Television Dramatic Dialogue

Television Dramatic Dialogue
OXFORD STUDIES IN SOCIOLINGUISTICS
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Television Dramatic Dialogue: A Sociolinguistic Study

Kay Richardson
A Sociolinguistic Study
Kay Richardson
1
2010
3
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Richardson, Kay, 1955–
Television dramatic dialogue : a sociolinguistic study / Kay Richardson.
p. cm.—(Oxford studies in sociolinguistics)
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-19-537405-6; 978-0-19-537406-3 (pbk.)
1. Television broadcasting—Language. 2. Television series—Great Britain.
3. Television series—United States. 4. English language—Usage.
5. Dialogue analysis. 6. Sociolinguistics. I. Title.
PN1992.8.L35R33 2010
302.2 0345—dc22 2009024979
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
This book is dedicated
to the team in Combined Honours at Liverpool:
Jeanne, Becky, John, Helen, Kathy,
Debbie, Jim, Claire, and Janet
This page intentionally left blank
Acknowledgments
Most of all, I want to thank John Corner, who read the whole manuscript at a late
stage and made important suggestions which improved the quality of the work.
I also want to acknowledge all of the participants at the Ross Priory Broadcast
Talk seminar of March 2008: they listened to an early version of chapter 2 and
gave me valuable feedback. Some members of the Ross Priory group have
provided intellectual stimulation and camaraderie over a longer period of time,
especially Joanna Thornborrow, Stephanie Marriott, Martin Montgomery, Greg
Myers, Andrew Tolson, Paddy Scannell, and Arnt Maas (who provided me with
a key reference at an early stage of the project). I am grateful to all of you.
Adam Jaworski and Nik Coupland, the series editors for Oxford Studies in
Sociolinguistics, recommended this book for commissioning and helped to
ensure that the proposal was a worthy one; the staff at Oxford University Press
who contributed to its production include Peter Ohlin, the commissioning
editor, as well as Molly Wagener, Stephanie Attia, Brian Hurley, Mary Anne
Shahidi, and others behind the scenes whose names I do not know. Please accept
my thanks for your support.
Contents
Chapter 1: Introduction, 3
Chapter 2: Previous Research, 21
Chapter 3: What Is TV Dialogue Like?, 42
Chapter 4: What TV Screenwriters Know about Dialogue, 63
Chapter 5: What Audiences Know about Dialogue, 85
Chapter 6: Dialogue as Social Interaction, 105
Chapter 7: Dialogue, Character, and Social Cognition, 127
Chapter 8: Dialogue and Dramatic Meaning: Life on Mars, 151
Chapter 9: House and Snark, 169
Chapter 10: Conclusion, 187
Appendix: List of Television Shows, 198
Notes, 219
References, 227
Index, 237
1
Introduction
Television, as the dominant mass medium of the second half of the twentieth
century and into the first decade of the twenty-first century, is responsible for
bringing extensive amounts of drama into everyday life, from adaptations of
classic novels and multiple episode serials to true story enactments and the
scenarios played out in TV commercials. In doing so, it repeatedly displays people
talking, showing audiences how characters behave in the varying circumstances
of their narratives. These stories, and the talk they give rise to, mediate between
the familiar and the extraordinary, and engage the imaginative powers of their
receivers as well as their creators. This book offers a primarily sociolinguistic
approach toward a better understanding of what the talking in these dramatic
productions contributes to contemporary culture.1
THE SCOPE OF THE RESEARCH
Television drama dialogue can be defined as onscreen/on-mike talk delivered by

