2. Unity of Character

Unity of character does not mean unity of subject--note the variety of subjects treated in "The German Senator"--but, rather, the singleness of impression that a monologue gives of the "character"

who delivers it, or is the hero of it.

The German Senator, himself, is a politician "spouting," in a perfectly illogical, broken-English stump speech, about the condition of the country and the reason why things are so bad. Never once do the various subjects stray far beyond their connection with the country's deplorable condition and always they come back to it.

Furthermore, not one of the observations is about anything that a politician of his mental calibre would not make. Also the construction of every sentence is in character. This example is, of course, ideal, and the precision of its unity of character one of the great elements of a great monologue.

Next to humor, unity of character is the most important requirement of the monologue. Never choose a subject, or write a joke, that does not fit the character delivering the monologue. In other words, if you are writing a pure monologue, do not, just because it is humorous, drag in a gag [1] or a point [2] that is not in character or that does not fit the subject. Make every turn of phrase and every word fit not only the character but also the subject.

[1] A _gag_ is the vaudeville term for any joke or pun.

[2] A _point_ is the laugh-line of a gag, or the funny observation of a monologue.

3. Compression

We have long heard that "brevity is the soul of wit," and certainly we realize the truth in a hazy sort of way, but the monologue writer should make brevity his law and seven of his ten commandments of writing. Frank Fogarty, who writes his own gags and delivers them in his own rapid, inimitable way, said to me:

"The single thing I work to attain in any gag is brevity. I never use an ornamental word, I use the shortest word I can and I tell a gag in the fewest words possible. If you can cut out one word from any of my gags and not destroy it, I'll give you five dollars, and it'll be worth fifty to me to lose it. "You can kill the whole point of a gag by merely an unnecessary word. For instance, let us suppose the point of a gag is 'and he put the gla.s.s there'; well, you won't get a laugh if you say, 'and then he picked the gla.s.s up and put it there.' Only a few words more--but words are costly.

"Take another example. Here's one of my best gags, a sure-fire laugh if told this way:

"O'Brien was engaged by a farmer to milk cows and do ch.o.r.es. There were a hundred and fifty cows, and three men did the milking. It was hard work, but the farmer was a kind-hearted, progressive man, so when he went to town and saw some milking-stools he bought three and gave 'em to the men to sit down on while at work. The other two men came back delighted, but not O'Brien. At last he appeared, all cut-up, and holding one leg of the stool.

"'What's the matter?' said the farmer.

"'Nothing, only I couldn't make the cow sit down on it.'

"When I tell it this way it invariably gets a big laugh. Now here's the way I once heard a 'chooser' [1] do it.

[1] _Chooser_--one who chooses some part of another performer's act and steals it for his own use.

"'O'Brien came to this country and looked around for work. He couldn't get a job until at last a friend told him that a farmer up in the country wanted a man to milk cows. So O'Brien got on a trolley car and went out to the end of the line, took a side-door pullman from there, was ditched and had to walk the rest of the way to the farm. But at last he got to the farmer's place and asked him for the job.

"'"Sure I can use you," said the farmer, "here's a milk pail and a milking-stool. Take 'em and go out and milk the cows in the barn."

"'Now O'Brien didn't know how to milk a cow, he'd never milked a cow in his whole life, but he needed a job so he didn't tell the farmer he hadn't ever milked a cow. He took the pail and the milking-stool and went out to the barn. After half an hour he came back to the farm house all cut-up, and he had one leg of the milking-stool in his hand.

"'"What's the matter?" asked the farmer, "How'd you get all cut up--been in a fight or something?"

"'"No," said O'Brien, "I couldn't get the cow to sit on it.'"

"See the difference? There's only one right way to tell any gag and that's to make it brief, little--like the works of a watch that'll fit in a thin watch case and be better and finer than a big turnip of a pocket clock."

So, then, each point and gag in a monologue is told in the fewest, shortest words possible and the monologue, as a whole, is marked by compression. Remember, "brevity is the soul of wit"--never forget it.

4. Vividness

If a successful monologue writer has in mind two gags that are equally funny he will invariably choose the one that can be told most vividly--that is, the one that can be told as if the characters themselves were on the stage. For instance, the words, "Here stood John and there stood Mary," with lively, appropriate gestures by the monologist, make the characters and the scene seem living on the stage before the very eyes of the audience. That is why the monologist ill.u.s.trates his points and gags with gestures that picturize.

Every gag and every point of great monologues are told in words that paint pictures. If the gag is supposit.i.tious, and the direct right-here-they-stood method cannot be used, the point is worded so strikingly, and is so comically striking in itself, that the audience sees--visualizes--it. [1]

[1] Walter Kelly, "The Virginia Judge," offers a fine example of the monologist who makes his words picturize. He "puts his stories over" almost without a gesture.

