Tom Szentgyorgyi, a director and writer whose play A Family Man won the 1994 Jefferson Award for Best New Play, once told me about reading a script which had as its subject matter war, rape and genocide. On the last page of the script, two of the characters were savagely beaten by thugs. The last image Tom read on the page was: “They lie still.” Tom put down the play. Pretty bleak stuff. What would an audience take home with it after such an ending? A few weeks later, Tom got a call from a colleague, eager to know Tom's reaction to the script. Tom said the ending had left him with a flat, cold feeling. The colleague was surprised. He had found the ending very moving.
“Moving?” Tom said. “With the two bodies lying ‘still’?”
“That's not the ending!” exclaimed his friend.
It turned out Tom had read a copy of the play with its last page missing. On that last page were these simple stage directions:
(After a moment, they rise from the ground, helping each other to their feet. They begin to exit the stage, in each other's arms.)
An amazing difference. These few lines of stage directions don't change the fact of the beating. The characters are still badly hurt, but the action of helping each other to their feet and moving offstage together suggests a different world-view entirely, one in which characters make an effort to stand up rather than stay beaten. Ascension and grace.
Hamlet ends with carnage but Hamlet does achieve his goals before his death. In The Cherry Orchard, the estate is lost, the orchard is cut down, lovers break apart, and an old servant is inadvertantly left alone to die; but love is not lost, the past is not forgotten, and the old man is still trying to serve his masters faithfully as he enters the stage for the last time. In The Odd Couple, Felix and Oscar will not live together anymore, but they will preserve their friendship and affection. When Jessie succeeds in killing herself at the end of 'Night, Mother, her death is painful for the audience, but we have listened to her arguments, we have come to know her, we have come to respect her choice, and she has asserted control over her own life. These are endings that suggest the possibilities of the human spirit, the hope of love, the angels of our better natures. Within the darkness evident in these plays, the glimpse of light is both welcome and necessary.
A SUCCESSFUL ENDING
Glengarry Glen Ross by David Mamet is one of the best American plays of the 1980s. It is a taut, savage, vibrant, visceral, very funny, very frightening and very moving play about salesmen, money, and what it means to be a man in a brutal business world. The real estate salesmen—they're practically con men—of the play try to sell property to unwitting buyers (“suckers”). They also try to “sell” each other. Their motto is “Always Be Closing”—always be in the act of signing the deal. In his deft, efficient thirty-minute first act (three scenes in succession taking place in a Chinese restaurant) Mamet introduces us to four real estate salesmen, each of whom needs the “leads”—the information cards that provide tips to possible buyers. The man who controls the leads is Williamson, the ice-cold office manager. One of the salesmen, Ricky Roma, is on top, but the others—Shelly Levene, Moss and Aaronow—are desperate. Jobs, careers, families depend on their success or failure. They will bribe, cheat or steal to get those leads from the main office. As the act ends, we know that those leads are locked in Williamson's office.
As the second acts opens, we find ourselves in the real estate office. It has been ransacked. The leads have been stolen. Someone broke in the night before. Each of the salesmen is to be interrogated by the police. As the men file into the office, they react to the break-in. The audience suspects one of them to be the culprit. Is it the cocky Ricky Roma? The vicious Moss? The weak-willed Aaronow? The old warhorse Shelly Levene? The main plot of the second act focuses on the investigation, but the important subplot has to do with Ricky Roma's sale the night before of Florida property to a man known as James Lingk.
Into this scene comes Lingk, browbeaten by his wife. He has been told to retrieve the check he signed the night before and cancel the deal with Roma. Roma has to play for time. If he can put off Lingk for a few hours, the check will be cashed, the deal with go through and there's nothing Lingk will be able to do about it. Roma enlists Shelly Levene to help him by having Levene pretend to be a client. Levene's assignment: help get Roma out of the office. Roma and Levene do a marvelous vaudeville turn in this scene; they almost have Lingk bushwhacked when Williamson enters. Williamson misunderstands the situation, inadvertently revealing that Shelly is an employee. He also tells Lingk that he has nothing to worry about, that despite the break-in Lingk's check went to the bank to be cashed. This is the last thing Roma wanted Lingk to hear. Lingk leaves, horrified. Roma and Levene berate Williamson. Roma storms out. Levene continues to mock Williamson. He even tells Williamson that if “you're going to make something up, be sure it will help.”
