How Not to Write a Play

Local playwright Bruce Graham shares nuggets of hard-earned wisdom.

by A.D. Amorosi

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Published: Apr 7, 2009

City Paper: Something Intangible — is this your Sullivan's Travels or your Monkeybone? Is Hollywood just an extravagant background for something simply about two brothers who act as yin-n-yang?

Bruce Graham: What the hell is a Monkeybone?

CP: A film about a Hollywood illustrator gone mad — in part — because he'd like to break away. How do you complete the picture of dreaming past your greatest creations at a time when younger audiences are so desensitized? 

BG: Socrates said the first sign of age is questioning the morals of the young, so I guess I'm old. What frightens me is that no one is ever bored anymore. We have constant stimulation and it ain't reading books. This makes going to the theater a chore for some of them. Who can sit through Hamlet when you're too busy watching Family Guy reruns on your iPod? I don't mean to slam a whole generation. And kids are only what we adults made them. My daughter, who is now 18, didn't know movies came in color till she was about 6. She still thrives on Thin Man movies and The Maltese Falcon. I also have some students at Drexel who do dream of creating something cool, and that is very comforting. A handful will work and work on their plays wanting to get it just right. I love that stuff.

CP: My favorite line from almost any movie comes when Oliver Larabee in 1954's Sabrina says, "I could pick a century out of a hat, blindfolded, and come up with a better one."

BG: I love that line.

CP: What's your writing process? For the heck of it, what made you start writing Burkie?

BG: We all start with our families — Williams, Anderson, Hellman — because we know them and there's always some sort of conflict. I wrote Burkie while my mother was still alive, but I predicted her death — a few months later — exactly as it happened. The last picture I have of the two of us is in the lobby of the off-Broadway theater where it was produced. This, of course, takes some of the fun out of your first success. People call it the "cancer play," which is a load of crap. It's about a generation of men — teenagers who went off to fight World War II — who never learned how to express feelings.

CP: How about Early One Evening at the Rainbow Bar & Grille?

BG: God, I hate this play. I use it as an example in my textbook on how NOT to write a play. I started it during a world religions class as an undergrad. It came from my desire to have a beer with God. It's a young man's play I was out to save the world. Now I just try and find my car keys.

CP: Belmont Avenue Social Club?

BG: Ahh, the play nobody will do because it's not politically correct. (If they think that's bad, wait till they see next year's Any Given Monday. When I was doing standup I belonged to a social club in Pittsburgh to have someplace to go when the bars closed. One night everyone was freaked out because somebody had brought a black guy as a guest. That was the impetus of the play. What the hell were they so paranoid about? Once again, it sat in my head for years. Then one day — while cutting the grass the story came to me. It was a breeze to write since I knew all the characters so well.

CP: Coyote on a Fence?

BG: This came right from an article I read in the Inquirer. It was about a guy on death row who published a newsletter and had to write obituaries for his fellow prisoners. We started a very intense correspondence — he was a very bright guy — and I kind of immersed myself in the world. Again, this is not an "anti-death penalty play." To me it's about a guy trying to find something good in people we perceive — often correctly — as monsters. (Right before we opened at the Arden, Pearce Bunting — who is a good friend — told me he had no idea what side of the death row debate I was on. I replied, "Good." Frankly, I think people who talk in the theater should be executed right there. Coyote actually made it to London's West End, where they had a shrine to my inspiration, James Betheard, in the theater. He has since been executed. That was a pretty shattering letter to read. My daughter overheard people calling me a racist because I had a sympathetic neo-Nazi onstage. Ahh, Bruce Graham: Ugly American.

CP: How many theater pieces/plays/screenplays have you thrown out?

BG: The great thing about what I do is that — unlike athletes — I think I get better as I get older. If I decide to sit down and write something, I finish it. It may take a while. My screenplay Middle Aged White Guys took about two years. I'd work on it when I had nothing else to do — then a paying gig would come along — and I'd forget about it. During the strike I wrote a romantic-comedy Christmas story as a feature, then took a couple of days and cleaned it up, broke it into seven acts, and had a television version of the same story. Hallmark bit first and it was on last Christmas. Unless I totally screw up a play, it stands a very good chance of getting at least one production. Movies, who knows? But if I start something, I finish it.

CP: Is being a playwright as noble a tradition now as when you started wanting to be one? What's changed since you started out?

BG: "Noble tradition"? Hell, I just didn't want a real job. And the theater was a great place to meet girls. My training is as an actor, not a playwright, so I sort of stumbled into it. What frightens me now is that there's no Broadway for "straight" plays anymore. Shrek the Musical and all that bullshit. The regional theaters have become the place to see new plays. It's too expensive to take a risk in New York. Hence Legally Blonde. I look at Broadway listings now and there's nothing I want to see! That's scary.