characters as part of dramatic storytelling in a range of fictional and nonfictional
TV genres. Television consumers are characteristically referred to as its viewers
and described as watching programs on TV. But the experience of television is
seriously incomplete unless viewers are also listeners, who engage with the
various mixes of sound, speech, and music that the medium has to offer, in
combination with its visual images. Most of television’s product range offers us
the sound of the human voice, and a considerable proportion of that involves the
kind of talk that I have described above. When actors talk to one another on this
basis, we in the audience are invited to hear speech, embodied and en-voiced. The
lines crafted by writers in the confines of an office or other private space have
been appropriated and transformed. Within the parameters of the representa-
tion, the on-screen bodies own their speech as the characters they purport to be.
In television’s favored realist modes, this embodiment accommodates well any
inclination we may have to hear characters as people, and their talk as the kind of
3
4 Television Dramatic Dialogue
thing that such people could say, in the ordinary or extraordinary circumstances
that the dramatized situations present them with.
Such speech is not authentic, if by authentic we mean unscripted, naturally
occurring talk among human beings talking for themselves, as themselves; and
as a mimetic copy of real conversation (cf. Quaglio 2009) it will always be found
wanting, if only because of the functions it must perform over and above those of
imitation. But even outside of drama, the line between authentic and inauthentic
speech is a hard one to draw. Erving Goffman long ago demonstrated the extent
to which performance was an essential part of everyday human interaction, and
introduced a dramaturgical model into the analysis of such interaction (Goffman
1959). If, as he suggested, we stage-manage our routine encounters with others,
then authenticity is itself a matter of negotiation in our social relationships. On
the other hand, characters in drama (even, to a degree, those based on real people
like Margaret Thatcher, former prime minister of the United Kingdom) are the
product of imagination, so there can be no question of them producing speech
“for themselves, as themselves”—they have no selves. But dramatists can write,
actors can deliver, and directors can stage, lines that fit the character’s design.
They can, among them, offer plausibility, appropriacy and consistency, and they
can even include some restaging of the stage management of everyday encoun-
ters. They are allowed, required even, to do so within the terms of larger narrative
structures and thematic concerns—to realize just as much character depth and
complexity in the characters’ talk that the project, conceived holistically, requires.
In her groundbreaking study of dialogue in feature films, Kozloff had this to say:
Although what the characters say, exactly how they say it, and how the dialogue is
integrated with the rest of the cinematic techniques are crucial to our experience
and understanding of every film since the coming of sound, for the most part
analysts incorporate the information provided by a film’s dialogue and overlook
the dialogue as signifier. Canonical textbooks on film aesthetics devote pages and
pages to editing and cinematography but barely mention dialogue. Visual analysis
requires mastery of a recondite vocabulary and trained attentiveness; dialogue has
been perceived as too transparent, too simple to need study. (Kozloff 2000: 6)
The image of dialogue as “transparent” is an interesting one in this context. It

is a metaphor that fits the visual field much more readily than it fits the aural
(including verbal) field. In the visual field it relates to the well-known practices of
continuity editing, designed to efface all evidence of the work required to achieve
the pictures on screen and to create narrative continuity between them (Bordwell
and Thompson 2006). The metaphor invites us to think of substances like glass
or water. These substances allow us to look through them rather than at them,
seeing only what is on the other side. The point of continuity editing is to invite
that kind of viewing by audiences, though many viewers, including critics, want
to resist the invitation and to understand the mediation itself.
Introduction 5
How can transparency also be a property of talk? Talk is something we listen to,
not something we look at (or through). Sight and hearing are equivalent in this
sense—that in both cases one basic interpretation strategy is the one that tries to
efface the form and substance of the text in order to retrieve the content—the
meaning. For the specific purposes of analyzing television dialogue, it is helpful
to think of that dialogue as talk designed to create the impression that it has
delivered up its meaning without effort on the hearer’s part. Film and TV critics
have learned to resist the visual transparency effect (which anyway does not apply
to all screen fictions). The next lesson is resistance to its verbal equivalent, the
“easy listening” effect. This book will help develop such resistance, by focusing
on such matters as the following:
· How other effects, as well as, or instead of, those of easy listening—humor,
for example—are created through television drama dialogue. This also
includes the use of dialogue for narrative exposition and for the creation
of believable characters.
· How the craft skills of writers and performers contribute to the easy
listening effect of television dialogue—and how these skills depend upon
the same kinds of resources that are deployed in the construction of
intelligible interaction more generally.
· How audiences make use of dialogue in their own appropriations of
television’s dramatic texts.
· How the cultural significance of television dialogue goes beyond the
specific effects it sets out to achieve.
· What can be learned about the social conditions of linguistic creativity with
reference to this particular kind of language use.
In mainstream television and film, there is a preference for realistic rather than
stylized or poetic modes of talk in many genres. This approximate, and conven-
tionalized, verisimilitude encourages audiences to take the easy road and
hear drama talk as they hear everyday talk. But as all sociolinguists know, even
everyday, unscripted talk categorically does not give up meaning without effort on
the hearer’s part. Much research in the fields of pragmatics (including politeness
theory), interactional sociolinguistics, and conversation analysis is dedicated
to understanding the work involved in conversational sense making (for an
introduction to pragmatics research, see, e.g., Verschueren 1999). Although
that effort can be idealized out of existence in the routine practices of listening
and talking, it becomes evident when communication gets problematic for
participants. Then, they might query one another’s choice of words, self-correct,
ask for repetition, object to offensive or racist and sexist phrasings, protest
against being interrupted, or engage in any number of metacommunicative
practices. These practices, too, are a normal part of everyday talk (Cameron
2004). As far as realist drama dialogue is concerned, they, too, can be brought
under the regime of its easy listening protocol.
When easy listening in dramatic dialogue is a design goal (on the production
side) and a default interpretation preference (on the reception side), the result
should indeed correspond to its counterpart in daily life, with audience in the
role of eavesdroppers (cf. Bubel 2008). This kind of easy listening (which will
be reinforced by the visual transparency effect) allows audiences to hear that the
dialogue belongs to the characters, and that the characters are people getting
on with their lives. It discourages audiences from hearing other things in the
dialogue—for example, it discourages them from hearing characters as channels
of narrative exposition. Characters are not there to tell the story: they are there to
act, to have experiences and to talk.
WHAT IS TELEVISION DRAMATIC DIALOGUE?
The object of study has some very clear prototypical forms, but fuzzy boundaries,
for example, where television ends and film begins, where drama meets documen-
tary, and where dialogue, typically pre-scripted, becomes improvised. The pur-
pose of this section is first to illustrate the nature of dramatic dialogue in its
prototypical form, and then to establish the limits of its distribution on television,
moving outward from the core cases toward the periphery. This chapter, and the
two that follow, are the most expansive chapters in the book, and reference will be
made to the following kinds of screen production using dialogue: situation
comedy, sketch shows, dramatized documentary; TV commercials; legal dramas;
political dramas, “dramedy”; fantasy drama, soap opera; monologues; historical
dramas; improvisation game shows; and current affairs using dramatization.2 In
the remaining chapters, 4 to 10, there will be a narrower focus on programming
at the more prototypical end.
Transcribed orthographically from the broadcast original, standard dramatic
dialogue in TV can be made to look like this (lines here have been numbered for
ease of reference):
1 TONY : Carmela, something I gotta confess.

