Hi, and welcome back to this ongoing dive into Aristotle’s analysis of dramaturgy. This week we are getting, at last, into the practical advice Aristotle provides to help us write our plays.

Book XIII

Dramatic Plots

Aristotle thinks about art in primarily moral terms. Part of his purpose was to defend the arts against his teachers, Plato and Socrates, who were… less than convinced that art was socially beneficial. As a result, Aristotle felt that a story without a moral point (social benefit) was less perfect than one which presented a moral point.

Again, we need to remind ourselves that, for Aristotle, a morally beneficial story wasn’t one that taught people values such as kindness and compassion. For Aristotle, as for Greek society in general at that time, moral virtues were the civic virtues of ruthless practicality and rationality. If a story evokes fear and pity in the audience, this is beneficial, not because fear and pity are worthwhile emotions, but because they are emotions to be purged and removed from the body politic.

For Aristotle, the moral/civic value of storytelling lay in providing an outlet for the removal of unwanted emotions and the promotion of civic virtues (such as bravery and ruthless rationality). He would probably have been very comfortable in the company of Ayn Rand.

In our own day, we have allowed ourselves the freedom to enjoy art for its own sake and believe entertainment a social good in and of itself (though we have not, for the most part and rightly, unchained art from all moral principle).

Aristotle’s intention in Book XIII is to show us what a perfect tragedy must look like.

Here, he deals with tragedy alone (and not with any other form or genre).

For Aristotle, the perfect tragedy is complex (involving a reversal – change of fortune – and/or recognition), imitative (presenting human action), and exciting fear and pity in the audience (so that these unwanted emotions can be done away with).

A perfectly good man who is undone by circumstances evokes shock rather than fear and pity. Such a story violates our expectations regarding the moral order of the world, but does not, according to Aristotle, cause us to relate strongly to the story with fear and pity. The historically undeniable impact of the story of the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth (a perfectly good man) suggests that this is not, in fact, necessarily true, but some depictions of the story (such as the emphasis on gore in Mel Gibson’s “the Passion of the Christ”) have certainly produced more shock than empathy.

Further, the story in which a perfectly bad man succeeds, fails to satisfy the moral sense or evoke fear and pity.

Neither does the downfall of the perfectly bad man leave us particularly satisfied, since, though the moral sense is satisfied, we cannot identify with the character; we feel little in observing their fate.In all cases the word “perfectly” is important. These plots fail less, the more the characters approach the admixture of good and bad that exists in all of us as common people.

How are fear and pity inspired?

They are inspired, in the case of pity, by unmerited misfortune.

Fear is similar, but different in that it is inspired by misfortune that occurs to someone “like” ourselves.

Hamartia: The importance of the character’s flaw

Aristotle is at pains to state that we are only moved when the circumstances which lead to a reversal of fortune are brought about, not by vice or evil scheming, but by a flaw in the character’s nature (with which we can relate).

In modern terms this flaw is the character’s wound, the broken part of the personality that the character needs, often unknowingly, to heal. It has usually been inflicted at some time in the past and, as the story opens, is an integrated part of who the character is (usually demonstrated in some way by actions the character takes to protect that wound from exposure).

For example, a character may be content to be the best dancer in the local dance school (a big fish in a small pond) in order to maintain their pride or hide their lack of faith in themselves. Perhaps this is due to merciless bullying by an overbearing parent sometime in the character’s past. Regardless, the character’s wound holds them back from taking the next step and risking rejection in the world beyond the dance school in order to find fulfillment and success as a high level performer.

In a non-tragedy, characters usually succeed, via the character arc, in healing this wound (the dancer is forced to step out of their comfort zone – by a reversal such as the loss of the dance school – and attempt to join a major national dance company, overcoming obstacles along the way until, win or lose – via a further reversal from failure to success -, they make an accommodation with themselves that results in some form of healing).

In a tragedy, however, the character is usually undone by this flaw and the familiarity of their plight inspires the fear and pity in the audience that Aristotle is so concerned to cultivate.

Unless the character to whom all this happens is enough like us that we can put ourselves in their shoes, we will not feel fear or pity on their behalf.

Aristotle is particularly moved by the unhappy ending and is not at all keen on stories that involve a reversal of fortune that, itself, is reversed before the end. He does, however, accept that such stories are very popular, but he attributes this popularity to the weakness of audiences and a certain weakness in writers that makes them cater to the whims of those audiences.

