Words, words, words. That's what we're made of. Herewith some of my thoughts on what we're doing with them.

Before I start on the subject of how to use your TV-watching time productively, I want to give you a reading assignment. Read this article from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette by David Hollander, the amazing writer behind the series The Guardian. Pay particular attention to the part about cows. See how much we can learn from this Hungarian-American who grew up in the Monongahela Valley? Note the word empathy. Steal his licks.

Now on to television.

You can learn a lot from it. Particularly, what not to write.

When I was young, I annoyed my sisters no end by analysing Bonanza, that smarmy Western apparently set in a 1960s suburb that had been magically transported back into 1880s California. One episode fascinated both girls: Hoss, the big son of Adam Cartwright, fell in love with a pregnant widow. When the lady was about to give birth, what did he do but put her in a buckboard wagon (no springs, those things) and drive her to San Francisco? To a hospital. Where the doctor wore a white coat and used a stethoscope. (I've given up on the italics here, they will merely irritate, but you get the idea.) This doctor told Hoss that the delivery had been difficult, and the mother might die because she had 'lost the will to live'. Only Hoss could encourage her to get better…my sisters were near tears.

I groaned and groaned about this. 'Women didn't have babies in hospitals back then,' I complained. (Our parents were born at home, for heaven's sake.) 'Doctors didn't wear white coats, and I'm not sure when the stethoscope was invented, but I'll bet it didn't look like that. And that psychology stuff is pure garbage…'

My baby sister glared at me. 'You know, you'd be a lot happier if you weren't so smart,' she retorted. I shut up, and went to find a book to read before I was forced to watch another Western. Probably one in which they carried bottles of nitroglycerine over the mountains. (Did I mention the lack of springs on buckboards?)

Apart from the total lack of verisimilitude in most television programs – have you ever noticed how much free time Dr House and his colleagues have to spend gossiping about their sex lives in a full-service hospital? Have you ever noticed how little of this copious free time your own doctor appears to enjoy? – the bad dialogue is extremely instructive. It will inspire you to do better. A long-running television series is like a 19th-century novel, the kind that came out in installments. The difference is that a television series may have multiple writers (check the credits). Some writers cope with the characters better than others. We have all cringed, have we not, at early episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation? The ones where Data constantly mumbles, 'Intriguing!', while Troi insists that she 'senses hostility'? Or the golden moment when one of the writers chose to remember that Captain Picard was…er, French, in spite of his being played by a Yorkshire-born Shakespearean actor? Picard uttered the word 'merde' exactly once. Ouch.

Speaking of bad dialogue from science-fiction people, I heartily recommend a perusal of this episode of the McCarthy-era gem, I Led 3 Lives, which was written by Gene Roddenberry himself. He should never have allowed himself to become involved in a series about an undercover FBI commie-hunter. Especially not one whose plotlines had to be personally approved by J Edgar Hoover. What was he thinking? (Probably needed the money, and I guess it kept him off the Blacklist.) Having accepted this task, should he have looked up a bit more about atomic energy? Probably, but then, the information was classified. They might even have put in the bit about how to use a radioactive isotope as a silent anti-burglar device on purpose – just to trick the commies into exposing themselves to the deadly stuff¹.

Sometimes, as with the Law & Order franchise, the dialogue is stilted because the writers need to instruct the audience quickly as to what plot point/constitutional issue/insanely convoluted scam is involved. Other times on that same series, speakers act totally out of character because they are being used as 'straw men' by the writers in order to stage an argument. In this way, Elliott of SVU can seem tolerant in one episode while coming across as borderline homophobic in another. This is sloppy editing. Freelance writers are supposed to have a 'bible', a book listing dos and don'ts for particular characters and situations.

Good dialogue can teach us, as well. We can notice how a writer can use a short dialogue exchange to establish where a character is mentally. This can be so much more effective than pages and pages of internal monologue that the technique is well worth stealing for our short stories. Here's where I get back to David Hollander's The Guardian. The Guardian, a series singularly bereft of explosions² concerns the US child-protection legal service known as the guardian ad litem programme. The main character, Nick Fallin, is a corporate attorney in Pittsburgh. Prior to the beginning of the first episode, Fallin has been convicted of drug possession. A felony conviction would destroy his ability to practice law. In return for misdemeanor charges, Fallin's plea bargain includes 1500 hours of community service – to be performed as a guardian ad litem. The set-up is beautiful, of course: we learn as the character learns, 1500 hours can be stretched into a long television series, etc.

Obviously, we're going to have to learn to like this Nick Fallin. He's a corporate lawyer, after all, probably responsible for the downfall of western civilization. He's handsome, well-off and wears really expensive suits. He has almost no affect to speak of, except when he becomes enraged or is coked up. Oh, yes, we should mention that he's a (mostly reformed) drug user, another reason to hate him. It is a tribute to Hollander's craft (and Aussie Simon Baker's splendid acting) that we soon come to feel quite protective of Nick Fallin. But first, we've got to understand him. Here's where the brilliant dialogue comes in.

In the first episode, Nick is introduced to the shabby, crowded legal aid office by his new boss, Alvin. Alvin, an avuncular man, goes on at length in patented Liberalese about the function of the clinic in representing the interests of disadvantaged children. He concludes by asking, 'Do you have any questions for me?'

With a look of wide-eyed innocence, Fallin replies, 'Yes. This took 39 minutes, can you mark me down for an hour?' Priceless.

Try this way of getting us to realise who the new love interest is:

Nick (drunk): My mom-my mom said I will always treat woman better than my father does.

Lulu: So do you?

Nick: I don't know, want to find out?

Snappy, crappy, slow or fast, highly intellectual or tough-hero monosyllabic, dialogue is an art that needs to be learned. Above all, a good, short piece of dialogue can get us where we want to be faster that whole paragraphs of 'her mind went back to the time when she and Rupert first fell in love, when she had the feeling that…' Get what I mean?

So, couch potatoes, you have a new excuse for turning on the television set. You're not vegging. You're doing research.

Writing Right with Dmitri Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

24.10.11 Front Page

Back Issue Page