Here’s the email I sent to 10 playwrights the other night seeking input on the new syllabus I’m writing for a class:

I’m taking a quick unscientific poll of playwrights I know whose work I respect to see what they would say in response to this question:

“What are the six contemporary American plays you could learn something about writing plays from?”

If you have just a few minutes to ponder this and reply, I’d appreciate it.

I already know what I think — obviously — but I’d like to know what YOU think.

“Contemporary” in this context means post-1950.

I don’t mean the BEST plays necessarily — I mean the plays that truly demonstrate how to do at least one particular thing well. “True West,” for example, demonstrates how to convey a lot of information organically (as in the opening line), among other things. I think “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom” does a great job of foreshadowing. On the other hand, I love “Waiting for Godot” and am a huge fan of Ionesco, but I don’t know that there are any (positive) lessons in playwriting to be gleaned there.

This is an opportunity to send up a signal flare for plays you admire and to let others slip off into the annals of history.

If you have those few minutes and can respond, I’ll be grateful.

Thank you.

Seven of them responded, and while there are a couple of selections I anticipated, and there is some overlap, I still find the list filled with surprises. To wit:

From Respondent #1:

Making it American and post-1950 takes away my favorite learning plays — Chekhov’s rewrite of The Wood Demon into Uncle Vanya, but here goes (off the top of my head):

HOW I LEARNED TO DRIVE, by Paula Vogel. Shows how you can use disjointed time and scene sequence to trick an audience out of its prejudices and allow it to view provocative subject matter (child molestation in this case) from a completely fresh angle.

THE FEVER, by Wallace Shawn. Demonstrates how to effect traditional structure — inciting incident, rising action, crisis, climax, denoument — in a one-person play. Also how to handle and present dense, intellectual matter in a theatrically compelling way. A one-person play called MY ITALY STORY by Jospeph Gallo does the structure thing, too.

ANGELS IN AMERICA by Tony Kushner. How to create an alternate universe on stage that really works on its own terms and yet resonates with the audience’s experience of our “real” world. Also, how to inflate domestic drama to the level of grand opera, without music.

DOUBT, PILLOWMAN and PROOF, by John Patrick Shanley, Martin McDonough and David Auburn, respectively, all as one entry, because they demonstrate the same thing: how to structure a modern mystery play — a “whodunnit” — and keep the audience in their seats guessing about what’s really what until the final curtain.

DEATH OF A SALESMAN, by Arthur Miller. How to write an interior play, i.e., a play that’s really going on inside the protagonist’s head, while still keeping events external and dramatic enough to carry the audience along.

LOVE, VALOR, COMPASSION, by Terrence McNally. Demonstartes how to effectively and seamlessly shift point of view. The book for the musical JERSEY BOYS, by Marshal Brickman and Rick Elise, pulls that off, too.

After I replied favorably to seeing HOW I LEARNED TO DRIVE on the list, and wondering about Pinter’s absence, he reminded me that I had stipulated “American” and then he added this:

I followed your request pretty carefully. Although HOW I LEARNED TO DRIVE and THE FEVER are among my favorite plays, the others on the list are not. For the most part they’re plays I like, but also plays that I think you can learn something about playwriting from.

I really like ARCADIA and just about all of Tom Stoppard’s work, but I can’t think what I’d learn from them. You said American plays, so I didn’t consider him or Pinter for this excercise. If Brit playwrights had been allowed, I would have included Marie Jones’ STONES IN HIS POCKETS as a good teaching play. It shows how to paint a big canvas with just two actors. Maybe something by Caryl Churchill, too.

I realize now that I slipped an Irishman in there with McDonough.

If I were going to suggest a Pinter it would be THE HOMECOMING or A KIND OF ALASKA. But again, I don’t think we can learn how to write like Pinter or Stoppard by reading or seeing their plays, anymore than we can learn how to fly by watching birds and flapping our arms.

