What the Hell is a Dramaturg?

The creative collaborator who shifts between acting as a story analyst, creative collaborator, editor, facilitator, researcher, and a mirror to the creator.

Whenever I tell someone who is not in the film or theatre industry what I do, I either get an awkward nod or the more straightforward ‘What does that even mean?’ There are countless terms to describe my work: dramaturg, script-editor, script consultant, story consultant, script doctor, concept creator (not to be confused with content creator — a whole different ballpark)… but what do all these terms actually mean?

The first dramaturg Between 1729 and 1781, there lived a man in Hamburg named Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, the person who many consider to be the world’s first dramaturg. Lessing studied philology (study of language in historical sources), theology, and philosophy, and had developed an early interest in literature and theatre. He was an Enlightenement Thinker, challenged French Neoclassical theatre rules, and criticizing his own contemporaries for attending theatre out of fashion or curiosity rather than deep emotional and moral engagement (Lessing 1890, Essays 80–82). His path was not straightforward, but the various disciplines he explored eventually came together to form the formal career we now know as dramaturgy.

Bérénice, written by Jean Racine (1670)

While working at the Hamburg National Theatre in 1767, Lessing combined his groundbreaking theatre theory, in order to pave the way for future dramaturgs. In essence, he combined his love for writing, his philosophical, religious and linguistic studies, and his practical theatre and performance knowledge, with a critical approach to stories and its social awareness, and thus created the art of dramaturgy. He was a playwright, philosopher, literary critic, and one of the central thinkers of the Enlightenment in German literature and a foundational voice in modern theatre theory.

So how does that apply to our modern world? Even though theatre is still an important dramatic storytelling medium, it is fair to say that film and TV have shifted into becoming the dominant form today. For the purpose of this essay, I am not including the evolution of short-form digital media, such as TikTok, Instagram reels, and youtube shorts. So in a way, screen-based storytelling grew to its succes, thanks to a level of accessibility that theatre normally does not allow. Scholars note that while theatre is still valued for immediacy and intimacy, the dominant cultural space for storytelling is now film and TV, shaping popular narrative expectations (Mittell 2015, Bordwell 1985).

When the ending credits roll up after a film, one can easily recognize that it took a substantial amount of people to bring this story from a two-hundred page script, to the visual on-screen artistry we got to experience. Though we might not fully understand these countless jobs and their necessity, it is slightly easier to understand the core people who made this film into what it is today — screenwriters who wrote the script, directors who directed the story, actors who performed, and producers who created the conditions that allowed everyone else to do their job. Still, before we get to filming, there is a very long development process, that preceeds the moment we pick up a camera, or even before we consider hiring actors.

Sunset Boulevard, written and directed by Billy Wilders, co-written by Charles Brackett D.M. Marshman Jr. (1950)

In film and television, there are many stages of development, depending on where an artist or production company is in their development process. In some cases, there is only a small shiny glimmer of an idea that will be development into a TV show, in some cases a book inspires the next great blockbuster film, or a true story can be made into a four-part series. There are so many ways in which stories can be developed into another medium. Perhaps the screenwriter approaches a producer with an idea, perhaps a producer approaches a screenwriter with an idea. So where does the dramaturg come into play?

Screenwriters are highly creative people. In some cases they are good at structure or in other instances they are more intuitive creators. Some need a lot of breathing room in order to fully translate an idea from their mind onto the page, and some want to engage in conversation in order to understand the story they are trying to tell. Some require constant feedback and some prefer to be asked select questions in order for their film or play to progress in the right direction. This is where a dramaturg or script editor comes into play. They work alongside the writer, or in some cases the director, to help their story to become its best self.

Barton Fink, written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen (1991)

In theatre, dramaturgs used to have — and still have — a more hands-on mentality, as they might assist a director in the rehearsal room, helping the director stay on track. They might serve as a “sounding board”, offer feedback on character, plot or pacing, research cultural, historical or thematic context, as well as refining scenes or even assisting actors whilst supporting the entire creative process. In film and television, the dramaturgs take a supporting role long before production. They have a role similar to theatre dramaturgs, in the sense that they refine story structure, characters and pacing, ask the right questions, research context where needed, or simply act as a sounding board for the writer or director.

So dramaturgs make any project better, right…? Well, not really.

