David Mamet created a TV series called The Unit, which ran from 2006 to 2009 on CBS. As part of the process, writers were hired, some seventeen of them over the duration, not counting Mamet himself.
Note: "The Unit" is a euphemism that parallels the term "The Company." The latter relates to C.I.A., the former to Delta Force.
In 2005, David Mamet dashed off a memo to his writers. This document circulated through writing circles for years. It is rumored to have first been publicized by Ink Canada, but that is unconfirmed. I do know that the memo was published in 2010, the year after the show was cancelled, by Seth Abramovitch on MovieLine. It has been referenced by many others since.
One of the characteristics of the memo is that the entire document was written in upper case. Yeah, UPPER CASE. WE CALL THAT "SHOUTING" AND IT IS BLOODY HARD TO READ. If you've ever seen a David Mamet screenplay, you'll know he writes them largely in upper case as well. Anyway, for the ease of readers, I went through the text and took the liberty of converting it into a more readable format. The choice of which words to emphasize in bold is all Mamet's.
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To the writers of The Unit
Greetings.
As we learn how to write this show, a recurring problem becomes clear. The problem is this: to differentiate between drama and non-drama.
Let me break-it-down now. Everyone in creation is screaming at us to make the show clear. We are
tasked with, it seems, cramming a shitload of information into
a little bit of time. Our friends, the penguins, think that we, therefore, are employed to
communicate information—and, so, at times, it seems to us.
But note: the audience will not tune in to watch information. You wouldn't, I
wouldn't. No one would or will. The audience will only tune in and stay tuned
to watch drama.
Question: What is drama? Drama, again, is the quest of the hero to overcome
those things which prevent him from achieving a specific, acute
goal.
So: we, the writers, must ask ourselves of every scene
these three questions.
1) Who wants what?
2) What happens if he don't get it?
3) Why now?
The answers to these questions are litmus paper. Apply them, and their
answer will tell you if the scene is dramatic or not. If the scene is not dramatically written, it will not be dramatically acted.
There is no magic fairy dust which will make a boring, useless, redundant,
or merely informative scene after it leaves your typewriter. You,
the writers, are in charge of making sure every scene is
dramatic.
This means all the "little" expositional scenes of two people
talking about a third. This bushwah (and we all tend to write it on the first
draft) is less than useless, should it finally, god forbid, get filmed.
If the scene bores you when you read it, rest assured it will
bore the actors, and will, then, bore the audience, and we're all going to be
back in the breadline.
Someone has to make the scene dramatic. It is not the actor's job (the actors
job is to be truthful). It is not the director’s job. His or her job is to film
it straightforwardly and remind the actors to talk fast.
It is your
job.
Every scene must be dramatic. That means: the main character must have a
simple, straightforward, pressing need which impels him or her to show up in
the scene. This need is why they came. It is what the scene is about.
Their attempt to get this need met will lead, at the end of
the scene, to failure—this is how (we know) the scene is over.
It, this failure, will, then, of necessity, propel us into the next
scene.
All these attempts, taken together, will, over the course of the episode,
constitute the plot.
Any scene, thus, which does not both advance the plot, and stand alone (that
is, dramatically, by itself, on its own merits) is either superfluous, or
incorrectly written.
Yes but yes but yes but, you say: What about the necessity of writing in all
that "information?"
And I respond, “Figure it out.”
Any dickhead with a blue suit can be (and is) taught to say "Make it
clearer", and "I want to know more about him".
When you've made it so clear that even this blue-suited penguin is happy,
both you and he or she will be out of a job.
The job of the dramatist is to make the audience wonder what happens next. Not
to explain to them what just happened, or to suggest to them what happens
next.
Any dickhead, as above, can write, “But, Jim, if we don't assassinate the Prime
Minister in the next scene, all Europe will be engulfed in flame.”
We are not getting paid to realize that the audience needs
this information to understand the next scene, but to figure out how to write
the scene before us, such that the audience will be interested in what happens
next.
Yes but, yes but yes but, you reiterate.
And I respond, Figure it out.
How does one strike the balance between withholding and
vouchsafing information? That is the essential task of the
dramatist. And the ability to do that is what separates you
from the lesser species in their blue suits.
Figure it out.
Start, every time, with this inviolable rule: The scene must be
dramatic. It must start because the hero has a problem, and it must
culminate with the hero finding him or herself either thwarted or educated that
another way exists.
Look at your log lines. Any logline reading “Bob and Sue discuss...” is not
describing a dramatic scene.
Please note that our outlines are, generally, spectacular. The drama flows
out between the outline and the first draft.
Think like a filmmaker rather than a functionary, because, in truth, you
are making the film. What you write, they will shoot.
Here are the danger signals. Any time two characters are talking about a
third, the scene is a crock of shit. Any time any character is saying to another, “As you know,” that is, telling
another character what you, the writer, need the audience to know, the scene is
a crock of shit.
Do not write a crock of shit. Write a ripping three, four,
seven minute scene which moves the story along, and you can, very soon, buy a
house in Bel Air and hire someone to live there for you.
Remember you are writing for a visual medium. Most
television writing, ours included, sounds like radio. The camera
can do the explaining for you. Let it. What are the characters
doing? Literally. What are they handling, what are they
reading? What are they watching on television, what are they seeing?
If you pretend the characters can’t speak, and write a silent movie, you
will be writing great drama.
If you deprive yourself of the crutch of narration, exposition, indeed, of speech, you will be forced
to work in a new medium—telling the story in pictures (also known as screenwriting). This is a new skill. No one does it naturally. You can train yourselves to
do it, but you need to start.
I close with the one thought: look at the scene and ask
yourself, “Is it dramatic? Is it essential? Does it advance
the plot?”
Answer truthfully.
If the answer is “no,” write it again or throw it out. If you've got any
questions, call me up.
Love, Dave Mamet
Santa Monica 19 October 05
(It is not your responsibility to know the answers, but it
is your, and my, responsibility to know and to ask the right questions
over and over. Until it becomes second nature. I believe they are listed
above.)
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Anyone who has read David Mamet's book, On Directing Film, will recognize most of the material in this memo.