bit of a two-act. And both these themes are likely to be interspersed with quarrels.
There are, of course, other themes that might be classed with these three fundamental themes. But they tend to trail off upon doubtful ground. Therefore, as we are considering only those that are on incontrovertible ground, let us now turn our attention to the act themes which we will call:
3. Subject Themes
What can you bring to the vaudeville stage in the way of themes that are new? That is what you should ask yourself, rather than to inquire what has already been done.
Anything that admits of treatment on the lines of the two-act as it has been spread before you, offers itself as a subject theme. In the degree that you can find in it points that are bright, clever, laughter-provoking and business-suggestive, does it recommend itself to you as a theme.
Here is the merest skimming of the themes of the two-acts presented in one large city during one week:
Flirting: done in a burlesque way. Our own example, "The Art of Flirtation."
Quarrelsome musicians in search of a certain street. One is always wrong. Gags all on this routine subject.
Getting a job: "sucker" theme. One character an Italian politician, the other an Italian laborer.
Wives: one man is boss at home, the other is henpecked. Furthermore, the wives don't agree. Quarrel theme.
Old times: two old schoolmates meet in the city. One a "fly guy," the other a simple, quiet country fellow. "Fool" theme, in the old days and the present.
Note the variety of subjects treated. If my memory serves me correctly, everyone of these acts had a quarrel either as its entire subject, or the usual quarrels developed frequently in the routine. These quarrels, as in most two-acts, were fundamental to much of their humor. But no two of the acts had the same subject theme.
It would seem, then, that in thinking out the two-act, the author would do well to avoid every theme that has been used—if such a thing is humanly possible, where everything seems to have been done—and to attempt, at least, to bring to his two-act a new subject theme.
But if this is impossible, the writer should bring to the old theme a new treatment. Indeed, a new treatment with all its charm of novelty will make any old theme seem new. One of the standard recipes for success in any line of endeavor is: "Find out what somebody else has done, and then do that thing—better." And one of the ways of making an old theme appear new, is to invest it with the different personalities of brand new characters.
From the time when vaudeville first emerged as a commanding new form of entertainment, distinct from its progenitor, the legitimate stage, and its near relatives, burlesque and musical comedy, there have been certain characters indissolubly associated with the two-act. Among them are the Irish character, or "Tad"; the German, or "Dutch," as they are often misnamed; the "black-face," or "Nigger"; the farmer, or "Rube"; the Swedish, or "Swede"; the Italian, or "Wop"; and the Hebrew, or "Jew."
Not much chance for a new character, you will say—but have you thought about the different combinations you can make? There is a wealth of ready humor waiting not only in varying combinations, but in placing the characters in new businesses. For example, doesn't a "Jew" aviator who is pestered by an insurance agent or an undertaker, strike you as offering amusing possibilities?
But don't sit right down and think out your two-act on the lines of the combination I have suggested on the spur of the moment. Others are sure to be ahead of you. You can only win success with new characters that are all your own. Then you are likely to be the first in the field.
As a final warning, permit the suggestion that bizarre combinations of characters very probably will be difficult to sell. Make your combinations within the limits of plausibility, and use characters that are seen upon the stage often enough to be hailed with at least a pleasant welcome.
"Comedy" and "Straight"
The characters of the two-act are technically called the "comedian" and the "straight-man." The comedian might better be called the "laugh-man," just as the straight is more clearly termed the "feeder."
In the early days of the business the comedian was always distinguishable by his comedy clothes. One glance would tell you he was the comical cuss. The straight-man dressed like a "gent," dazzling the eyes of the ladies with his correct raiment. From this fact the names "comedian" and "straight" arose.
But today you seldom can tell the two apart. They do not dress extravagantly, either for comedy or for fashion effect. They often dress precisely alike—that is, so far as telling their different characters is concerned. Their difference in wealth and intelligence may be reflected in their clothes, but only as such differences would be apparent in real life. Indeed, the aim today is to mimic reality in externals, precisely as the real characters themselves are impersonated in every shade of thought and artistic inflection of speech. There are, to be sure, exceptions to this modern tendency.
The original purposes of their stage names, however, remain as true today as they did when the two-act first was played. The comedian has nearly all the laugh lines and the straight-man feeds him.
Not only must you keep the characters themselves pure of any violation of their unity, but you must also see to it that every big laugh is given to the comedian. If the comedian is the one "getting the worst of it"—as is almost invariably the case—he must get the worst of it nearly every time. But that does not influence the fact that he also gets almost all the laugh lines.
Note the working out of the laugh lines in "The Art of Flirtation." You will see that only on the rarest of occasions does the straight-man have a funny line given him.
The only time the feeder may be given a laugh line, is when the laugh is what is called a "flash-back." For example, take the point in "The Art of Flirtation" beginning:
And does she answer?
She's got to; it says it in the book.
Does she answer you with a handkerchief?
Yes, or she might answer you with an umbrella.
This is a flash-back. But, the comedian gets a bigger laugh on the next line—worked up by a gesture:
COMEDIAN Over the head.
Or take this form of the flash-back, which may seem an even clearer example:
Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady. You ought to hear me talk to my wife.
To your wife? Any man can be disagreeable to his wife. But think—,
and so on into the introduction to the next point. It is always a safe rule to follow that whenever you give the straight-man a flash-back, top it with a bigger laugh for the comedian. How many flash-backs you may permit in your two-act, depends upon the character of the material, and also varies according to the bigness of the roars that the business adds to the comedian's laughs. No stated rule can be given you. In this, as in everything else, you must carve your own way to win your own business.
