We all love stories and the radio medium has a long and distinguished history of turning thoughts, words and actions into satisfying pictures within the listener’s mind by using the techniques of drama. But there is no need for the producer to think only in terms of the Shakespeare play – the principles of radio drama apply to the well-made 30-second commercial, a programme trail, dramatised reading, five-minute serial or two-minute teaching point in a programme for schools. The size and scope of the pictures created are limited only by the minds that devise and interpret them – for example, the piece for young children on the website. Since the medium in its relationship to drama is unique, any radio service is the poorer for not attempting to work in this area.
As an illustration of the effective simplicity of the use of sound alone, listen now to the celebrated example by Stan Freberg who gave it as part of his argument for selling advertising time on radio.
We like stories, partly because a story can offer a framework for the understanding – or at least an interpretation – of life’s events. Often, a mirror in which we can see ourselves – our actions, motives and faults – and the outcomes and results can contribute to our own learning. Drama is essentially about conflict and resolution, relationships and feelings and people being motivated by them, both driving and driven by events. What happens should be credible, the people believable, and the ending have a sense of logic however unusual and curious, so that the listener does not feel cheated or let down.
The aim with all dramatic writing is for the original ideas to be recreated in the listener’s mind and, since the end result occurs purely within the imagination, there are few limitations of size, reality, place, mood, time or speed of transition. Unlike the visual arts, where the scenery is provided directly, the listener to radio supplies personal mental images in response to the information given. If the ‘signposts’ are too few or of the wrong kind, the listener becomes disorientated and cannot follow what is happening. If there are too many, the result is likely to be obvious – ‘cheesy’ and ‘corny’. Neither will satisfy. The writer must therefore be especially sensitive to how the audience is likely to react – and since the individual images may stem largely from personal experience, of which the writer of course knows nothing, this is not easy. But it is the ageless art of the storyteller – saying enough to allow listeners to follow the thread but not so much that they do not want to know what is to happen next or cannot make their own contribution.
The writer must have a thorough understanding of the medium and the production process, while the producer needs a firm grasp of the writing requirements. If they are not one and the same person, there must be a strong collaboration. There can be no isolation, but if there is to be a dividing line, let the writer put everything down knowing how it is to sound, while the producer turns this into the reality of a broadcast knowing how it is to be ‘seen’ in the mind’s eye.
The component parts with which both writer and producer are working are speech, music, sound effects and silence.
Rewriting an existing work for radio sets a special kind of challenge. Staying faithful to the original so as not to upset those who already know and love the book or play, yet conveying it in this different medium, and probably compressing it in time, requires a distinctive writing skill. Translation from another language is generally easier than working in the same language since it’s then necessary to use entirely new forms of speech, whereas a great question in adaptation concerns the need to use the same words and phrases as the original. But how about keeping to the same style and pace? What is to be sacrificed if a lengthy original is to be a half-hour play? Radio works well with speech in dialogue form, but if there is little conversation, will a narrator do? Radio also effectively conveys ‘internal’ thoughts, thinking and talking to oneself. What does the original have of ‘mood’? The essential character should still be present – torment, depression, pressure, conflict, excitement, expectation, achievement or resolution, and above all the relationships – their strengths, weaknesses and doubts. The adapting writer should care for the original while analysing it, and preserve its essential features in the new medium. If the work is still in copyright the original publisher – who actually owns the work – will need to be consulted for permission to adapt, and may well have views regarding a radio treatment.
Before committing anything to paper, it is essential to think through the basic ideas of plot and form – once these are decided, a great deal follows naturally. The first question is to do with the material’s suitability for the target audience, the second with its technical feasibility.
Assuming that the writer is starting from scratch and not adapting an existing work, what is the broad intention? Is it to make people laugh, to comment on or explain a contemporary situation, to convey a message, to tell a story, to entertain? How can the writer best enable the listener to ‘connect’ with this intention? Is it by identifying with one of the characters? Should the basic situation be one with which the listener can easily relate?
The second point at this initial stage is to know whether the play has to be written within certain technical or cost limitations. To do something simple and well is preferable to failing with something complicated. There seems little point in writing a play that calls for six simultaneous sound effects, echo, a variety of acoustics, distorted voice-over, and a crowd chanting specific lines of script, if the studio facilities or staff are not able to meet these demands. Of course, with ingenuity even a simple studio can provide most if not all these devices. But the most crucial factor is often simply a shortage of time. There may be limitations too in the capabilities of the talent available. The writer, for example, should be wary of creating a part that is emotionally exceptionally demanding only to hear it inadequately performed. Writing for the amateur or child actor can be very rewarding in the surprises which their creative flowering may bring, but it can also be frustrating if you automatically transfer into the script the demands and standards of the professional stage.
The best brief advice is that writers should write about things they know about, and about characters they care about.
Thus the writer must know at the outset how to tailor the writing for the medium, in what form to put over a particular message or effect, how the audience might relate to the material, and whether this is technically and financially possible. From here there are three possible starting points – the story, the setting or the characters.
