Category: subtext

November 30, 2012 / 3 Comments

What I Really Meant Was…

            I touched on the idea of subtext a few months back, but I realize I didn’t give any real suggestions or examples of ways to improve things in this area.  So I wanted to revisit this and maybe make the post a bit more useful.  Well, as useful as anything I post here is…

            I don’t have cable, as I’ve mentioned here and a few other places.  When everything went digital it was a big thing for my lovely lady and I because we suddenly had about two dozen more channels and access to a lot more programming.  Granted, this is exactly why we didn’t want cable, but… well, I’ve become a big fan of Svengoolie.
            One of our channels shows lots of old movies from the ‘30s and ‘40s, and I happened to catch the opening of a little film called Chain Gang.  It’s from 1950, written by the very prolific Howard Green.  That date’s important because it’s the height of the Hays Code, a very restrictive set of guidelines that prohibited showing—or even discussing—a number of things on film.  Sex, violence, language, pretty much anything that could be considered immoral by somebody.  All the stuff  Family Guytakes for granted today.  Because of this, screenwriters of this era had to either write the blandest material possible or become masters of subtext.
            Early in Chain Gang, two reporters—a man and a woman—are having lunch at a burger shack across from the courthouse.  Since they’re from rival papers, they’re not actually talking to one another, they just keep asking rhetorical questions to the cook which are intended for each other.  And the clever subtext of the very quick and witty conversation—or set of conversations–goes something like this…
Him:  Well we can see where the trial’s going.  Let’s blow this off and go back to my place for a few hours.
Her:  I don’t think it’s so open and shut.  And besides, I’ve got a job to do.
Him:  I’ve got a job for you.
Her:  And I’d be more than willing to do it for you if I didn’t have this one already.
            Keep in mind, they weren’t saying any of this.  They were asking the cook about the time, relationships, work, and numerous other unrelated topics.  And after three or four minutes the cook asks “Look, are you two going to order or not?”
            The male reporter looks at his counterpart in a happy, slightly naughty way and says “I’ll have a burger—hold the onions.”
            The woman chuckles, shakes her head, and says, “Make that two burgers, Joe—and you can put onions on them.”
            Any question who won that unspoken discussion?
            Subtext is the art of the conversation beneath the one your characters are having out loud.  It’s the flipside of on-the-nose dialogue.  That hidden meaning doesn’t have to be miles beneath the spoken one.  It also doesn’t have to be rich and elaborate and layered with exquisite meaning.  But in good dialogue, it’s almost always there.
            Here’s a couple of suggestions for some methods that can bring your dialogue up to the level of an sixty year old movie…
The Reverse—One of the simplest ways to use subtext is for a character to declare the exact opposite of what they really mean.  I’ve mentioned the show Keen Eddie a few times, where the two main characters would constantly yell “I hate you!” back and forth at each other.  At one point or another, we’ve all probably been in the position of saying something along the lines of “It’s okay, I really didn’t want the promotion.  It was too much work, anyway.”
            A lot of times the reverse is just sarcasm, because sarcasm is all about subtext. Odds are all of us have made a suggestion where one of our friends has rolled their eyes and said “Oh, yeah, I’d love to do that.”  There’s a bit at the start of Roxanne (a movie loaded with subtext) where Daryl Hannah’s titular character is locked outside of her house wearing… well, nothing, and has to sneak her way to the nearby fire station for help.  When fire chief Charlie (Steve Martin) asks if she wants a coat or a blanket, she gives a nervous laugh and says “No, I really wanted to hang out nude in this bush in the freezing cold.”
The Friend— How many times have you read a story or seen a show where someone goes to the doctor and talks about the embarrassing problem “their friend” has.  Or maybe my character knows a guy who got really confused by how to install that Space Marine videogame patch, and was wondering if you could explain it in simple terms he could tell this guy next time they hang out.  This is another easy form of subtext, because I’m pushing all the emotions and thoughts onto another character altogether—even if it’s a nonexistent character.
The Blank—Kind of like the reverse method, the blank is a slightly trickier way of doing subtext.  It’s when a character demonstrates their opinion on something by offering no opinion.  Sometimes they do it by ignoring the topic, like when Yakko asks his brother Wakko’s opinion on Phoebe and Wakko instead wonders aloud how much the DJ gets paid at this club.  Other times Wakko might just dance around it, saying he doesn’t know Phoebe that well or giving a very vague non-answer (“Well, how well can you really know anyone, right?”)
The Next Step—If you’ve ever read about someone ordering a double or triple drink before they break some bad news to their tense friend, you know this method.  It’s when a character shows they’re one or two steps ahead.  I’m not thinking about now, I’m thinking about fifteen minutes from now.  Through their words or actions, the character’s saying “I know where this is going and I know how it’s going to end, even if no one else does.”  If you’re a Doctor Who fan, you might recall that in the Eleventh Doctor’s premiere episode writer Stephen Moffat packed an incredible amount of subtext into the single word, “run.”
The Metaphor—All of us have been in a conversation where what we’re talking about is not what we’re really talking about.  This method of using subtext is a huge part of flirting.  If you ever watched Seinfeld, you probably remember the time George misread a woman’s invitation to come up for coffee at the end of their date, said goodnight, and drove happily away (and then spent days on the phone leaving messages explaining that he thought she was talking about coffee, not coffee, because he would’ve loved to have coffee with her).  Eddie Izzard played with this one, too, and explained that “do you want to come up for coffee” is essentially the universal code for “sex is on!”  You’ve probably seen this method used in organized crime stories, too.  Characters in these tales will discuss “disposing of assets” and “making a definitive statement” or “preparing a welcome home party.”  I bet just by tying these statements to crime, the implied subtext has sparked a predictable set of images in all of your minds.
            And there’s five ways to create subtext.
            It’s worth mentioning that all of these methods need a bit of skill and practice, because sometimes people yell “I hate you” because… well, they hate you (sorry).  Every now and then we really do have a friend who needs help with something.  And if the Minister of Burundi asks if you want coffee, well… don’t start unbuttoning your shirt. 
            The trick with subtext is making sure it’s clear what I really mean.  So I can’t be so blunt that I’m not really hiding anything, but I also can’t be so subtle that people think my characters are just saying what they mean with no subtext at all.  It’s a fine balancing act, and it’ll take a few tries to get it right.
            Heck, I know this one guy who couldn’t pull off good subtext for years.
            Next time, I’m thinking about doing a big piece on structure again, because I got a nice bit of praise recently for the last time I did it.  But I might have something quick to say before that about crossing genre lines.
            Until then, go write.
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March 16, 2012 / 5 Comments