Respondent #2’s list:

Proof, how to hide the major dramatic question (will she survive her emotional problems?) behind a McGuffin (did she write the proof)
Cloud Nine, how to play with time and space and effectively make a statement
Angels in America (Part One only), how to use epic structure in post-modern times
The History Boys, how to use of a naturalistic process (preparing for a test) as an umbrella and overriding metaphor for a community (England’s educational transition in the time of Thatcher)
Pillowman, how to mix myth and realism
Rabbit Hole, how to use the 7-page/week workshop format to structural advantage with emphasis on the audience preception shift.

From Respondent #3:

Narrowing it down to six is tough. Even tougher is not including any plays written before 1950 … “Long Day’s Journey,” “Our Town,” “Glass Menagerie” …

But here they are, in no particular order …

“Buried Child” – Sam Shepard
A Greek tragedy set on an Illinois farm. I can’t think of another play that operates on so many levels. It’s comedy and horror perfectly blended, and is a terrific example of giving an audience a play that is as deep as they are willing to dig … and there is always another layer waiting to be explored.

“Kimberly Akimbo” – David Lindsay-Abaire
This would probably be the most controversial play on this list as to whether or not it deserves inclusion. The play has its flaws, but his writing is so seemingly effortless (proven again in “Rabbit Hole”), that it catches you by surprise at how impactful the characters are the ending is. And it does all that without breaking a sweat. To me, that’s playwriting on the highest level.

“Angels in America, Part One: Millennium Approaches” – Tony Kushner
Mixes magic realism with great comedy with awful tragedy, and does it all with beautiful language. This is the play Aristotle had in mind when he wrote The Poetics.

“1776” (libretto) – Peter Stone
This is the very best example of how to write 27 roles, each sharply drawn. And, in addition to the remarkable historical accuracy, Stone manages to make these previously cardboard figures jump off the page. And in what other musical comedy do you find such finely etched political and philosophical arguments?

“Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” – Edward Albee
If you want to break new ground and create a visceral awfulness onstage that will be the model for many future plays and playwrights, I can’t think of a better example. The key to making this type of play work is to make it as compelling as a fatal traffic accident so that the audience simply cannot turn away. At three plus hours, Albee somehow managed to do this. It’s unrelenting and exhausting. Which makes it perfect.

“The Odd Couple” – Neil Simon
Not a single joke in the entire play. Instead, this is laugh-out-loud humor grounded in character. There are no lines you can take from one character and give to another (aside from the interchangeable Pigeon sisters) without the line falling flat. This is the best well-made comedy ever written. And, I believe (though it’s just a guess), the most difficult play on this list to write.

You could call this list The American Dream and not be far off the mark. I would really like to have included a woman here. Or a minority. (Well, Kushner and Albee are “friends of Dorothy,” though they’re hardly a minority in the theatre.) But you wanted the top six and these are they. In my opinion.

What I like about that list is the range: Here’s a playwright unafraid to equally admire the very disparate “1776,” “Buried Child,” and “The Odd Couple,” all of them excellent plays.

Respondent #4’s list from a contrarian playwright friend of a dozen years features some negative choices:

1. God’s Man in Texas by David Rambo for a demonstration on how you need to have something at stake (in this case, the pulpit of one of the biggest and most influencial church’s in America) that the audience cares about. This is an excellent play to study for theme, as it deals with father-sons in the spiritual and physical world.

2. All My Sons by Arthur Miller (and this might be pre-1950, I’m not really sure) about how to begin a play. The way the information is revealed in the first 20 minutes is especially deft. He doesn’t reveal everything all at once.

3. Mac Wellman’s entire output. How to write utter nonsense and be seen by the misguided as some kind of newfangled genius.

4. Angels in America by Tony Kushner. There isn’t a scene in both plays (but especially the first) that don’t offer lessons on how to write characters that leap off the page. (Also, he is very clear here about what the characters want, which is why they are so alive in the first place)

5. Nothing by David Mamet. Great playwright at times who can ruin playwrights who lapse immediately into his speech patterns, which seem so easy to copy but aren’t.

From Respondent #5:

‘Night Mother, by Marsha Norman. I think it’s a perfect text to teach with, because it is so simple and specific and wonderfully written. It is about one thing that the main character wants and how she goes about achieving it, and has such marvelous complexity of character over the top of its simplicity of action and plot.

“Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” by Edward Albee. Because it turned me on, on, on to playwriting and has kept me there like no other play, and that kind of energy is important if you’re going to do this.

Talley’s Folly, by Lanford Wilson. I actually like Fifth of July better — but Talley’s Folly is direct, specific, two characters (so often new playwrights bite off more than they can chew with their first plays — casts of thousands, fifty different sets — this is an example of one set, two actors, and (again) a very direct action line.

Maybe something that has some good theatricality to it, too: Angels in America, or M. Butterfly. I adore Sam Shepard. Mamet’s Glengarry Glenn Ross. Take Me Out by Richard Greenberg really impressed me. The Pillowman is a terrific read, too, and very intense.

Anyway. There’s a few, off the top of my head. I could talk about this topic over gin martinis for hours. Good luck with the project!

I was surprised that this was the first mention of “‘Night Mother,” a play I have grown to admire more and more over the years, and one which I will certainly be teaching this spring.

From Respondent #6:

“Proof” – it’s the best contemporary example of the well-made play in my mind. I’m speaking particuarly of structure, plot, payoffs, etc. Done extremely economically with good character development.

“Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff” – If there’s better depth of character or superior, crackling dialogue, I don’t know where it exists.

“Streetcar Named Desire” (this might be pre 1950) – Language as poetry. Amazing.

“How I Learned How To Drive” – Breaking structure; themes that carry through the play. It was used at one of the sessions I took at the Kennedy Center and I was more impressed when I read it than with the production I saw here (with Molly Ringwald and Brian Kerwin).

“Angels In America” – It’s brilliant in everything I mentioned above. Really brilliant. And he doesn’t get caught up in the transitions between scenes. He just does them.

“Our Town” – that’s pre 1950, isn’t it? I think it was the forties. But I love the way it travels through time so easily and how it’s narration isn’t jarring and is woven into the fabric of the structure. And its universal theme is what makes it such a great teaching tool. Everyone can relate to it, even if the few cynics who condemn it for being corny.

Finally, I received this reply from Respondent #7. While I don’t know the last play she suggests, I so admire her rationale for its inclusion that now I’m going to seek it out. Here goes:

Doubt by JPS– because I think this is a play where the DNA of the story is really upheld in every scene, monologue, and line of the play (almost every line is an expression of some sort of doubt- and certainly every scene is).

Fences by August Wilson – Most structuralists maintain that Cory (the son) is the real protagonist of this play, even though it is 99% Troy’s story. I find that interesting and love this play for being complexly structured and have two or three utterly, searingly beautiful moments that lift it into the catagory of a classic.

Long Day’s Journey into Night by Eugene O’Neil– for the way he shifts your perception of the characters with almost every line, with stage directions, and with silences.

Red Light Winter by Adam Rapp– from last year’s Pulitzer shortlist. I would teach this as an almost masterpiece by a young contemporary writer. There are some significant Act Two and character problems — but it is brilliant at character development with the two male characters (female character lags a bit). Almost unsurpassed at dialogue riffs that seem gratuitous but are actually very specific and purposeful, and lyrically beutiful while still entirely conversational.

History Boys by Alan Bennet — this is a fascinating play that refuses to tie anything up with a bow for you. Everything seems random, the hand of the maker is not at all in evidence, there is no melodrama or manipulation on the part of the writer, it is made to be performed and not read, and it still manages a profound impact.

Imperceptible Mutabilities in the Third Kingdom by Suzan Lori Parks. This teaches you that you can do absolutely anything and call it a play. In a good way. The only Parks play I actually like. Utter freedom. Total creativity. Shows that playwriting is not a collection of rules, but a celebration of imagination.

For years, one of the things I’ve made a point of saying to students (as well as writing on the board) is this: “I may be wrong.” Although I have strongly held views about craft — how to accomplish certain things well on stage — when it comes to art opinions should be more freewheeling. Creativity demands freedom, and while good playwriting exists atop a framework of what will work (or play), ultimately rules are secondary. If I have any rule, it’s this one: Don’t bore the audience. But, as a very close playwright friend pointed out to me years ago, definitions of “boring” differ.