Unlike the playlet, the monologue does not have flesh-and-blood people on the stage to act the comic situation. The way a point or gag is constructed, the words used, the monologist's gestures, and his inflections, must make the comic situation live in vivid pictures.

Therefore, in selecting material the monologue writer should choose those gags and points that can be told in pictures, and every word he uses should be a picture-word.

5. Smoothness and Blending

A monologue--like the thin-model watch mentioned--is made up of many parts. Each part fits into, the other--one gag or point blends perfectly into the following one--so that the entire monologue seems not a combination of many different parts, but a smoothly working, unified whole.

Count the number of different points there are in "The German Senator" and note how each seemingly depends on the one before it and runs into the one following; you will then see what is meant by blending. Then read the monologue again, this time without the Panama Ca.n.a.l point--plainly marked for this exposition--and you will see how one part can be taken away and still leave a smoothly reading and working whole.

It is to careful blending that the monologue owes its smoothness.

The ideal for which the writer should strive is so to blend his gags and points that, by the use of not more than one short sentence, he relates one gag or point to the next with a naturalness and inevitableness that make the whole perfectly smooth.

We are now, I think, in a position to sum up the theory of the monologue. The pure vaudeville monologue, which was defined as a humorous talk spoken by one person, possesses unity of character, is not combined with any other entertainment form, is marked by compression, follows a definite form of construction, and usually requires from ten to fifteen minutes for delivery. Humor is its most notable characteristic; unity of the character delivering it, or of its "hero," is its second most important requirement. Each point, or gag, is so compressed that to take away or add even one word would spoil its effect; each is expressed so vividly that the action seems to take place before the eyes of the audience. Finally, every point leads out of the preceding point so naturally, and blends into the following point so inevitably, that the entire monologue is a smooth and perfect whole.

CHAPTER VI

WRITING THE MONOLOGUE

I. CHOOSING A THEME

Before an experienced writer takes up his pencil he has formed definitely in his mind just what he is going to write about--that is the simple yet startling difference between the experienced writer and the novice. Not only does the former know what his subject is, but he usually knows how he is going to treat it, and even some striking phrases and turns of sentences are ready in his mind, together with the hundreds of minute points which, taken together, make up the singleness of impression of the whole.

But just as it is impossible for the human mind--untrained, let us say, in the art of making bricks--to picture at a glance the various processes through which the clay pa.s.ses before it takes brick form, so it is identically as impossible for the mind of the novice to comprehend in a flash the various purposes and half-purposes that precede the actual work of writing anything.

True as this is of writing in general, it seems to me particularly true of writing the monologue, for the monologue is one of those precise forms of the art of writing that may best be compared to the miniature, where every stroke must be true and unhesitating and where all combine unerringly to form the composite whole.

In preparing monologue material the writer usually is working in the _sounds_ of spoken--and mis-spoken--words, and the humor that lies in the twisting of ideas into surprising conclusions. He seldom deliberately searches for a theme--more often some laugh-provoking incident or sentence gives him an idea and he builds it into a monologue with its subject for the theme.

1. Themes to Avoid

Anything at all in the whole range of subjects with which life abounds will lend itself for a monologue theme--provided the writer can without straining twist it to the angle of humor; but propriety demands that nothing blatantly suggestive shall be treated, and common sense dictates that no theme of merely local interest shall be used, when the purpose of the monologue is to entertain the whole country. Of course if a monologue is designed to entertain merely a certain cla.s.s or the residents of a certain city or section only, the very theme--for instance, some purely local happening or trade interest--that you would avoid using in a monologue planned for national use, would be the happiest theme that could be chosen.

But, as the ambitious monologue writer does not wish to confine himself to a local or a sectional subject and market, let us consider here only themes that have universal appeal.

II. A FEW THEMES OF UNIVERSAL INTEREST

Politics Woman Suffrage Love Drink Marriage Baseball Woman's Dress Money

While there are many more themes that can be twisted to universal interest--and anyone could multiply the number given--these few are used in whole or in part in nearly every successful monologue now being presented. And, they offer to the new writer the surest ground to build a new monologue. That they have all been done before is no reason why they should not be done again: the new author has only to do them better--and a little different. It is all a matter of fresh vision. What is there in any art that is really new--but treatment?

Do not make the fatal mistake of supposing that these few themes are the only themes possessing universal interest. Anything in the whole wide world may be the subject for a monologue, when trans.m.u.ted by the magic of common sense and uncommon ability into universal fun.