As a writer who enjoys a happy ending and doesn’t share Aristotle’s contempt for the tastes of the common man, I am quite happy to disregard this final observation and agree to disagree with the great philosopher on this point. Non-tragedies are not inferior to tragedies, in my view, merely different.

He does redeem himself somewhat by pointing this out, suggesting that the story with the happy ending (as evidenced by a reversal of the reversal) is of another category and genre than tragedy. For the Greeks such stories were comedies (not because they were funny, but because everything that was not a tragedy was classified a comedy). But since comedies lacked the enervating moral purpose of tragedies, he saw them as a lesser art form – something which, from the perspective of our modern vantage point, it is easy to take issue with.

So what can the audio-dramatist take away from this? I think the following points make up the essential transferable kernel of truth to be found in this book.

Characters must be relatable (in that they must be a recognizable combination of the good AND bad traits that are common to human beings). The story itself must involve a reversal of fortune that is directly related to a character’s main flaw or wound (one that has become integrated into their personality at some time in the past). The outcome of the story (whether happy or otherwise) must follow causally from this wound (and the character’s actions) to either heal or protect that wound.

Book XIV

Plot structures

While Aristotle acknowledges the place of spectacle in stories, he considers spectacle the least satisfying means by which fear and pity are inspired. This is great news for the audio dramatist, for whom visual spectacle is an impossibility. Of course, the audio-dramatist, like the novelist, is involved in the creation of images within the minds of the audience (and these images can be spectacular indeed), but there are no accompanying visuals to assist us in this. Instead, the aids to the construction of images in our imagination are sounds, music, and, chiefly, dialog.

It’s interesting to note that Aristotle opens Book XIV by suggesting that a play is only successful where it can be understood without the aid of the eye, through hearing alone.

Basically, Aristotle felt that if a drama could not (if I might use a modern example) be simulcast successfully on radio while being performed on stage (without confusion) , then the play had failed. I get the feeling he would have LOVED the medium of audio drama were he alive to experience it.

Of course, he also would have been laughed out of town by a film industry that has learned the value of visual storytelling.That said, it is no less accurate to state that Aristotle is talking primarily to those who love writing dialog. For Aristotle, it is in dialog that the effects upon the audience that Aristotle values the most, are achieved.

So, what, according to Aristotle, are the circumstances that people find frightening or pitiable?Actions which create this effect are, generally, destructive and usually the product of conflict.

One person wants something that another wants, but that both cannot have. The cost of not having this thing must be sufficiently high that we feel either pity or fear or both for the character. These costs are often referred to as the stakes.

For example, we do not feel much fear or pity for the participants in a game of bottlecap soccer. However, if we know that the loser must clear the way for the winner to get the girl, the stakes (what stands to be won or lost) are considerably higher and the chances of fear and pity are greater. If, further, we know that the loser is to make way for the winner by ending his own life, the stakes are even higher (and so correspondingly, is the investment of fear and pity from the audience).

According to Aristotle, if an enemy kills an enemy, the level of investment is lower than if the characters know one another. The stakes are higher if the two players, in our example above, are best friends, and higher still if they are brothers.

In the creation of dramatic situations, therefore, the dramatist must always seek those situations that heighten the stakes – life and death being the highest stakes of all – and involve the strongest of relationships.Aristotle breaks these situations down into a number of types.

Firstly, the participants in the conflict may be knowingly engaged with those who stand to be harmed.

Secondly, the participants in the conflict may not know who will be harmed by their actions until the action has been accomplished.

Thirdly, the participants in the conflict may know one another but fail to follow through or abandon the conflict.

Fourthly, the participants may be in ignorance of the identities of the victims of the conflict and then, on discovery of the identities, withhold harm at the last minute.

Aristotle dismisses the third kind of situation out of hand (feeling it does not belong to tragedy). Hamlet comes very close to being a story of this kind of situation.Of the remaining situations, he feels the second is better than the first, and, surprisingly, that fourth is superior to all.

In this regard, I suspect that Aristotle is making the mistake of thinking that his own taste for the last situation is a guide to what is universally true. Or, perhaps, he merely feels that, where harm is prevented, the story is of a morally superior kind. In this, as in other matters, I am prepared to accept that I have either misunderstood him, or that we do not see eye to eye on this particular point.