The simplest way of telling a story is to:
1 explain the situation
2 introduce ‘conflict’
3 develop the action
4 resolve the conflict.
Of course there may be intriguing complications, mystery and sub-plots, twists and surprises at several levels. This is an essential aspect of the multi-strand soap opera where the listener is invited to relate to several different characters. In an absorbing story there will be small personal struggles to be resolved as well as the big issues. However, the essence of the thing is to find out ‘what happens in the end’. Who committed the crime? Were the lovers reunited? Did the cavalry arrive in time? The element that tends to interest us most is the resolution of conflict and since this comes towards the end, there should be no problem of maintaining interest once into the ‘rising action’ of the play. And in the final scene it is not necessary to tie up all the loose ends – to dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’ in a neat and tidy conclusion. Life seldom works that way. It is often better to have something unsaid, leaving the listener still with a question, an issue or a motivation to think about. Parables are stories that deliberately do not go straight from A to B, but take a parabolic route leaving the hearer to work out the implications of it all. This is one of the fascinations of the story form.
In radio, scenes can be much shorter than in the theatre, and intercutting between different situations is a simple matter of keeping the listener informed about where we are at any one time. This ability to move quickly in terms of location should be used positively to achieve a variety and contrast which itself adds interest. The impact of a scene involving a group of fear-stricken people faced with impending disaster is heightened by its direct juxtaposition with another, but related, group unaware of the danger. If the rate of intercutting becomes progressively faster and the scenes shorter, the pace of the play increases. This sense of acceleration, or at least of movement, may be in the plot itself, but a writer can inject greater excitement or tension simply in the handling of scene length and in the relation of one scene to another. Thus the overall shape of the play may be a steady development of its progress, heightening and increasing. Or it may revolve around the stop-go tempo of successive components. Interest through contrast can be obtained by a variety of means, for example:
1 change of pace: fast/slow action, noisy/quiet locations, long/short scenes;
2 change of mood: tense/relaxed atmosphere, angry/happy, tragic/dispassionate, good/bad, storm/calm, right/wrong;
3 change of place: indoors/open air, crowded/deserted, opulent/poverty- stricken, town/country, different geography or accents, earthly/heavenly;
4 change of time: present/past, flashback/imagined future.
The radio writer is concerned with images created by sound alone. If the effect wanted is of colour and mood, then this must be painted with the words and music used, and through locations that are aurally evocative.
Figure 21.2 A plot diagram to illustrate the shortening scene length as the action rises to its climax
| 1–2 | Introduction, setting and context, characterisation established; |
| 3–5 | conflict, events arising from characters reacting to the situation; |
| 6–8 | rising action, sub-plot complication, suspense; |
| 9 | maximum tension, crisis, climax; |
| 10–11 | falling action, resolution; |
| 12–13 | denouement, surprise, twist. |
On a personal note, to illustrate the impact of contrast within a play, the authors recall a moment from a drama on the life of Christ. The violence and anger of the crowd demanding his execution is progressively increased, the shouting grows more vehement. Then we hear the Roman soldiers, the hammering of nails and the agony of the crucifixion. Human clamour gives way to a deeper, darker sense of tragedy and doom. Christ’s last words are uttered, a crash of thunder through to a climax of discordant music gradually subsiding, quietening to silence. A pause. Then slowly – birdsong.
How wrong it would have been to spoil that contrast by using the narrator, as elsewhere in the play.
Situation comedy drama often begins with a setting – an office, prison, hospital, shop, or even a radio station – which then becomes animated with characters. The storyline comes later, driven by the circumstances, generally a series of predicaments in which the characters find themselves. Fortunately radio can provide almost any setting at will – a royal household in ancient Egypt, a space capsule journeying to a distant planet, or a ranch house in outback Australia. The setting, plus one or two of the principal characters, may be the key theme holding a series of plays – or advertisements – together. It is important that the time and place are well researched, especially if it is historical, so that credibility is maintained for those listeners who are expert in the particular situation.
Within a play the setting can obviously vary considerably and one of the devices used to create interest is to have a strong contrast of locale in adjacent scenes – for example, to move from an opulent modern office peopled by senior managers to a struggling rural hospital affected by their decisions. Changes of location are very effective when run in parallel with changes in disposition or mood.
