Recently I talked about opening lines here, going on to express my ongoing fascination with the opening of “True West” here. Playwright EM Lewis responded by asking what was my favorite opening line from one of my own plays… and that, ladies and gentlemen, leads us to an example of how a writer spends 90 minutes doing something more “fun” than working on his current project.
Those ninety minutes later, I have to say I don’t have a favorite opening line. In fact, I’m not even sure I can find evidence of one good opening line. (And having the “True West” line as an example doesn’t help.) The ones that immediately stood out in my mind did so because of the spin the actor put on it, and the overall context of what was happening and what was going to follow. Once you’ve seen it produced, it’s hard to extract the experience from the written line. Here’s an example, in the form of the opening of “The Size of Pike”:
(The apartment of a fortyish working man bachelor – the basics, and displayed none too well. A TV, empty beer cans of a notably cheap brew, a pizza box, a recliner. Not a pig sty, but arbitrarily unkempt. There are two doorways, one to the kitchen and one to the bathroom, and a closed door leading outside.
At rise: JOHN and ROD surrounded by camping and fishing gear: a tent, a sleeping bag, Coleman lantern, fishing rod and tackle box, an ice chest and the like. They each hold a bag stuffed with more stuff. John carefully sets down his bag. Rod lets the one he’s carrying drop with a thud. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his
arm, then looks at John sorrowfully, shaking his head with disapproval.)
ROD
Izzat it?
(John looks around.)
JOHN
That’s it.
Great opening line? Mmm… probably not. But it sums up a lot of the theme of the play: that Rod views himself as a manly man and John as someone who is too pampered and bringing too much stuff on this fishing trip. Does the opening line signal that the play is also going to be at times comedic? No — but the director and the actors were smart enough to get that, and to get a laugh out of the first line.
What I noticed in dipping into a couple dozen of my plays was that most of them start immediately (whether they’re short plays or not). This habit probably comes from my formative years of reading bad pulp novels, where someone with a gun comes in in the first three pages. An example from my play “Speedy”:
(A woman, MINDY, addresses us.)
MINDY
(To us.)
It started with a vicious argument with my husband Rob. I don’t know how it turned that way – it happened fast – but it was about the Millers coming over.
(Lights come up on a table and Rob seated at it. Mindy seats herself in the other chair.)
MINDY
(To us.)
I didn’t want them to.
(She calmly places her hands around Rob’s throat, then this remembered scene starts and she shifts into violent emotion.)
MINDY
You prick! You fucking asshole! This was supposed to be our night out! Now you’ve got these goddamn assholes coming over and screwing everything up! I hate those fucking Millers! If I hear one more story about Jim Miller!
Who are these people who eat our snacks and drink our wine?
ROB
(Gasping.)
Sandy’s… your best… friend….
MINDY
(To us, hands still around his throat while he freezes.)
It’s true. Since college. Sandy studied biochemical engineering. I studied anthropology. We’re both managers at Barnes & Noble. I like her a lot. But this time I felt differently and said:
(To Rob.)
Best friend? Best friend? It seems to me that Caesar’s best friend was Brutus. Look how that turned out! I would gouge out the eyes of her aged grandmother with a paring knife.
ROB
(Struggling to pry her hands off.)
I think you’re –
(As he frees himself:)
Over-reacting!
(He gasps for air and rubs his neck.)
Great writing? No. Fun on stage? Yes, if done right. It also shows an attempt to stave off my foremost fear: boring the audience.
Although I haven’t come close to having a great opening line, I think this, from “Three People, According to Sociologists,” is probably closest:
Scene One
(A basement band set-up. A huge acoustic drum kit with a massive bass drum, kettles, toms, hi-hats, percussion blocks, everything imaginable but twice over. A stool behind it. To the side, a guitar in a stand, a beat-up old amplifier, another, but in better shape, distanced from it. A battered refrigerator rescued from a junkyard or garage sale. Beside it, a couch with its stuffing showing. Also, a stereo with stacks of records and tapes, all dusty, and a profusion of cables, leads, and wires leading everywhere: to the two microphones in their stands, to the stereo, to a separate small tape deck, to phase shifters and the like for the guitar. In short: a cluttered, mossy, dusty basement music set-up. Down left, a phone atop a small desk with chair. Everywhere: empty beer cans with stamped-out cigarette butts atop them, and stray trash: junk-food bags, greasy pizza boxes, empty cans and bottles.
Hard, punkish rock and roll music rises, then fades, as the lights come up on:
ROOG, thick with muscle, wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off, jeans, and sneakers, sits at the desk by the phone, thinking earnestly. A clutter of paper scraps — names and phone numbers written on bar napkins, matchbooks and the like — is scattered atop the desk. SPIKE, anorexic-thin, with black t-shirt, black leather jacket, black sneakers, and ripped jeans, noodles around with another guitar, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He plucks stray notes, tries chord changes, etc., while he talks, his amp off the entire time.)
ROOG
(Exasperated.)
I dunno. I’m runnin’ outta guys.
(Pause. No response from Spike. He picks through the scraps, finds another phone number.)
How ’bout Jess Hames?
SPIKE
Thinks a C’s an E. Bad thing in a bass player.
As with “True West,” the audience sees the set, sees the actors, hears the first line — and immediately understands what this play is going to be about. That’s not the only mission of an opening line. But it is, after all, your opening — and so it should open the play.
It used to be that an apology counted for something.