You have selected your theme, chosen your characters, thought out every angle of business, and mapped nearly all of your points, as well as your big laugh-lines: now you are ready to put your two-act on paper. Before "taking your pen in hand," stop for a moment of self-analysis.
You can now determine how likely you are to succeed as a writer of the two-act, by this simple self-examination:
How much of my two-act have I thought out clearly so that it is playing before my very eyes?
If you have thought it all out, so that every bit of business moves before your eyes, as every point rings in your ears, you are very likely to turn out an acceptable two-act—if you have not played a "chooser's" part, and your points are real points.
But do not imagine because you are positive that you have thought everything out beforehand, and now have come to writing it down, that your job of thinking is ended. Not at all; there are a few things still to be thought out, while you are writing.
As in the monologue—because your material is made up of points—you may begin nearly anywhere to write your two-act. And like the monologue, you need not have a labored formal introduction.
The Introduction
Still, your introduction is no less comprehensively informing because it has not the air of formality. If your characters by their appearance stamp themselves for what they are, you may trust complete characterization—as you should in writing every form of stage material—to what each character does and says.
But in your very first line you should subtly tell the audience, so there cannot possibly be any mistake, what your subject is.
Why are those two men out there on the stage?
What is the reason for their attitude toward each ther?
If they are quarreling, why are they quarreling?
If they are laughing, why are they laughing?
But don't make the mistake of trying to tell too much. To do that, would be to make your introduction draggy. You must make the audience think the characters are bright—precisely as the introduction of the monologue is designed to make the audience think the monologist is bright. Write your introduction in very short speeches. Show the attitude of the characters clearly and plainly, as the first speech of our two-act example shows the characters are quarreling:
Say, whenever we go out together you always got a kick coming. What's the matter with you?
Then get into your subject-theme quickly after you have given the audience time to get acquainted and settled, with the memory of the preceding act dimmed in their minds by the giggle-points of your introduction.
The introduction of the two-act is designed to stamp the characters as real characters, to establish their relations to each other, to give the audience time to settle down to the new "turn," to make them think the performers are "bright" and to delay the first big laugh until the psychological moment has come to spring the initial big point of the subject theme, after the act has "got" the audience.
It would seem needless to repeat what has already been stated so plainly in the chapters on the monologue, that no one can teach you how to write excruciatingly funny points and gags, and that no one can give you the power to originate laughter-compelling situations. You must rise or fall by the force of your own ability.
There are, however, two suggestions that can be given you for the production of a good two-act. One is a "don't," and the other a "do." Don't write your points in the form of questions and answers. The days of the "Why did the chicken cross the road?"—"Because she wanted to get on the other side" sort of two-act, is past. Write all your points in conversational style.
Never write:
What were you doing at Pat's dinner lathering your face with a charlotte russe?
Write it:
So you were down at Pat's house for dinner, and you went and lathered your face with a charlotte russe—I saw you.
Of course when a legitimate question is to be asked, ask it. But do not deliberately throw your points into question form. Your guide to the number of direct queries you would use should be the usual conversational methods of real life.
Your subject, of course, in a large measure determines how many questions you need to ask. For instance, if your theme is one that develops a lot of fun through one character instructing the other, a correspondingly large number of questions naturally would be asked. But, as "The Art of Flirtation" plainly shows, you can get a world of fun out of even an instruction theme, without the use of a wearying number of inquiries. The two-act fashion today is the direct, conversational style.
Now for the second suggestion:
Although some exceedingly successful two-acts have been written with many themes scattered through their twelve or more minutes, probably a larger number have won success through singleness of subject. A routine with but one subject worked up to its most effective height is often more likely to please.
Furthermore, for the reason that the two-act is breaking away from the offering that is merely pieced together out of successful bits—precisely as that class of act struggled away from the old slap-stick turn—the single-routine now finds readier sale. The present tendency of the two-act seems to be to present clever characterization—and so to win by artistic acting, as before it won by cruder methods.
Therefore, strive for unity of routine. Treat but one subject and amplify that one subject with singleness of purpose.
The point, or the gag, of a two-act is very much like that of the monologue. In so far as construction is concerned—by this I mean laugh-wave construction—they are identical. Study "The Art of Flirtation," and you will see how little laughs precede big laughs and follow after, mounting into still bigger laughs that rise into roars of laughter.
1. Introducing a Point
If you were telling a joke to a friend you would be sure to tell him in your very first sentence all the things he would need in order to understand the point of the joke, wouldn't you? You would take great care not to leave out one salient bit of information that would make him see the joke plainly—you would be as logical as though you were trying to sell him a bill of goods. Take the same attitude toward each point that you introduce into your two-act. Remember, you are wholesaling your "jokes" to the comedians, who must retail them to their audiences. Therefore, introduce each new point as clearly and as briefly as you can.
Let us take a point from "The Art of Flirtation" and see how it is constructed. The very first line the straight-man speaks when he comes out on the stage unmistakably declares his relation to the comedian. When he shows the book, he explains precisely what it is. And while laugh after laugh is worked out of it, the precise things that the book teaches are made clear.
No. It ain't ten cent love. It's fine love. (Opens book) See—here is the destructions. Right oil the first page you learn something. See—how to flirt with a handkerchief.
Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt with a woman.
Listen to what the book says. To a flirter all things have got a language. According to this book flirters can speak with the eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with the handkerchief, with anything; this book tells you how to do it.