One of Britain’s best-known advisers in this area, Bart Gavigan – often referred to as a ‘script doctor’ – says that there are three questions to be answered for a compelling story:
1 Who is the hero – or heroine?
2 What does he, or she, want?
3 Why should I care?
This last question emphasises the need for at least main characters to develop a rapport with the listener. They must be more than thinly described cardboard cutouts – they should appear as credible people with whom the listener can identify and whose cause the listener can about. The writer has to create a play – or 30-second advertisement – so that the human motivation and behaviour is familiar. This does not mean that the setting has to be the same as the domestic circumstances of the audience – far from it. For, whatever the setting, the listener will meet people he or she can recognise – fallible, courageous, argumentative, greedy, fearful, compassionate, lazy and so on. Characterisation is a key ingredient and many writers find it important to sketch out a pen portrait of each character. This helps to stabilise them as people and it’s easier to give them convincing dialogue. Here are some headings:
• their age, sex, where they live and how they talk;
• height, weight, colouring and general appearance;
• their social values, sense of status, beliefs of right and wrong;
• the car they drive, what they eat and drink, the clothes they like, their wealth – or not;
• their family connection, friends – and enemies;
• the jokes they make – or not, how trusting they are, how perceptive;
• their moods, orientations, preferences and dislikes.
Characters have faults, they fall apart in crises; they will have internal contradictions of values and behaviour, and appear illogical because their words and deeds won’t always coincide. They will reveal themselves in what they say, but even more in what they do. Someone may profess honesty but fiddle their income tax. One of the necessary tensions in compelling drama is the inner conflict that exists in human beings – the inconsistencies between what I want to do, what I ought to do and what I actually do. Saints will have their failings and even the worst sinners may have their redeeming features under certain circumstances. Characters that are genuinely engaging have credible substance. They convey real human complexity and the writer cannot accurately portray them until he or she knows them. When characterisation is fully in place the writer may let the characters almost write themselves, since they know how they are likely to react to a set of events driven by the story. Writers and producers should tell actors as much as they can about the characters – their personality, typical behaviour and disposition.
‘Look out, he’s got a gun.’ Lines like this, unnecessary in film, television or theatre where the audience can see that he has a gun, are essential in radio as a means of conveying information. The difficulty is that such ‘point’ lines can so easily sound contrived and false. All speech must be the natural colloquial talk of the character by whom it is uttered. In reproducing a contemporary situation, a writer can do no better than to take a notebook to the marketplace, restaurant or party and observe what people actually say, and their manner of saying it. Listen carefully to the talk of shoppers, eavesdrop on the conversation on the bus. It is the stuff of your reality. And amid the talk, silence can be used to heighten a sense of tension or expectation. Overlapping voices convey anger, passion, excitement or crisis. Not only do radio characters say what they are doing, but people reveal their inner thoughts by helpfully thinking aloud, or saying their words as they write a letter. These are devices for the medium and should be used with subtlety if the result is to feel true to life.
Producers should beware writers who preface a scene with stage directions: ‘The scene is set in a lonely castle in the Scottish Highlands. A fire is roaring in the grate. Outside a storm is brewing. The Laird and his visitor enter.’
Such ‘picture setting’ designed for the reader rather than the listener should be crossed out and the dialogue considered in isolation. If the words themselves create the same scene, the directions are superfluous; if not, the dialogue is faulty:
The producer is able to add considerably to such a scene in its casting, in the voices used – for example, in the age and accents of the two characters, and whether the mood is jovial or sinister.
In addition to visual information, character and plot, the dialogue must remind us from time to time of who is speaking to whom. Anyone ‘present’ must either be given a line or be referred to, so that they can be included in the listener’s mental picture:
ANDREW: |
Look, John, I know I said I wouldn’t mention it but . . . well something’s happened I think you should know about. |
JOHN: |
What is it, Andrew? What’s happened? |
The use of names within the dialogue is particularly important at the beginning of the scene.
Characters should also refer to the situation not within the immediate picture so that the listener’s imagination is equipped with all the relevant information:
ROBINS: |
And how precisely do you propose to escape? There are guards right outside the door, and more at the entrance of the block. Even if we got outside, there’s a barbed wire fence two storeys high – and it’s all patrolled by dogs. I’ve heard them. I tell you there isn’t a chance. |
JONES: |
But aren’t you forgetting something – something rather obvious? |
An obvious point which the writer does not forget is that radio is not only blind, but unless the drama is in stereo, it is half-deaf as well. Movement and distance have to be indicated, either in the acoustic or other production technique, or in the dialogue. Here are three examples:
(Off-mic) I think I’ve found it, come over here.
Look, there they are – down there on the beach. They must be half a mile away by now.
(Softly) I’ve often thought of it like this – really close to you.
We shall return later to the question of creating the effects of perspective in the studio.
To achieve a flow to the play, consecutive scenes can be made to link one into the other. The dialogue at the end of one scene points forward to the next:
VOICE 1: |
Well, I’ll see you on Friday – and remember to bring the stuff with you. |
VOICE 2: |
Don’t worry, I’ll be there. |
VOICE 1: |
Down by the river then, at 8 o’clock – and mind you’re not late. |
If this is then followed by the sound of water, we can assume that the action has moved forward to the Friday and that we are down by the river. The actual scene change is most often through a fade-out of the last line – a line incidentally like the second half of the one in this last example, words we can afford to miss. There is a moment’s pause, and a fade-up on the first line of the new scene. Other methods are by direct cutting without fades, or possibly through a music link. The use of a narrator will almost always overcome difficulties of transition so long as the script avoids clichés of the ‘meanwhile, back at the ranch’ type.