(Williamson blinks.) “How do you know I made it up?”
Crisis! Williamson smells blood. How did Levene know the check hadn't been cashed. It was on Williamson's desk the night before. The desk is in the office where the leads were. The only way Levene could have seen that uncashed check was if Levene was in me office the night before—when the leads were stolen.
The tables have been turned.
Conflict one: In the first act, Williamson had the upper hand, as Levene begged him in the Chinese restaurant to give him some leads.
Conflict two: In the second act, Levene had the upper hand, when, unbeknownst to Williamson, he had the leads and had just made a sale.
Conflict three: At the climax, following Shelly's foolish slip of the tongue, Williamson has information that will destroy Levene. Levene begs Williamson not to turn him in, but it's no use. Levene is sent into the inner office where the police wait. He is doomed.
There are a few lines after Shelly leaves the stage: Roma comes back and talks to Aaronow; Roma goes to lunch; Aaronow stares at the ruined office. A few lines. A few seconds. And the play is over.
Where was the climax of the play? What happened in this climax? Read the play. Focus on the last ten to fifteen pages. And look at everything Mamet is doing in this ending. You'll see that the climax came when two combatants waged one final war: one won, one lost. The climax came when Williamson destroyed Levene.
What's fascinating to note is that the climax is also identifiable by its activation of all six Aristotelian elements:
Character—We've seen what Shelly Levene wanted. We've witnessed what Moss, Aaronow, Roma, Lingk and Williamson wanted. We've seen them act throughout the play to get what they wanted. We've seen them threaten, bargain, negotiate. The characters define themselves constantly, by what they speak of doing and what they actually do. They are always “closing.” In the end, they are revealed in their most pressurized state. The ending of any successful play shows its characters under the maximum challenge, in their greatest clash. In the last scene of Glengarry Glen Ross, we see Levene in his glory and in his depths, all within seconds. Character is displayed through actions.
Action—When Levene is full of himself he tells Williamson off. The speech he gives to Williamson is full of fire, anger, humor, scorn and triumph. It is hubris (remember the tragic flaws of classical heroes?). And in his hubris, Levene is incautious. He mentions the uncashed check. He has incriminated himself. His action prompts ideas.
Ideas—The play is about selling. Selling property, selling the image of yourself, selling your soul. It is also about business in America and what it means to be a man in this world. We see the self-assured sheen of success (Roma), the frustration and resentment that fuels hatred (Moss), the withering effects of failure (Aaronow), the coldness of the new corporate mentality (Williamson), and the desperation that drives a once proud and confident man to his own destruction (Levene). We also see a man far outside this world, Lingk, the quiet man who, in tears just before the climax, admits to Roma, “I can't negotiate”—which is the ultimate confession of failure in this world. Says Roma to Williamson, in one of the
play's funniest moments: “Whoever told you you could work with men?” At the climax, we are even introduced to one more character—Baylen, the detective who's come to investigate the case. Baylen's presence, his few lines, his tough persona, remind us of the grim authority that exists in this dog-eat-dog world. Baylen represents the ultimate penalty these men may pay. When the detective says to Levene, “Mr. Levene, I think we have to talk,” we know Levene, whose very life has depended on “talk,” won't be able to talk his way out of this one. The idea is in the action embodied by the language.