What Lies Beneath

            First off, a little poll for all of you reading this.  I’ve been thinking of taking a bunch of the posts here and making a condensed, somewhat more organized document that might pass as a book on writing.  If I put something like that out in ebook format for $1.99 or so, would anyone have any interest in such a thing?  I’m also thinking of pairing it with The Suffering Map, released as a cautionary tale about first novels, probably for just a buck.  Does any of that sound vaguely interesting to anyone?  Let me know in the comments section.  

            Now, on to a long-overdue rant about dialogue.
            I’ve said here once or twice or thrice that dialogue can make or break a story.  That’s because dialogue is how we learn about the characters, and they’re what the story’s all about.  So if my dialogue is good, it can lift an okay story that much higher.  If it’s bad, it can sink even the most Pulitzer-worthy piece.
            A key element in great dialogue is subtext.  A couple years back I got to interview actor Chris Eigeman about his screenwriting/ directing debut, and he told me a wonderful quote by Edith Wharton, which I’m now about to butcher for you because I’m quoting someone who quoted a quote to me.  According to Wharton, dialogue is the foam at the tip of a wave.  The wave—all the stuff under the foam and supporting it—is your character, their backstory, their motivation, and everything going on in the story.  But no matter how big that wave is, the thing we all see–the thing that always draws our eye—is that foam.
            On the flipside of that, most bad dialogue has no subtext.   To stick with our previous imagery, if good dialogue is foam on the tip of a wave, bad dialogue is a stagnant tidepool with no motion and no life in it.  Not all of it mind you—some people are very creative and unique in their badness.  But I’d say a good sixty or seventy percent of the awful stuff I’ve seen would vanish if people weren’t so on the nose with their writing.
            I’ve mentioned that phrase a few times here, and some of you may have seen it on feedback forms (for other people’s manuscripts, of course).  On the nose dialogue is when someone says precisely what they mean or what they’re doing without any subtlety or characterization whatsoever.  It comes across as flat because… well, there’s no depth to it.  There’s nothing implied, no innuendoes, no meaning at all past the words themselves.
            If you think about it, most of us are subtle in real life.  We prefer to imply things rather than say them aloud, and when we do speak a lot of us skirt around the things we’re trying to say.  We’re inherently big on subtext and body language, and people who are too straightforward kind of creep us out.  Consider some recent conversations you’ve had.  Think about what you said vs. what you meant.   
            There was a wonderful show on years ago called Keen Eddie, where the Human Target was forced into sharing a London apartment with the Baroness from that god-awful G.I. Joe movie.  At least once an episode they’d shout “I hate you!” “I hate you, too!” back and forth at each other, and while it was pretty dead-on the first few times, it soon became more of a habit with them.  Eventually, even though they kept using the same phrase, it became pretty clear they didn’t hate each other at all, and were using “hate” instead of another word. 
            And then Fox cancelled Keen Eddie.  Because that’s how things go when your show’s on Fox.
            But I digress.
            Check out this example.
            “Hey, fellas,” said Wakko, “what do you think of my new painting?”  He turned the easel to his brother and sister.
            “It’s very, ummm… colorful,” said Dot after a few moments.
            “Yeah,” said Yakko.  “Yeah, I was going to go with colorful, too.”
           
            Now, considering that I didn’t really describe it at all, do you think Wakko’s painting is any good?  Do you think Dot and Yakko like it?  Probably not, because most of us pick up on little things.  There was that pause before they answered, and the kind of stammer to Dot’s response.  We’ve all been in this situation, and we all understand the little white lies (or maybe big, whopping lies, depending on the painting) that are being told here.
            Here’s a few more examples of statements with subtext…
            “Rico, you’re like family to me.  That’s why I’ve chosen you for this job, because I know you won’t disappoint me.”
            “Actually, the partners and I have talked about it, David, and we feel you’d probably be more comfortable in a different position—something with an easier pace.”
           
            “Hey, it’s not too late.  Would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?”
            There’s a hidden message to each of these statements, and again it’s one most of you probably picked up on immediately, even out of context.  This is the other thing about subtext—it lets the reader feel smart.  When my characters are spelling out every single thing they’re thinking and doing, it comes across like I’m over-simplifying things for my audience.  Another way to say “over-simplifying,” of course, is “dumbing down,” and we all love it when people think they need to dumb stuff down for us, right…?
            I’m not saying every single line has to be packed with subtext, mind you.  That kind of writing becomes impenetrable because it requires too much effort on the part of the reader.  As I said above, though, consider how often your own words are layered in real life.
            Because when your characters start talking like real people, that’s when they become real people.
            Speaking of which, next time I wanted to talk real quick about reality vs. reality.
            Until then, go write.
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