One thing the list points out is that while some of us gripe about the bad plays we see, there have been many wonderful plays written in our lifetime. The reason we may be unhappy any given night in the theatre may have more to do with our disappointment that we’re not seeing something as memorable as we’ve already seen and demand to see again.

Another thing it shows is that there is always room for good new plays.

Salon’s Allen Barra reviews Gore Vidal’s latest memoir and finds it as overstuffed as its author.

More than 20 years ago I was a fan of Vidal’s books. Then I grew up. Part of growing up was noting that while I understood and appreciated what Vidal was against, I couldn’t see what he was for. Now I know: nothing. Because it’s harder to be for something.

One thing Vidal is increasingly for is his self-image. Although that’s extremely boring to most of us, I don’t begrudge him the self-indulgence, partially because I’ve seen it in other aging men of letters who met with great success. Jerome Lawrence, for example, was not only the co-author of “Inherit the Wind,” “The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail” and many other famed plays, he was also a wonderful, kind man who put a lot of money and personal energy into helping future generations of playwrights, and who always told the same stories about himself. I felt less forgiving toward Athol Fugard, whom I met in 1990 and who seemed to be taking personal credit for ending apartheid in South Africa thanks to his plays. (My response at the time: “It seems to me that Nelson Mandela played a role in this too.”) More locally, many of us in my playwriting workshop have had personal exposure to a literary figure who for 20 years has perfected the art of turning every topic into a disquisition on his own recent relative success. You wouldn’t think that any — any! — subject could be related to the daily doings of this minor writer, but it can. I’m sure that if you were to win the MacArthur Fellowship it would turn out that he had once actually been MacArthur.

I haven’t noticed Philip Roth falling into this, and his work is as strong (or stronger) than ever. I like to think that his toughness is being rewarded on the page.

While I’m on the subject of the Edwards announcement, I couldn’t help noticing two more things:

1. The campaign put up then took down then put up its site, stepping on its own announcement. If you can’t even announce right, can you really run the country?
2. The story says, “He did yard work at the home of New Orleans resident Orelia Tyler, 54, whose home was completely gutted by Hurricane Katrina and is close to being rebuilt.” What would be the difference between “completely gutted” and just plain old “gutted?” Because the latter means “guts removed,” it’s an inherently complete operation. You can’t incompletely gut something.

I recently saw a terrific one-person show that I almost missed because I’ve grown to hate the form so much.

For writer and performer Debra Ehrhardt it was almost as difficult getting out of Jamaica 25 years ago as it was getting me to see her show, “Jamaica Farewell.” I don’t begrudge anyone their opportunity to spin self-indulgent tales of their comically tortured childhood; I just don’t want to see them anymore. (Even if — especially if — your name is John Leguizamo. Note to John: less mawkishness next time. And please don’t ever again mime a baby suckling at a breast. We get it, even if you don’t — you’re a demanding infant. Jeez. And note to Mr. “Frank Sinatra Fucked Up My Life”: No, that was you.)

So, having been annoyed so many times, my preference to seeing most one-person shows that don’t feature Dame Edna or Elaine Stritch would be to stay home. Or even to shoot heroin into my eyeball. Anything. Ehrhardt, though, was charming and persistent and I decided to accept her invitation to see the show one night in December just before leaving town. I’m glad — no, lucky — that I did.

Every once in a while you see a show that rewards your devotion to the theatre. Some months ago I asked a group of fellow playwrights how often they were glad they’d seen a show. How often had it been worth the effort involved? Responses ranged from 25% (the always upbeat and bright-eyed comedy writer Stephanie) to 10% (me) down to 5% (the would-be curmudgeon in the group who is a closet romantic — and isn’t that what every cynic is: a romantic who got burned?). The theatre is notoriously difficult to pull off. The writing has to be good, as well as the performing, it has to be pulled together and presented well by a director and designers, the theatre had better not be too hot or too cold, the right audience has to have found it because they are very definitely part of the experience, there had better not have been a bad parking or driving or box-office experience, and on and on and on.