A narrator is particularly useful in explaining a large amount of background information which might be unduly tedious in conversational form or where considerable compressions have to be made, for example in adapting a book as a radio play. In these circumstances the narrator can be used to help preserve the style and flavour of the original, especially in those parts which have a good deal of exposition and description but little action:
NARRATOR: |
Shortly afterwards, Betty died and John, now destitute and friendless, was forced to beg on the streets in order to keep himself from starvation. Then one afternoon, ragged and nearing desperation, he was recognised by an old friend. |
When in doubt, the experienced writer will almost certainly follow the simplest course, remembering that the listener will appreciate most what can be readily understood.
Dr Bill Dorris, a Lecturer in Communications at Dublin City University, encourages his students to base drama writing on their real experience. As he explains:
Pick a topic which will trigger strong memories, memories that will evoke feelings and images. Make it a topic that would have grabbed your attention when you experienced it – the night before surgery, your first step dance competition, or maybe just that summer trip out to your uncle’s farm. The topic can be commonplace, your first competition, a family vacation, etc. The key thing is that the event triggered emotion and grabbed your attention at the time. Then jot down whatever bits you remember. Don’t try to edit or organise or make a story out of them. Just jot them down. Remember where you were, what you were doing, who was doing it with you, what scared you, surprised you, made you feel sad, what was rattling round your head. Cheat if it helps – pull out the map, journal, photos, hum the tune, phone a friend, Google the web . . .
The example used here is called ‘Rattlesnakes’ – produced by two of my students, Kim Cahill and Fiona McArdle. Here we consider only the first, third and final drafts, although typically in such work there will be four or five rewrites from original to final draft.
First draft
I was seven and went with my family to visit my Aunt and Uncle at their dream farmhouse in southern Canada.
Wraparound porches and many windows with beautiful rural countryside views in any direction were some of the old house’s main features. So were the snakes.
We’d sit out in the long grass toasting marshmallows on a crackling fire, whilst Uncle Mike and Dad skinned the trout we had caught earlier that day, the nervous jump when one of the many green little grass snakes would venture a little too near for comfort .What would those little snakes think of my Uncle Mike skinning one of the larger members of the snake family . . . a rattlesnake?!
I was so nervous holding the skin, really believing it would come back to life! I was fascinated by the crisp little rattle of its tail and had plenty of amusement rattling the skin around chasing after my little brother!
I had my first cup of coffee. My Aunt Helen and I were up early and watched the sun rise on the old rocking chairs on the front porch. In imitation of her I curled up with this giant cup of strong smelling coffee.
After you’ve got several of these bits, eight or ten of them, read them over and see what they suggest for possible ‘stories’. What potential conflicts are there that you could rough a ‘story’ around? In the above draft, for example there’s ‘the first cup of coffee’, and ‘the rattlesnake’s – and the trout’s? – revenge’. But the one that leaps out as having the most potential and most already written and suggested, including a punchline – ‘rattling my little brother’ – is ‘snakes and rattlers’.
So the next step is to rough out such a story and organise, elaborate, even make up bits to give some surge and flow in the tension around the core conflict, i.e. kids’ fears and fun with snakes – all set in that memory of ‘skinning trout’ and ‘toasting marshmallows’ over the ‘crackling campfire’ just off those ‘wraparound porches’.
Most people have a tough time with this at first, that is with making a story where there was none. It helps to bring in someone who’s done this before and who’s outside the original experience. Even then in the early drafts there is often an emphasis on descriptive narrative, the where, when, who, etc., rather than what’s needed, which is to build the story around the conflict and where it leads.
Third draft
One of my earlier memories of travelling is staying in my aunt and uncle’s old farm house out in southern Canada. It had wraparound porches with grand windows looking out over the beautiful rural countryside.
After a day’s fishing, we’d sit out there off the porch, skin the trout and cook it over the campfire . . . baked potatoes, corn on the cob, roasting marshmallows and . . .
‘AAAh! my LEG!! It’s on me! Get it off! Get it off!!’
Suddenly I’m panicking, jumping, crying . . . it’s one of those little green grass snakes. They’re all laughing, and my little brother’s the loudest.
At least it wasn’t one of those prairie rattlers, the ones my Uncle Mike skins and hangs on the barn door. They make a crisp little rattle when you shake them in your hand. Like when you’re walking slowly across the porch . . . up behind my brother!
Now we’ve got the makings of a short evocative piece of drama. If you compare this draft with the final one below, the main changes will reflect the guidelines that need to be considered in getting from here to the final draft. Briefly they are:
1 No general narrative – ‘one of my earliest memories . . . ’ in the third draft. Scene setting leads straight into the conflict – ‘soon there’ll be the marshmallows . . . ’ in final draft.