Language—Mamet is a genius at dramatic dialogue. At first glance, his words suggest a hyperrealistic depiction of the way people talk. But repeated exposure to Mamet plays reveals a consciously poetic quality to his linguistic stops and starts, his ellipses, his scatological epithets. The language of a Mamet play is as recognizable and identifiable as Shakespearean blank verse. At its best, at its most dramatic and most theatrical, Mamet's language is completely in tune with his characters, the actions they perform, and the ideas behind the actions. In Mamet, words are always actions. And so, in this climactic scene, we experience this kind of dialogue indicative of character, actions and ideas:
ROMA: “Whoever told you you could work with men?”
WILLIAMSON: “I want to tell you something, Shelly. You have a big mouth.”
LINGK: “I can't negotiate.” “I don't have the power.” “Forgive me.”
BAYLEN: “Get in the room!”
LEVENE: “John, my daughter …”
This last line is my favorite in the play. Out of context, it could mean anything. It is spoken by Levene twice, once in the first act when he's at the Chinese restaurant with Williamson trying to get him to give him leads. Levene begins to say: “My daughter …”, and Williamson cuts him off. The line returns at the climax just as Levene has suffered his defeat at the hands of Williamson. Williamson opens the inner door to tell Baylen that Levene is the thief. Levene tries to stop him. He blurts out: “John … my daughter …” Williamson cuts him off, saying “Fuck you.” Williamson goes into the office, shutting the door behind him.
In this context, “my daughter…” takes on many forms. Greatly important is the ellipsis, the three dots. The sentence could have continued but for Williamson's dismissal. How would that sentence have ended?
“My daughter needs a heart transplant.”
“My daughter is pregnant.”
“My daughter is in debt.”
“My daughter is (fill in the blank).”
Whatever “my daughter” is, it isn't good. Something bad is connected to this “my daughter …” And Levene's willingness to use his daughter's dire straits shows his desperation. “My daughter …” is a plea and a weapon. It means “Don't hurt me. Help me. Other lives depend on what you are about to do to me.” And it does not succeed. We don't need to know specifically what the dire straits are connected to Levene's daughter. It is a tantalizing mystery. All we need to know and all Mamet wisely needs to tell us can be found in those two words. It is one of the most efficient, effective uses of language in the contemporary theater.
The language at the climax of Glengarry Glen Ross is a complete and organic outgrowth of its characters, actions and ideas. And in its rhythms, its staccato outbursts, it is very much a kind of music.
Music—Glengarry Glen Ross is a very spare masterpiece. There isn't a wasted syllable in the text, and mere isn't much room for adornment throughout the play. But in the realm of music, the dialogue sings. And at its climax, especially in the raging arias Roma and Levene direct at Williamson, the full throttle force of speech takes on an operatic flourish. Men's voices raised in bluster and rage and power have that kind of force and volume. There's another sound however that has a repeated impact in the play, a sound not connected to speech. Remember the real estate office's inner office? There's a door to that office, and when it shuts behind one of the men, there is a firm, recognizable clank as the interrogation begins. When it shuts for the last time behind Shelly Levene, we know that sound—a sound heard in countless offices every day—is the closing of Shelly's life.
The music of this moment is inexorably linked to the sixth part of Aristotle: spectacle.
Spectacle—This is a world of men. Men in expensive suits, men in shabby suits; men surrounded by the blood-red dragons of a Chinese restaurant; men surrounded by the dull gray of an office. And, at the end, as we hear the sound of a door shut, we see a man—suddenly old—enter a room from which, figuratively, he will never return. At the end of Glengarry Glen Ross, we see Shelly leave the room and leave the stage for the last time. It is as if we are watching a man going to the scaffolds to be hanged, a man walking the last mile. The door shuts, and Levene is no longer part of the world he has so fully inhabited all his life. He is gone. He is in the inner office. And he will never come back.