So why do so many of us go so often? Just to get angry at ourselves for our blockheaded refusal to give up? No — because when it is superb, nothing surpasses the visceral thrill of performers and material connecting with an audience in a defined space. I love great performers of all stripes and honestly feel blessed to have worked with so many wonderful actors, and I love great provocative writing. Put the two together and you’ve got the theatre — when it works.

I haven’t seen a lot of that in one-person shows, and that’s probably because the form has become confessional, with the goal of arousing our sympathies. Mostly, I have no sympathies. Life is hard, and if you’re doing a one-person show I can unequivocally guarantee you that by comparison your life is not at all hard — in fact, it’s ridiculously easy. How easy? Unlike these people in Lagos, you aren’t grateful for the opportunity to live deep in a pit at the bottom of the world’s largest dump. Despite what you think, juggling your waiting job with acting lessons is not a great tribulation.

Everything about Ehrhardt’s show is in delightful contrast to the new proclivities of the one-person show. In relating her tale of trying desperately as a young woman to get to the U.S. and start a new life, she never asks us to feel sorry for her. Rather than drowning us in bathos, she shows us pluck and determination. Nothing will stand in her way. She’s also generous in her characterizations: Although she stars in her own life’s story, all the peripheral characters are given fair treatment and deft handling. She sketches in her mother, her father, her boss, and sundry townspeople with wit and charm. Her portrayal of her father, a drunk who has squandered every family opportunity, is remarkable in its final kindness. In an age of visualized revenge, we don’t see that sort of kindness and understanding often. (Except at the end of Paula Vogel’s “How I Learned to Drive” — in which our protagonist shows great empathy for her molesting uncle, in a closing that elevates the play into art.)

Somehow or other, she also manages to meld comedy with high-wire tension in this 90-minute show — as when she is threading her way through the strange terrain of darkened backwaters with a million dollars in cash in a briefcase and men with machetes or would-be rapists stalking her. The writing, and her performance of it, is riveting. I promise you that I’ll never forget some of it.

There are two upcoming performances of “Jamaica, Farewell” at the Whitefire Theatre in L.A., on January 7th and February 4th. I strongly, strongly recommend the show. It hasn’t had an extended run yet, but it deserves one, and it deserves to tour.

In recognition of the holiday and as an admirer of Paul Auster’s work, I thought I’d share his modern Christmas fable (filmed as part of the terrific film “Smoke”), Augie Wren’s Christmas Story. And luckily, here’s a site where someone spent the time to type it for you: Augie Wren’s Christmas Story.

In the film, Augie (Harvel Keitel) relates the story to a fictionalized Auster played by William Hurt. The scene plays out much as this short story does, with the added touch that, as Augie tells the story, the camera pulls in closer and closer toward his mouth and finally his slight smile, raising doubt about the story’s veracity. Part of the point: Whether it’s truth or fiction doesn’t matter — in fact, it’s all fiction, and, as usual with Auster, it’s metafiction (fiction about fiction). As a fable, it’s an evocative and unforgettable story about the sometimes incredible generosity of the human spirit. And that’s what every Christmas story should be about.

I’m rewatching Season One of Rome, this time with elder son Lex, to bring him up to date so that we can watch the second season together. We’d both rather still be watching The Wire, but we’ll have to wait another year for new episodes.

The second episode of “Rome” tonight got me thinking about focus — because in one scene I couldn’t help noticing where it wasn’t.

Legionnaire Lucius Vorenus has just returned from eight years of serving Caesar in an endless war in Gaul. He has barely reacquainted himself with his wife, Niobe (pictured above), when he has to sit in adjudication over a young herder petitioning to marry his 13-year-old daughter. Camera shots ricochet between the beleaguered young man and the unhappy father, who isn’t pleased by the notion of his daughter marrying a drover whose family lives in a house formed from cattle dung. Ultimately, though, he agrees.

And then comes what’s missing: A reaction shot from the daughter, who so ardently wants this man. So why don’t we have it? And why, instead, do we have a reaction shot of a clearly thrilled Niobe?