2 Told from the point of view of the narrator as she is experiencing the story, with a flux of information and emotion in her words after she screams in final draft.
3 No asides. Everything is written so as to pull us into the drama through the use of dialogue and active verbs. There are changes between drafts in how the information about how Uncle Mike’s rattlesnake skins are used as ‘little warning bells’, etc.
4 All prose and Fx are evocative, informative and distinctive, and pared down to the bare minimum. All ‘summary adjectives’ like ‘beautiful’, ‘old’, and ‘rural’, and redundant information like ‘panicking . . . ’ are cut. Only one extremely evocative Fx is used.
Final draft
Wraparound porches, tall rattling windows, clear summer wheatfields . . . we’re sitting round the campfire . . . just off the porch of my aunt and uncle’s old farmhouse out in southern Canada . . . grandpa’s skinned the trout, potatoes, corn on the cob. Soon there’ll be the marshmallows . . .
‘AAAAh!! My leg! My leg! Get it off me! Get it off me! off me!’
They’re all laughing. Brian, my little brother . . . it’s just a little green, wriggly, harmless garden snake. He’s laughing. It’s frantic. It’s . . .
FX – rattlesnake sound low, fade out at ‘warning bells’, then up again at ‘fitting in’
. . . not one of my Uncle Mike’s prairie rattlesnake skins, hanging from the barn door. Those rattlesnakes with their little warning bells, used to let you know . . . those little warning bells fitting in your hand when you’re sneaking across the porch . . . just behind . . . my little brother . . .
‘AAAAh!!’
In ‘Rattlesnakes’, memory was used like a book might be for developing a film script – as source material for a dramatic adaptation. The focus here is on creating radio that grabs the listener, not on communicating an accurate account of what actually happened. What is important here concerning ‘truth’ is that the core emotional experience is communicated – that sense of kids on vacation, fishing and marshmallowing round the campfire, rattlesnaking each other right off the porch.
In other applications – interviewing or commentary – the same issues about the balance of ‘truth’ vs. drama will inevitably arise. The outcome in each case will obviously depend on what ‘truth’ you are trying to communicate.
That, from Bill Dorris and his students, was a different approach to drama, more like poetry perhaps than the regular play. It is a process that can work well writing dialogue for a factual documentary where no actual record exists of what was said.
Following the normal standard of scripts intended for broadcast use, the page should be typed on one side only to minimise handling noise, the paper being of a firm ‘non-rustle’ type. The lines should be triple-spaced to allow room for alterations and actors’ notes, and each speech numbered for easy reference. Directions, or details of sound effects and music, should be bracketed, underlined or in capitals, so that they stand out clearly from the dialogue. The reproduction of scripts should be absolutely clear and there should be plenty of copies so that spares are available.
An example of page layout is shown below.
Casting a radio drama, whether it is a one-hour play or a short illustration, will nearly always end by being a compromise between who is suitable and who is available. Naturally, the producer will want the best performers but this is not always possible within the constraints of money. It is also difficult to assemble an ideal cast at one place, and possibly several times, for rehearsal and recording, and this to coincide with the availability of studio space. Again, it may be that two excellent players are available, but their voices are too similar to be used in the same piece. So there are several factors that will determine the final cast.
Actors new to radio have to recognise the limitations of the printed page, which is designed to place words in clearly readable lines. It cannot overlay words in the same way that voices can, and do:
VOICE 1: |
The cost of this project is going to be 3 or 4 million – and that’s big money by anyone’s reckoning. |
VOICE 2: |
But that’s rubbish, why I could do the job for . . . |
VOICE 1: |
(Interrupting) Don’t tell me it’s rubbish, anyway that’s the figure and it’s going ahead. |
Although this is what might appear on the page, voice two is clearly going to react to the cost of the project immediately on hearing the figures – halfway through Voice 1’s first line. The scriptwriter may insert at that point (react) or (intake of breath) but it is generally best left to the imagination of the actor. Actors sometimes need to be persuaded to act, and not to become too script-bound. Voice 1 (interrupting) does not mean waiting until Voice 2 has finished the previous line before starting with the ‘Don’t tell me . . . ’. Voice 1 starts well before Voice 2 breaks off, say on the word ‘could’. The two voices will overlay each other for a few words, thereby sounding more natural. Real conversation does this all the time.
On the matter of voice projection, the normal speaking range over a conversational distance will suffice – intimate and confidential, to angry and hysterical. As the apparent distance is increased, so the projection also increases. In the following example, the actress goes over to the door and ends the line with more projection than was being used at the start. The voice gradually rises in pitch throughout the speech. This is on the website.
VOICE: |
Well I must go. (DEPARTS) I shan’t be long but there are several things I must do. |
(DOOR OPENS, OFF) I’ll be back as soon as I can. Goodbye. (DOOR SHUTS) |
In moving to the ‘dead’ side of a bi-directional microphone, the actor’s actual movement may have been no more than a metre. The aural impression given may be a retreat of at least five metres. It is important that such ‘moves’ are made only during spoken dialogue otherwise the actor will appear to have ‘jumped’ from a near to a distant position. Of course, moving off-mic, which increases the ratio of reflected to direct sound, can only serve to give an impression of distance in an interior scene.