8½, written and directed by Federico Fellini, co-written by Ennio Flaiano, Tullio Pinelli, Brunello Rondi (1963)

Just like in any industry, the people make the place. We might have a great connection with some, whilst we struggle to collaborate on tasks with another. The same is true for filmmakers, who might need some time finding the right fit for their project. It is comparable to trying to find the right psychologist — sometimes fit matters more than credentials and it is completely normal to “shop around” for a therapist whose personality, expertise and style suit your own. At the end of the day, you want to feel connected to that person who you will most probably spend a lot of time with, going into deep waters. The same is true for writers or directors finding the right dramaturg.

If the fit is right, these collaborations could span over entire careers. Creative work can be incredibly vulnerable, as it often comes from a personal place, where writers and directors are exposed to judgement and a fair amount of uncertainty. Psychologist Brené Brown calls this “creative vulnerability” — the willingness to risk shame, criticism, or failure for the sake of creating something meaningful. Therefore, the right dramaturg can lift an artist up by offering a supportive environment, helping them focus, and guide them towards the best story they could tell. But when the match is not there, it can be detrimental to any story, as it can create doubt, foster negativity around the project, or go in the complete wrong direction.

Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios [Women on the Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown], written and directed by Pedro Almodóvar (1988)

As mentioned, a good match between a writer/director and a dramaturg can lift any project up. In some cases, the dramaturg is present in the first steps of crafting an idea into a story, sometimes they come into it towards the end when the script is there, acting as a story analyst and editor to help find the main problems with the story to make it better, or sometimes they are even present throughout the entire process. Though not always crucial, dramaturgs can play an important role in shaping a story for its intended audience. As long as they assist, without trying to impose how they would do it.

Moving with the tides As dramatic storytelling keeps on changing, a dramaturg keeps on moving and adapting to cater to new theory. However, the essence of story still remains the same. Classical theorists, notably Aristotle, argued that tragedy should have a beginning, middle, and end, arousing pity and fear to produce catharsis (Aristotle 1932). This still applies in todays various media forms. Even though a TV series can be incredibly complex, with an entire football team of characters, hundreds of episodes, and countless acrs over many seasons, the core ideas remain the same. Dramaturgs ensure narrative continuity, monitor emotional arcs and plot clarity, challenge writers on their scripts, and refine story elements.

So… what is a dramaturg? Many things.

Why Stories Matter

On words, emotion, bias, and the power of connection.

I am a storyteller.

So is my neighbor.

My brother.

The old lady I spoke to this morning in the supermarket.

And so are you.

Every one of us is an archive full of thoughts and narratives that define how we see the world and who we are. When I use that word – story – you might associate it with the latest Hunger Games novel that you read in three sittings. Or all those films that will receive Academy Award nominations this year. Perhaps you think of those fables your father used to read to you before going to bed, or even that political speech you recently listened to that made you think “What a show, let’s see how this will play out.” Those can all indeed be classified as a story, but that’s not even the beginning of what that word entails.

Even before language was created, the human species was already communicating through story. Perhaps not in the literary sense, but communicating through what we might retrospectively call story — through ritual, gesture, emotion rhythm and sound. This proves that the word has much more meaning than the credit we give it. Forget quirky musicals and sci-fi novels for a second here, because stories did not begin with language. In fact, language likely evolved, in part, as a tool to tell stories more efficiently.. Before words were ever used, homo sapiens connected with one another through the body. And we still do.

Now, when you are out to dinner with a friend, they might share something that happened to them last weekend. They might unknowingly use their hands to gesture how awful that date was. Through rapid eye movements and a wrinkled forehead, you see the shock in their facial expressions when reliving this moment. You both laugh collectively, the same high-pitched tone that signals that you understand exactly what they were going through. Not only that, but you empathize joyfully as you both try to lighten the situation with these ritualized looks of surprise and sounds of laughter. Later, on the phone to your sister, you might tell your friend’s horror date story, in order to bond and perhaps ease some of the tension you had at the beginning of the call regarding your quarrel last week.

The way others will see you is entirely based on what they tell themselves about who they think you are. Isn’t that strange? We will never fully be able to control how we are seen, only how we act. And yet, whether others will perceive it the way we want them to, is still completely out of our hands. If I imagine all the people in my life that I am closest to – my parents, brother, boyfriend, and some of my closest friends – as well as those who might know me differently – my therapist, teachers or mentors, work relations – I am certain that none of them would have the same opinion on who I am. To my core. There will certainly be a lot of similar characteristics that would emerge, but every one of them will touch upon another quality that they see. With their own magnifying glass that has been tampered with by their own life experiences.