The takeaway from Book XIV, for the audio dramatist, is simply this; to give an audience a strong emotional experience, we must raise the stakes of the conflicts we present and strengthen the connections between the parties to the conflicts. The higher the stakes and the stronger the relationships under threat, the greater will be the fear and pity experienced by the audience.

Book XV

Character

In Book XV, Aristotle turns his attention to the development and depiction of character.To begin with he suggests that characters must be moral actors (taking actions with moral consequences).

As has been noted elsewhere, Greek morality was different to our own and (Ouch!) Aristotle had a very low opinion of women and servants (women being, according to him, inferior, and servants, worthless). He did allow that these inferior beings can be good (or at least capable of demonstrating moral intention in their actions) but it is quite jarring to come across such an unvarnished statement of sexism in the text.

Despite the inappropriate framing of his point, it is true that the moral quality of an action demonstrates character.

He goes on, however, to suggest that character should also be matched to class in terms of propriety and that it is inappropriate for a woman to, for example, show manly valor. This is base snobbery, and while it is an often-unconscious belief amongst those who consider themselves elite, that others are inferior, it is not something we need to give legitimacy to in these more enlightened times.

Next, he turns his attention to truth. Characters must be recognizably true to life. That is, we must feel as though we might actually be able to meet and converse with them as with a real person and that their behaviour would be comprehensible (even when surprising).Lastly, he talks of consistency. Characters must be consistent in their behaviour, such that, when it occurs, even the surprising action fits in with what we know and expect of the character and appears, in hindsight, thoroughly predictable. Even an inconsistent character must consistently be so.

I think it would be fair to conclude that the first two points are not that important (the second being plainly wrong). Any action after all is a moral action, revealing to an extent the moral character of the individual. More important is it for us to ensure that the character feels real (whether a dragon, or school-teacher) and behave in a consistent manner (whether functional or dysfunctional, predictable or surprising).

With regard to the display of character, Aristotle emphasises the importance of causality. No word or action undertaken by a character should be unmotivated. Each should be causally linked to what came before and what is about to ensue. Further, no action should be random and senseless. There is no place, in Aristotle’s view, for the sudden arrival of unmotivated characters or magical beings who will solve the character’s problems for them. The Deus Ex Machina is here, disposed of, as a poor literary device nearly 400 years before Christ.

Paradoxically, Aristotle, is also in favour of exaggeration in the presentation of characters. He advises the writer to create characters who are like us, only more so; being nobler, and (while remaining true to life) larger than life at the same time.

Archetypes (or stereotypically “big” characters) have always been a useful shorthand for writers. We all recognize the evil sorcerer when Darth Vader enters the stage. But it is also important to make the character real to us (showing us Anakin Skywalker underneath).

For the audio-dramatist (as for any other area of dramatic endeavour) the creation of realistic, consistent characters, whose actions are sensibly motivated by cause and effect is an essential of the writer’s art.

Book XVI

Recognition (Anagnorisis)

For Aristotle, characters experience reversals and revelations. It’s not that far from the action/exposition model that numerous writers refer to today. An action is undertaken to achieve an intention but the reverse occurs. A revelation then ensues.

Recognition occurs where the character(s) have discovered something that affects the story.

Aristotle is particularly fond of the recognition that occurs where one character realizes the identity of another character (or of themselves), but recognition need not be limited to matters of identity.

In a play the opportunity for recognition arises in subtext.June has been given an ultimatum by her father; she must answer the Duke’s proposal of marriage by midnight today. Her heart, however, belongs to Michael, a man whose fortune is under threat.

Michael has managed to secure an investment to save his factory but it will not be signed and sealed until tomorrow.

The unhappy couple meet. June hints that she needs Michael to pop the question immediately or she will be forced to marry the duke.

Michael, however, is wracked with uncertainty because the deal is not signed but hints that he will shortly be able to make the proposal June so wishes.

According to Aristotle, the recognition of the situation that the couple are in might occur in response to a specific sign; June is wearing an engagement ring and Michael notices.

This form of revelation is the least artistic, and results from, in Aristotle’s opinion, a lack of imagination on the part of the writer.