When the setting is in the open air, there is no reflected sound and the sense of distance has to be achieved by a combination of the actor’s higher voice projection and a smaller volume derived from a low setting of the microphone channel fader. By this means it is possible to have a character shouting to us from ‘over there’, having a conversation with another person ‘in the foreground’ who is shouting back. Such a scene requires considerable manipulation of the microphone fader with no overlay of the voices. A preferred alternative is to have the actors in separate rooms with their own microphone, each with a headphone feed of the mixed output.
Figure 21.3 Movement on-mic. The shaded circles are the normal areas of pick-up on both sides of a bi-directional microphone. An actor ‘approaching’ speaks while moving from the dead side to the live side, also reducing in voice projection. Effective for indoor scenes
In any discussion of monophonic perspective, distance is a function that separates characters in the sense of being near or far. The producer must always know where the listener is placed relative to the overall picture. Generally, but not necessarily, ‘with’ the microphone, the listener placed in a busily dynamic scene will need some information which helps in following the action by moving through the scene rather than simply watching it from a static position.
Figure 21.4 Features of a drama studio. 1. Entrance through sound lobby. 2. Studio ‘dead’ end. 3. Studio ‘live’ end. 4. Narrator’s studio. 5. Control cubicle with windows to all other areas. 6. Dead room – outdoor acoustic. 7. Spiral staircase – iron. 8. Gravel trough. 9. Sound effects staircase. 10. Cement tread stairs. 11. Wooden tread stairs. 12. Carpet floor. 13. Soft curtain drapes. 14. ‘Hard’ curtain – canvas or plastic. 15. Wood block floor. 16. Curtains. 17. Movable acoustic screen. 18. Acoustic absorber – wall box. 19. Bi-directional microphone. 20. Sound effects door. 21. Acoustic wedges – highly absorbent surface. 22. Sand or gravel trough. 23. Water tank
Part of this distinction may be in the use of an acoustic which itself changes. Accompanied by the appropriate sound effects, a move out of a reverberant courtroom into a small ante-room, or from the street into a telephone box, can be highly effective.
There are five basic acoustics comprising the combinations of the quantity, and duration of the reflected sound:
A digital reverberation device, such as that illustrated in Figure 21.5, can reproduce virtually any acoustic, from a train station to the Grand Canyon. Additional frequency discrimination applied to its output will create any distinctive coloration required. The typical characteristic of a drama studio with a ‘neutral’ acoustic would have a reverberation time of about 0.2 second. Associated with this would be a ‘bright’ area with a reverberation time of, say, 0.6 second, a separate cubicle for a narrator, and a ‘dead’ area for ‘outdoor’ voices. The key factor is flexibility so that by using screens, curtains and carpet, a variety of acoustic environments may be produced. The specialist drama studio illustrated in Figure 21.4 is, of course, very expensive. However, many of the facilities it offers can be reproduced quite cheaply as demonstrated by the ‘Acoustic Walk’ on the website.
The use of personal tie-clip mics for actors avoids any pick-up of studio acoustic and may be used to give an ‘outdoor’ sound. It also allows considerable freedom of movement. Crossfading between a studio mic and a tie-clip mic with a suitable drop in vocal projection also provides a very credible ‘think piece’ in the middle of dialogue.
When the curtain rises on a theatre stage the scenery is immediately obvious and the audience is given all the contextual information it requires for the play to start. So it is with radio, except that to achieve an unambiguous impact the sounds must be refined and simplified to those few which really carry the message. The equivalent of the theatre’s ‘backdrop’ are those sounds that run throughout a scene – for example, rain, conversation at a party, traffic noise or the sounds of battle. These are most likely to be pre-recorded and reproduced from a stereo CD or digital source. The ‘incidental furniture’ and ‘props’ are those effects which are specially placed to suit the action – for instance, a ringing telephone, pouring a drink, closing a door, or firing a gun. Such sounds – called ‘spot’ effects – are best made in the studio at the time of the appropriate dialogue, if possible by the actors themselves – for example, lighting a cigarette or taking a drink – but by someone else if hands are not free due to their holding a script. Going upstairs is a quite different sound from walking on the flat, hence the flight of stairs in a drama studio with different treads – iron, concrete, wood, etc.