It’s normal to see the world through our own-colored lenses. Every day in our lives, from the day we are born to the day we die, we are immersed in the movie that is filmed by our eyes, edited by our brains, and produced by our minds. As hard as we may try to enter another person’s cinema hall, the screen will still project our own production. Perhaps we recognize that the story has been tampered with, but you will never see the same movie. However hard you might try. You exist in an entirely different reality. Because it is nearly impossible to passively record what is happening around us. The fact of the matter is that we are active in the construction of our reality. Not only writers share the narrative structures that they create, but everyone does. Every single day. With this in mind, can anything ever be unbiased?

This same mechanism — our inability to see without interpreting — also applies to how we produce knowledge.

There are two formal ways to research any matter: Quantitative – meaning the collection of data expressed in numbers and graphs, often used to test or confirm theories and assumptions – and qualitative – focused on understanding concepts, thoughts or experiences through interviews with open-ended questions, observations and reviews on various (perhaps differing) perspectives. In short: quantitative research deals with statistics, qualitative research deals with words. Both are equally important, and both are inevitably prone to bias, as is all research. Following Campbell (1963/2002), Denzin (1978), and Longino (1990), bias is understood as an inevitable feature of research, mitigated through methodological safeguards rather than being eliminated. This means that no research can ever be unbiased, and no good researcher will ever claim that it can be. All they can do is be transparent and use careful methods to reduce its effects. So bias is not wrong or bad; it’s a starting point.

How does all this connect to stories? Well, in a sense the way we interpret research is based on our own biases. Similar to how we interpret anything that we see, hear or read. When your friend tells you their horror date story, you might empathize seeing as you have known this person for a long time. There is a certain trust you have in them, based on your own unconscious research that you have been conducting for the past ten years of your friendship. Their familiar presence, the experiences you both share, alongside this ritual of trying out a new restaurant once a month, has accumulated into a deep love for this person.

You know them.

Over the years they have proven to be a worthy companion through the actions you have observed in them and how they have been positively perceived by your mind. All of this combined makes you emotionally connected to them. You do not, however, have any such connection with the person they went on a date with. That person only exists in your reality, based on the description that your friend has given you alongside your own thoughts and biases.

Danish author Isak Dinesen said that to be a person is to have a story to tell. And those stories can act like social glue or social fissures – a tool that unites us or a tool that will split us apart. Because even though skilled researchers might be trained to acknowledge their biases, many of us are not. It is incredibly difficult to look inward, and even more so to acknowledge that it might be impossible for us to look outward objectively. Because why would we not want to believe in the stories our minds are creating? Why would we actively admit that we will never fully know anything? Admitting this is terrifying, and for some perhaps even humiliating. Who are we as the collective human species if we admit that we are all experiencing our own fever dream, that is like saying that I will never truly be connected to anyone at all.

Still, there is another element that binds the human species and that is emotion. I will never truly know how you feel and you will never truly know what I feel, but when we sit on the couch together watching a film about a dog who waits at the train station every day, for his deceased owner to come home, we might both shed a tear. Or when our book club meets in order to discuss that epic thriller full of plots twists and turns, we might bond over the exhilaration we felt and the excitement over the novel’s crazy ending. In Mirrors in the Brain, Rizzolatti and Sinigaglia (2008) discovered that we have mirror neurons in our brains, meaning that when we observe another person’s emotion, this can partly activate similar patterns in our own brain, creating a primitive form of empathy. We are practically hardwired to understand each other through those expressions that show how we feel. That is the true social glue that brings us together. And stories can be a great tool to distribute the glue, if told well.

Stories are so much more than just a form of entertainment, they whole-heartedly influence the way we see the world. Seeing as humans perceive reality narratively (Bruner, 1991), the stories we absorb can completely change how we feel, think, or what we believe about society. When watching a film or TV series, when reading a book or a news article, when listening to a podcast or a discourse, we are subconsciously taking in new particles of information that will shape the way we think in the future. This is what makes artists so significant, as they are the ones telling the stories that influence our emotions, which then in turn shape our perception, changing society one step at a time.

On the flip side, we can equally absorb a different kind of story that is told with the objective of exerting control. Historically, artists would often be among the first to be persecuted for challenging an authoritarian regime or religious ideologies, which would threaten the stability of that control. Moreover, governments are in a way storytellers themselves, as they might use stories through campaigns, nationalism and education. However, this is not a black and white tale of the good artists and the bad politicians, as there are many artists who propagate or reinforce harmful ideologies, as well as governments who value and defend their people.