Worse still is where the two character’s openly tell one another of their circumstances, making the subtext, text. Aristotle felt that while the former is the least artistic means of recognition, this latter method of recognition had no artistry whatsoever.

A further form occurs where an external agency furnishes a sign; Michael realises this must be the fateful moment when he sees the Duke’s carriage on its way to June’s ancestral home, or when he hears the church bells chime and connects them to June’s hints.

Another form occurs where a character puts together the clues and arrives at the revelation; Michael sees the tears in June’s eyes, connects the news that June’s house guest, the Duke, has come to the local area in search of a wife with the statement that her father has begun looking for a suitable match that might preserve the family inheritance, and realises he must act.

A final form of revelation comes directly from the action itself; distracted by his upcoming business transaction, Michael and June part company. The next day, signed contracts in hand, Michael rushes to the manor only to find a wedding service underway and June about to be married to the Duke.

Of each of these means of recognition, Aristotle preferred the last.In every age and every medium, revelations that arise from the events of the story itself are much to be preferred. This is as true for audio-drama as for the stage, film, and the novel.

Next time: Aristotle spends some time discussing the writing process and some new plot elements.

Copyright Philip Craig Robotham © 2021 .

The post Learning from Aristotle – The Poetics of Aristotle Applied to Audio Drama – Part 4 appeared first on Host Your Own Old Time Radio Drama.

I had the opportunity to look at a script recently that made good use of the A plot – B plot combination. Integrating A and B Plots is not a technique I’ve made much use of myself, so it prompted me to do a bit of analysis regarding how this script structure works. For those who may not be familiar with it, it’s a method used frequently in ensemble shows where two intersecting stories are followed over the length of an episode. For those who are SF fans, Joe Michael Straczynski’s Babylon 5 made particularly good use of the form.

Here’s the basic principle; a script which might otherwise flag during the second act can maintain interest by switching back and forth between two related stories of differing weight.

Let’s say for example that we have the following two stories…

Story 1 (the A plot) – An assassin arrives in town in the guise of a seller of antiquities with plans to target the curator of the local museum.

Story 2 (the B plot) – The mayor has an important meeting with some out-of-town executives who are considering locating their factory nearby.

Fleshed out the two distinct stories might appear as follows…

Story 1

Character Goal – An assassin arrives in town and wishes to find and kill his target. No picture has been supplied, but the target’s name and place of work (curator of the museum) is given.

Obstacle – The target has taken the day off and the local sherrif is interested in why the assassin is asking questions.

Disaster – The assassin is being hunted for a crime committed outside the town and was caught on camera. He wants to complete this job, get paid, and exit the country.

Unfortunately, his picture is now everywhere… and the Sheriff recognizes him.

Choice – The assassin breaks into the Museum and hides to await his target.

Story 2

Character Goal – The mayor needs to succeed in convincing the investors to establish a factory nearby in order to give her town a badly needed economic boost.

Obstacle – Another town is under consideration as well and one of the investors seems to have already decided in the rival town’s favor.

Disaster – News arrives that an assassin is in town and the mayor tries to keep it quiet.

Choice – The mayor decides to showcase the town’s qualities by taking the investors to the museum for the final negotiations… and calls in the curator to open the building for her.

Rob Patterson, a talented thinker with regard to storytelling, pointed me to a simple storytelling structure used by the writers of South Park. Employing this method you would alternate between BUT and AND SO moments in your scenes to work through the elements of a story (eg. Jim, an off-duty police officer, goes to the local market to buy some milk BUT it is currently being robbed, AND SO he sneaks in through the back, BUT… etc. I’d like to suggest that when integrating the A and B plot we add MEANWHILE to our repertory, e.g…

Example

Protagonist A has a goal BUT there is an obstacle.

MEANWHILE Protagonist B has a goal BUT faces a different obstacle.

AND SO Protagonist A attempts to overcome the obstacle BUT a disaster occurs.

MEANWHILE Protagonist B attempts to overcome the other obstacle BUT a different disaster occurs.

AND SO Protagonist A responds to the disaster by deciding on a course of action (a new goal) BUT it is risky and pursuing it will cause the two stories to intersect.

MEANWHILE Protagonist B responds to the other disaster by deciding on a course of action (a new goal) BUT also involves risk and will likewise draw the two stories together.