Because, as this storyline develops, the daughter and her intended aren’t that important. This scene is part of a story being developed about Vorenus and Niobe, which ends the season in a tragic twist. We’re in on the secret; Vorenus is not. Judging by the end product, I take it on faith that the editor (as well as, clearly, the writer and director) knows that Niobe is the point and not her daughter, and that’s why Niobe gets the reaction shot.

My chosen medium is the theatre. While we don’t have a camera, the issue of focus is always important. Good stage movement (blocking) does more than just get actors to where they have to be; good stage movement is also motivated by characters’ desires, and doesn’t steal focus from the principle figure in the scene.

It’s the same with writing the scene. If too many characters come in all at once, or too many different topics are raised, or inappropriate stage business pulls the eye, there’s no way to focus the audience’s attention. Chaos erupts. The human brain demands focus so that it can make sense of all the information flooding it. Without that focusing process, the unfiltered data would overwhelm us. That’s called confusion.

If as an audience member you pay attention to what you’re supposed to, you should be able to follow the story. If you stop to think about what you’re not supposed to be focusing on, you can see the man holding the puppet’s strings. Lex wondered how I saw the twist ending of “The Prestige” coming. It’s because I wondered why, when the one magician’s accomplice was a major character, we were never formally introduced to the other magician’s collaborator even though he was shown in many scenes — and once I asked that question, I knew the answer: Because we weren’t supposed to be.

Directors direct the actors. Writers use focus to direct the audience.

The other day on my return flight I caught myself looking at my watch and thinking for a moment about the British Empire. (Actually, that was my second thought. My first thought was a variation on “Are we there yet?”)

What got me thinking was how freakin’ huge this watch is. As one online listing says, this “stunning, high quality men’s Fishbone watch is SERIOUSLY CHUNKY!” and has “a mega large round dial (case diamter approx 42mm wide / 12mm thick).”

In August 2005, no doubt dazed by my latest literary allusion, Doug asked me for a list of what he should read. So by God, I gave him one. What writer wouldn’t?

In honor of Doug’s 50th, I’ve decided to share it with you, too. It’s still called “Doug’s Reading List,” even though Doug didn’t draw it up and has proved immune to its wisdom. Don’t let that stop you, though. Sadly lacking in a college degree in literature, but determined to hold your own at fancy-schmanzy wine-and-cheese events? Then this is the list for you!

Click here for the page hosting the list.

Wanna pick a fight on the contents of the list? Please do. Post a comment. I eagerly await it.

Slate’s Bryan Curtis on Christopher Guest’s new movie. He doesn’t like it — or Guest’s methodology.

You may recall that back here I was saying that if there were a prize god, “The Road” would win. Although four — four! — people have since taken my recommendation and read “The Road,” evidently there remains a lack of a prize god, because last I checked the book hadn’t won any prizes. Except with me and others I’ve spoken with who read it.

In today’s LA Times (okay, yesterday’s at this point) Book Review, a judge from this year’s National Book Award discusses the judging process. Click here to read the piece. Having been on both sides of this sort of evaluation — picking writing-contest winners and losers, and being a writing-contest winner or loser — I can agree that it’s hard to make these judgments and that yes, there are backstage maneuverings. I’m glad she made a pitch for “The Road” (which her fellow judges were unmoved by). I’m also glad that all five judges agreed to shortlist Phillip Roth’s “Everyman,” a miraculous little novel I read last spring.

One thing about this contest took me back to my own days reading plays at Moving Arts, where we had an ongoing discussion about our evaluation process. A question that constantly arose was this one: If we didn’t read the entire play, were we being fair? Was it fair to render judgment by, say, page 10? In the case of the National Book Awards, over the course of three-and-a-half months these five judges had to read 258 novels. Each. The same 258. Do the math and it becomes clear that they had to skim many of these books — as she admits.

My other observation is this: If Phillip Roth didn’t finally place (they nobly saved him the embarrassment of being an also-ran, after having won twice), and Cormac McCarthy didn’t even show, then I have to marvel at just how high the bar has been set for the winner, “The Echo Maker” by Richard Powers. I’m going to have to find out personally by reading the book.