CP: The Philly Fan updates — what's most interesting, fun, difficult about doing those? I mean, that's the stuff of movie-making.

BG: What a strange journey that thing has been. There's a scene in Intangible where Ian's character ponders what his obituary will say. I know mine: Bruce Graham, author of Philly Fan, Dies. I've lost count of how many times it's been revived but I've done some rewriting along the way. Of course the Phillies winning the Series called for a major rewrite. I'm so glad I live in the city now. The night we won I went out and wandered up and down Two Street. Very cool. Probably the most fun thing was watching Tom McCarthy own the new material. When we opened at Act Two a couple months ago Joe Canuso and I looked at each other 20 minutes into the show and both started grinning like idiots: Tom had never been better. I think having the new stuff to perform jazzed him up. Audience ate it up and we were sold out. More revivals to come. What I love most about the whole experience is that we get people out to a play who never go to plays. Hopefully the habit rubs off on a few of them.

CP: What was it about Scott Greer and Ian Peakes that warranted your attention for their roles in Intangible?

BG: When I'm thinking of an actor for a role I think voice, not physical type. What can they bring to the table from their own personality? I needed two very different "types" to play Tony and Dale and, well, they fit the bill. Ian has this crazy flamboyant energy and Scott has a kind of "everyman" quality about him. I also think they're damn good actors.

CP: What's your relationship with Terry Nolen and the Arden been like been like since your start, and what's been most refreshing this time around?

BG: This is my first time working with Terry as a director. It always feels a little funny not working with Jim Christy, but we decided a few years ago to take the occasional break from each other.

CP: Get the hell out of here. Were you avoiding Nolen, or did you owe Christy money?

BG: Well, I never tried to avoid Terry. Maybe he tried to avoid me. He's used to those well-behaved playwrights like Hollinger.

Don't mean to mislead that there's any problem between me and Jim. We did something like 10 shows in 12 years together and finally one day said, hey — time to take a break. So I worked with some other directors but when it came time for Coyote at the Arden, I wanted to get back with Jim. Our batteries were recharged. Then I did Goldman with an old friend, Pam Berlin, and came back to Jim for Dex and Julie. I'll work with him again down the road. We have five weeks' rehearsal — the first time I've ever had that luxury — so it's all very relaxed. You have to pencil in at least 40 minutes a day for Scott and Ian to go off on some pretty funny tangents. Especially when they're off the Ritalin. Terry is kind of a quietly assured ringmaster. He knows we're all a little nuts and he channels it in a good way. Hell, none of us are getting rich here, so we might as well have some fun. I tend to avoid rehearsal unless I'm needed, and some directors hate that. Terry's cool with it And when I am there I often nap on the Equity cot. Wish I could give you some good dirt, but there isn't any. Now, According to Goldman, that's another story.

CP: Is Intangible zapping you from doing most anything else right now?

BG: Yes. Once we open I'll go back to some other projects. I'm halfway through a new screenplay and taking a shot at a novel. I'd also like to write the book of a musical and have a great idea, so I'll try and schlep that. I'm designing a new course for Drexel: Sports in Film, which starts this semester. I've got a new play outlined. And I'm looking forward to the day when I can just concentrate on writing plays and teaching and not having to kick out another movie.

CP: It's funny that your newest work uses a lovelier time in Hollywood as its backdrop, but here you are "having to kick out another movie." Do tell?

BG: I was born in the wrong time. I love the movies, the music, the clothes. My tuxes are always double-breasted. My wife has this Cary Grant thing. I probably would've been quite happy kicking out scripts for a studio back then because the guys who ran things at least understood the audience. That time period — the '40s — is my favorite. Now you have a bunch of fourth-generation movie-bred idiots making the decisions. (True story: Couple years ago I'm in a pitch meeting and described a relationship as "sort of like in The African Queen." This guy looked confused and asked, "Is that a black thing?" You're in the fucking movie business and you don't know African Queen? It's like ball players not knowing Babe Ruth. One of the reasons I'm down on the business is that it's not about quality. It's a relationship business and I live here and don't want any damn relationships. I don't want to have lunch with you, I don't want to come to your kid's birthday party — here's my writing, decide on that. A good friend of mine, who gave me my first real break in the business, would often get asked about me by producers. His answer: "Good writer. Delivers on time. Good with character and dialogue. Knows structure. Doesn't suffer fools gladly." I know I lost a few jobs because of that last line. Everyone out there is scared because what Goldman said is true: Nobody knows anything. They're deathly afraid someone's going to figure out the emperor has no clothes. I have a tendency to point that out. I have a couple of small films I'm trying to find financing for — including Burkie — but, once again, I'm lousy at raising money. Writing action bores me. Give me a nice little story with characters.

(a_amorosi@citypaper.net)

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