AND SO the stories will come together for resolution BUT... etc.

If we think of the A and B story (and this includes the micro-stories of scenes) in terms of goal, obstacle, disaster, and new goal, then the most dramatically exciting place to cut between them will be immediately following the introduction of BUT – that moment which raises a question in the minds of the audience over whether the protagonist can achieve the goal.

Now, admittedly, different writers may employ other preferred structures in their scene design, but the principle of cutting when a dramatically significant question is raised in the audience’s mind is, I think, a helpful one.

However, these parallel tracks are a bit rigid. A further key idea to keep in mind is that of “plot weight” (a notion for which I, again, owe Rob Patterson special thanks). The two stories (the A and B plot) are rarely of equal weight. Instead of a simple A,B,A,B,A,B,A,B, etc. structure alternating between each story beat in turn, an A,A,B,A,B,A,B,BA structure is more common (where we spend longer at the beginning on the A plot and BA brings the two plots together for the story climax).

In practice the B plot’s introduction is staggered slightly so that the two stories do not run in sync. When one is having a dramatic valley, the other one is having a peak, and vice versa, adding significantly more structural interest to the overall story.

Example

By way of example, the A plot and B plot outline (above) could be integrated using our structure as follows…

An assassin arrives in town and wishes to find and kill his target BUT no picture has been supplied. Only the target’s name and place of work (curator of the museum) is given. Can he find his target?

AND SO, discovering that the museum is closed for the day, the assassin starts asking questions around town about where to find the curator BUT attracts the attention of the local Sheriff. What will he do?

MEANWHILE, the mayor is informed of the visit of some investors to town. She needs to succeed in convincing them to establish a factory nearby in order to give the town a badly needed economic boost, BUT the meeting has been called at very short notice. Can she handle it?

AND SO the assassin pretends to be a tourist, easing the Sheriff’s suspicions and decides to keep a lower profile BUT federal authorities are aware that the assassin is in the country and his picture is suddenly in newspapers and on tv screens everywhere. The sheriff puts two and two together and calls in a manhunt. How will the assassin evade detection and still complete his contract?

MEANWHILE the mayor discovers that another town is under consideration as well and that one of the investors seems to have already decided in the rival town’s favour. How will she handle this?

AND SO, feeling that things are getting a little too hot for him to remain on the streets, the assassin breaks into the museum and decides to wait for his target to return to work, BUT he has no idea how long that may be. How long will he have to wait and can he remain hidden long enough to do the job and escape?

MEANWHILE the Mayor is shmoozing the investors with some success BUT the Sheriff contacts the mayor with news that a contract killer is in town. She worries regarding the impact this may have on the investors. Can she keep it under wraps?

AND SO, the Sherriff does a bit of research and uncovers an old FBI surveillance photo of the museum curator WITH the killer! She was once a criminal but has been hiding in town under a new identity in Witness Protection. He becomes certain she is the assassin’s target, BUT he doesn’t know where she is. Can he find and protect her in time?

MEANWHILE the Mayor decides to try to sell the investors on the history of the town, calling the curator (who is on her day off) to come into town and unlock the museum for a private tour. BUT, as we know, the killer is waiting at the museum. What will happen when curator and killer are both in the same place along with the mayor and her guests?

All that’s needed now is to resolve the two plots at their point of intersection – Perhaps the mayor saves the curators’ life and gets the needed investment; perhaps the assassin murders the curator and the investors are traumatized; perhaps the assassin is caught but the investors are still traumatized, or perhaps the assassin takes everyone hostage and a new A plot and B plot are introduced (one following the hostages and their captor, the other following the local Sherrif and his attempts to resolve the situation) etc.

This plot structure is great for ongoing serials with ensemble character rosters, but is, perhaps, not so suited to the single protagonist story or serialised novel/mini-series. It is, however, well worth adding to our repertoire of writing tools and is worth remembering at those times when we are struggling to with a second act lull – a B plot might be just what is needed to rescue us.

This article is © copyright 2018 by Philip Craig Robotham – all rights reserved.

So, do you have any thoughts regarding the A plot, Be plot structure? I’d be very interested to hear from you in the comments below?

The post Integrating A and B plots in Audio Scripts appeared first on Host Your Own Old Time Radio Drama.