Figure 21.5 A digital reverberation device. The top image shows speech recorded in a dry acoustic. The centre image illustrates the reverberation options being set in the selection screen, and the bottom image has the speech with added reverberation. Note how, as a result of the added reverberation, the words now merge together
There is a temptation for a producer new to drama to use too many effects. While it is true that in the real world the sounds we hear are many and complex, radio drama in this respect purveys not what is real but what is understandable and convincing. It is possible to record genuine sounds which, divorced from their visual reality, convey nothing at all. The sound of a modern car drawing up has very little impact, yet it might be required to carry the dramatic turning point of the play. In the search for clear associations between situation and sound, radio over the years has developed conventions with generally understood meanings. The urgently stopping car virtually demands a screech of tyres, slamming doors and running footsteps. It becomes a little larger than life. Overdone, it becomes comical.
Some other sounds that have become immediately understood are:
1 passage of time – clock ticking;
2 night time – owl hooting;
3 on the coast – seagulls and seawash;
4 on board sailing ship – creaking of ropes;
5 early morning – cock crowing;
6 urban night time – distant clock chime, dog barking;
7 out of doors, rural – birdsong.
A particularly convincing sound to run behind an outdoor scene is a ‘rumble’ at low level. Creating the feeling of ‘atmosphere’ it is especially effective on coming indoors when it is suddenly cut. This can be heard on the website.
The convention for normal movement is to do without footsteps. These are only used to underline a specific dramatic point.
Background sounds may or may not be audible to the actors in the studio, depending on the technical facilities available. It is important, however, for actors to know what they are up against, and any background sounds should be played over to them to help them visualise the scene and judge their level of projection. This is particularly important if the sounds are noisy – in the cockpit of a light aircraft, a fairground or battle. If an actor has to react to a pre-recorded sound a headphone feed of the output will be needed, or through a loudspeaker. The normal studio speaker is of course cut when any mic channel is opened, but an additional loudspeaker fed from the effects source can remain on, unaffected by this muting. This facility is called foldback, and has the advantage not only that the cast can hear the effects, even though their own mics are live, but that any sounds reproduced in this way and picked up on the studio microphones will share the same acoustic as the actors’ voices.
Producers working in drama will soon establish their own methods of manufacturing studio sounds. The following are some that have saved endless time and trouble:
1 walking through undergrowth or jungle – a bundle of old recording tape rustled in the hands;
2 walking through snow – a roll of cotton wool squeezed and twisted in the hands, or two blocks of salt rubbed together. Alternatively, a wooden dowel crunching on a bowl of corn starch makes wonderful walking in snow!;
3 horses’ hooves – halved coconut shells are still the best from pawing the ground to a full gallop. They take practice though. A bunch of keys will produce the jingle of harness;
4 pouring a drink – put a little water into the glass first so that the sound starts immediately the pouring begins;
5 opening champagne – any good sound assistant ought to be able to make a convincing ‘pop’ with their mouth, otherwise blow a cork from a sawn-off bicycle pump. A little water poured on to Alka-Seltzer tablets or fruit salts close on-mic should do the rest;
6 a building on fire – cellophane from a biscuit pack rustled on-mic plus the breaking of small sticks;
7 a thin stick or bamboo can make a splendid ‘whoosh’;
8 marching troops – a marching box is simply a cardboard box approximately 20 × 10 × 5 cm, containing some small gravel. Held between the hands and shaken with precision it can execute drill movements to order;
9 in the case of a costume drama, some silk or taffeta material rustled near the mic occasionally is a great help in suggesting movement;
10 creaks – rusty bolts, chains or other hardware are worth saving for the appropriate aural occasion. A little resin put on a cloth and pulled tightly along a piece of string fastened to a resonator is worth trying.
It’s useful to keep a store of things that reliably squeak, pop, clatter, jangle and scrape, for Fx use. The essential characteristic for all electronic or acoustic sound-making devices is that they should be simple and consistent. And if the precise effect cannot be achieved, it’s worth remembering that by playing a sound through a digital converter, it can be altered in ‘size’ or made unrelatable to the known world. Hence the fantasy sounds varying from dinosaurs to outer space. Voices can be made ‘unhuman’, lighter or deeper without affecting their speed of delivery. Time spent exploring the possibilities of digital effects will pay dividends for the drama producer.
In making a plea for authenticity and accuracy, it is worth noting that such attention to detail saves considerable letter-writing to those among the audience who are only too ready to display their knowledge. Someone will know that the firing of the type of shot used in the American War of Independence had an altogether characteristic sound, of course certain planes used in the Australian Flying Doctor services had three engines not two, and whoever heard of an English cuckoo in February? The producer must either avoid being too explicit, or be right.
An ally to the resourceful producer, music can add greatly to the radio play. However, if it is overused or badly chosen, it becomes only an irritating distraction. Avoiding the obvious or over-familiar the producer must decide in which of its various roles music is to be used:
1 As a ‘leitmotif’ to create an overall style. Opening and closing music, plus its use within the play as links between some of the scenes, will provide thematic continuity. The extracts are likely to be the same piece of music, or different passages from the same work, throughout.
2 Music chosen simply to create mood and establish the atmosphere of a scene. Whether it is ‘haunted house’ music or ‘a day at the races’, music should be chosen that is not so well-known that it arouses in the listener personally preconceived ideas and associations. In this respect it pays the producer to cultivate an awareness of the more unfamiliar works in the various production ‘mood music’ libraries, some of which are non-copyright.