So, why do stories matter? Because everyone’s life is a story, made up of loads of tiny different stories, that shape the entire story of our human society. Let’s compare it to atoms and molecules. Molecules are formed by two or more atoms that stick together with bonds but react completely differently depending on how you arrange them. For instance, ice and water are the same substance (H₂O), but they differ depending on environmental conditions and how the atoms are connected. Let’s say that humans are like molecules, made up of many particles or atoms (stories), which can influence the matter depending on how they’re all made up. Humans are basically made up of the millions of stories they carry, which influence their actions, thoughts, sense of self and of the world.

Therefore, it is important not to underestimate the power of stories. They have the innate ability to change everything, for we not only absorb them, but every one of us is made up of those stories. Denying that is almost like rejecting the reality of our existence, whilst embracing this idea might be the first step in awareness to how these stories can influence us. They are our way of understanding ourselves and the world around us. It is completely fine – and perhaps even healthy – to acknowledge their importance and allowing stories influence us.

As long as we remain aware of when influence turns into control.

Growing Pains

It’s a new year so the perfect time to reflect (read: to feel blue). These past few months I went through some huge changes in my life. Decisions I had to face, choices I had to make, and the infite pondering over whether I chose the right path. My head says yes, but my heart screams songs of sadness, discomfort, and loneliness.

What changed?

End of last year I moved countries, to a city that I know but never lived in. I started a new job, one that whispers: “imposter, imposter” each time I look in the mirror. I moved into a new flat, with people who I’m still getting to know. Said goodbye to some friends along the way (we still talk, but FaceTime is a bi...), and one more definite goodbye. Bigger than I've ever known. A goodbye that truly took away a piece of my old self. It’s tough.

Why is it tough?

Tough is actually not the right word: it’s terrifying, uncomfortable, lonely, and awfully painful at times. Why did I leave my old life behind? Why did I decide to change every single thing about my existence in the span of three period cycles. The answer I give is simple: “I am investing in my future self. Therefore, I moved to a city where I am closer to family, started a job where I know I am able to grow, found a place to live where my past self would’ve loved to be…” So why do I feel so much pain?

What do experts say?

"Nothing is irreversible, change takes time, it is okay to feel uncomfortable…” These are sentences I’ve heard countless times in the past few months. And I know them to be true. The person we thought we were is now changing, and we have to do some mental adjustment to accommodate this new view of ourselves. Thus the term: Psychological Growing Pains.

Remember when you were a kid and would complain about your knees hurting or your back hurting for no apparent reason? They would feel achy and sore for what seemed like days. And when you complained to your mother about the pain, she would say, “It’s just growing pains.” Just as physical growth causes physical discomfort, psychological growth can cause psychological discomfort. The stress and strain caused by thinking about things in new and foreign ways can create a cognitive dissonance where your long-held perspectives are challenged by alternative views and ideas. - Dr. Berney, licensed psychologist

How to cope?

Journaling, meditation, exercise… those are the easy answers. But the truth to the matter is that the best healer is time. That can be frustrating to an impulsive person like myself, because to me time feels like an enemy, not a friend. But it is my friend. In fact right now, it’s my bestest of friends. In a world where I don’t feel at home, time seems to be the only thing I can hold onto.

The best advice I ever received:

The advice that people give offers some comfort, but doesn’t help ease the worries. What do they know, after all? They might be wrong. But years ago, during one of one of my Psychological Growing Pain periods, one of these people gave me a piece of advice. Back then it didn’t mean much (again, what do they know?). But looking back, I see how valuable this little thought was. They said: “Will your worries still matter a year from now?”

And the answer is:

No. Probably not. I will have new things to worry about, new pains to take care of. Looking back at the worries I had back then, it seemed like I was making a mountain out of a molehill. This, of course, depends on the magnitute of your situation. But in most cases, this small thought is relevant and true. I smile at my younger self who was so preoccupied with climbing over that enormous mountain. It now seems so... insignificant.

So I will give myself a year to grow. Because only time will tell. Truly. I hate clichés but they exist for a reason. Eventually my discomfort and unknown surroundings will become my new comfort zone, the old pains will seem like molehills, and I will hopefully grow to be a few centimeters taller.