CRAFTING YOUR ENDING
I spend time on Glengarry Glen Ross because Mamet realizes that for maximum effect, the climax of the play should activate all six of Aristotle's elements. By doing so, the shrewd playwright captures all of the senses in one concentrated period of stage time, hence making the climax memorable and full of dramatic impact. Some playwrights weave the elements without planning them. If you're the kind of playwright for whom these instincts come naturally, bless yourself and pass some of it around. If you are not, I think it's good strategy to do the following:
Write the words character, action, ideas, language, music and spectacle on separate cards. Now plant the cards around your desk or wherever you do your writing. If you're inclined toward sculpture, maybe you can even construct a mobile with these cards, a constellation of Aristotelian theory floating around your work. It is vitally important to keep the elements in mind when crafting your climax.
Remember that the great ending of your play is an action you decided on long before you actually started writing. Your climax, the resolution of your play's conflict, was decided prior to your typing the first stage direction. As we've seen with the above-mentioned examples, your ending can be frightening, shocking, disturbing, ambiguous—and satisfying. It is here that we must remember one of Aristotle's primary rules: The ending must be both surprising and inevitable.
In Hamlet, it is inevitable that there is death, even for the hero, but the surprises (Gertrude drinks the poison, Laertes confesses and implicates Claudius, Hamlet stabs Claudius before his own death) are truly unexpected.
In The Cherry Orchard, the estate seemed doomed from the beginning, regardless of the attempts to save it. But the inability of Lopahkin to propose to Varya and the incredible sight of Firs the butler roaming about the empty house after it has been locked are heartbreaking surprises.
In The Odd Couple, it makes perfect sense that Felix and Oscar cannot live together. We could see their “divorce” coming. But when Felix was missing, who could have guessed he'd gone to live upstairs with the Pigeon sisters? And who could have guessed Oscar would start to become neat at the play's end?
Your ending must delight us by its very unexpectedness (“Surprise!”), but it must make sense (“Of course!”).
Here's a tip. When you're devising your ending, think of what the actors get to do. A play that attracts actors because of the juicy roles they'll play and the kinds of actions they get to perform is probably a play that is functioning very well on a number of dramatic and theatrical levels. If an actor reads your script and says, “Well, there's not much for me to do here,” you've got a problem. What many actors first look for in a play is how their characters end up. You can watch them skip through a text looking for their last lines and actions. They want to know what happens to them. What do they do at the end? The climax of the play should provide the opportunity every actor hungers for—a duel, a death scene, a great speech—a chance to shine, to shock, to be a marvelous hero or a splendid villain.
And while your ending is surprising and inevitable, it must also achieve other specific goals. It must:
•
answer the central dramatic questions;
• answer any minor dramatic questions (but not at the expense of blurring the major ones);
• provide a major action for the central character(s) to perform;
• resolve the conflict;
• underline the ideas of the play.
Some minor dramatic questions may remain at the end of a play. There is room for ambiguity, but never confusion. An ambiguous ending is one that poses a minor question that has specific, possible and articulated answers, even though the writer doesn't provide the answer at the end.
Finally, the Great End of your play will be most successful if it grows organically from the Great Beginning and the Great Middle. If, however, you are stumped by your ending, go back again to the work you've done on the earlier parts of the play. The chances are the flaw lies there.
When planning your ending, track the actions from the beginning. Remember the importance of the verbs. Emphasize the notion of character. What would your characters do? What could your characters do? Brainstorm; there may be dozens of actions your characters could perform. Don't settle for the first climax that comes to mind. Choose the climax that best underlines the ideas of the play. Choose the climax that best exhibits your characters under pressure. Choose the climax that is both inevitable and contains elements of surprise. Make sure the climax activates all six of Aristotle's elements. And do not write a word of your play until you know how it ends.
EXERCISES
1. Either from real life or from your imagination, identify a dramatic premise. “A stable boy blinded six horses” from Equus is this sort of premise. Now determine two key characters in the story suggested by the premise. Determine the primary nature of their conflict. Now decide on the climax of this conflict and the resolution that follows it. Who wins? Who loses? What is the resolution? What is the world of the play following the climax?
The Art and Craft of Playwriting Page 16