3 Reiterative or relentless music can be used to mark the passage of time, thus heightening the sense of passing hours, or seconds. Weariness or monotony is economically reinforced.
In using music to be deliberately evocative of a particular time and place, the producer must be sure of the historical period and context. Songs of the First World War, or ballads of Elizabethan England – there is sure to be at least one expert listening ready to point out errors of instrumentation, words or date. To use a piano to set the mood of a time when there was only the harpsichord and virginals is to invite criticism.
The drama producer must not only search the shelves of a music library but should sometimes consider the use of specially written material. This need not be unduly ambitious or costly – a simple recurring folk song or theme played on a guitar, harmonica or flute can be highly effective. There are considerable advantages in designing the musical style to suit the play, and having the music durations exactly to fit the various introductions and voice-overs.
Producers will devise their own methods and different plays might demand an individual approach, as will working with children or amateurs as opposed to professional actors. However, the following is a practical outline of general procedure:
1 The producer works with the writer, or on the script alone rewriting for the medium, and making alterations to suit the transmission time available.
2 Cast the play, issue contracts, clear any copyright issues, distribute copies of the script, arrange rehearsal or recording times.
3 The producer or the sound team assemble the sound effects, book the studio, arrange for any special technical facilities or acoustic requirements and choose the music.
4 The cast meets, not necessarily in the studio, for a read-through. The actors may need to be briefed on the character they are playing – personality and behaviour. Awkward wordings may be altered to suit individual actors. The producer gives points of direction on the overall structure and shape of the play and the range of emotion required. This is to give everyone a general impression of the piece. Scripts are marked with additional information such as the use of cue lights.
5 In the studio, scenes are rehearsed on-mic, with detailed production points concerning inflection, pauses, pace, movement, etc. The producer should be careful not to cause resentment by ‘over-direction’, particularly of professional actors. The producer may by all means say what effect a particular line should achieve, but is likely to undermine an actor by going as far as to say, or even further to demonstrate, precisely how it should be delivered. Sound effects, pre-recorded or live in the studio, are added. The producer’s main task here is to encourage the actors and to listen carefully for any additional help they might need or for any blemish that should be eradicated.
6 As each scene is polished to its required perfection, a recording ‘take’ is made. Are the pictures conjured up at the original reading of the script being brought to life? Is the atmosphere, content and technical quality exactly right? Necessary retakes are made and the script marked accordingly.
7 The recording is edited using the best ‘takes’, removing fluffs and confirming the final duration.
8 The programme is placed in the transmission system and the remaining paperwork completed.
There are many variations on this pattern of working. Here are some alternative approaches:
• Do away with the studio. If the play is suitable then, for example, the recording can be made with portable recorders out of doors among the back alleys and railway tracks of the city – a radio verité? Away from any studio, a 10-hour production of Tolstoy’s War and Peace with a cast of 60 was recorded for the BBC entirely on location, often using handheld boom mics as if it were film. The point of doing this was to get a variety of authentic acoustics. The battle scene effects were recorded at an actual reconstruction of the Battle of Austerlitz, and the play was broadcast across a single day.
• There is no need to think only in terms of the conventional play. A highly effective yet simple format is to use a narrator as the main storyteller with only the important action dialogue spoken by other voices. Few but vivid effects complement this radio equivalent of the strip cartoon – excellent as a children’s serial.
• Dialogue on its own can be a simple and powerful means of explaining a point – two farmers discussing a new technique for soil improvement – or illustrating a relationship, such as a father and teenage daughter arguing about what she should wear. Given the right people it doesn’t even have to be scripted – give them the basic idea and let them ad-lib it.
• The use of monologue. It sounds dull perhaps, but writers – such as Alan Bennett with his Talking Heads – enable a single character to unravel a richly riveting stream of internal thinking, motivation, musings and real or imagined behaviour which, spoken in the idiom of the listener, creates immediate identification. Perhaps with a little music and effects added, radio monologue creates an intense world of two – the character and the listener. One such example was the award-winning Spoonface Steinberg – Lee Hall’s hour-long internal monologue by a seven-year-old autistic girl, dying of cancer. Just her voice, thinking of the music she loves and why. Imaginative, inspiring, insightful and memorable – a lovely use of the medium.
Any producer finding their way into the drama field is well advised to listen to as many radio plays and serials as possible. He or she will gather ideas and recognise the value of good words simply spoken.
In realising the printed page into an aural impression, it is not to be expected that the visual images originally conceived at the start will be exactly translated into the end result. Actors are not puppets to be manipulated at will, they too are creative people and will want to make their own individual contribution. The finished play is an amalgam of many skills and talents; it is a ‘hand-made’, ‘one-off’ product which hopefully represents a richer experience than was envisaged by any one person at the outset.