[Carmela moves her wine glass].
2 What are you doing?
3 CARMELA : Getting my wine in position to throw in your damn face!
4 TONY : You’re always with the drama, you.
5 CARMELA : Go ahead and confess already, please! Get it over with!
6 TONY : [covering his face] I’m on Prozac.
7 CARMELA: Oh—Oh my God!
8 TONY : I’ve been seeing a therapist.
Introduction 7
9 CARMELA: Oh my God! I think that’s great! I think that’s so wonderful! I think that’s
so gutsy!
(The Sopranos, HBO 1999–2007, episode 1, written by David Chase)3
The Sopranos is perhaps the most significant Anglophone television drama series
of the first half of the 2000s. “Tony” is Anthony Soprano (James Gandolfini), head
of a New Jersey mob family, and thus one in a long line of Italian-American
crime family “godfathers” on film and television. “Carmela” (Edie Falco) is his
wife. An informal account of the interaction in these few lines might look
something like this:
The extract comes from two-thirds of the way through the first episode.
Viewers have seen Tony’s first and second meetings with his therapist, as well
as flashbacks depicting events that led to the original therapy session. Carmela is
about to become the first person to learn that he has sought professional help for
his state of mind. The narrative business of the scene is “Tony tells Carmela” and
“Carmela reacts to the news.” The psychological context is the costs and benefits
of disclosure for Tony. Because of his precarious position as de facto head of the
mafia operation in New Jersey, Carmela is a less risky confidante than a “capo”
if he must tell someone, and in terms of family politics there are other risks if
she is kept in the dark. The dialogue here shows that Carmela already has a
script/schema in place for “Tony’s confessions”—adultery being the most likely,
though wrong in this instance; it also displays the chronic state of tension that
characterizes their relationship. Note the linguistic markers of informality ap-
propriate to this relationship—gonna, gutsy—and of emotional content appropri-
ate to the business at hand: damn, Oh my God! The distribution of such markers
in television dialogue will not be explored in this book, but has been usefully
examined elsewhere (Quaglio 2009).
Structurally Tony’s disclosure is a drawn-out one. There is a presequence
consisting of an announcement soliciting Carmela’s assent to hear the confes-
sion (line 1), which is satisfied when the assent is granted (line 5). This exchange
is broken up by an insertion sequence initiated by Tony in line 2 but provoked
by Carmela’s nonverbal action after line 1. The insertion sequence is collabora-
tive linguistically (question-response-feedback in lines 2, 3, and 4, respectively)
but interpersonally confrontational. The question is straightforward; the answer,
though true, relevant, sincere, and (arguably) informationally satisfactory,4 pro-
mises violence. The feedback to this undercuts Carmela’s threat. She gives
ground and engages on his original terms, though the wording of line 5 is
styled to convey that her assent is grudgingly given—that for her it can only
be bad to hear this news. Falco’s performance realizes this “grudging consent”
interpretation of the line through her intonation, voice quality, and body lan-
guage. The actual information, divided by Tony into two parts, is handled
by Carmela as a genuine surprise (line 7), and subsequently by her as good news
(line 8).
According to Nelson (2007: 27), The Sopranos mixes the conventions of the
mafia movie with those of soap opera and psychological drama. Most drama
could claim to be psychological in some sense, but not all of it sets out to explore
the complex inner lives of characters, and certainly not the traditional gangster
films and TV shows. Husband-and-wife confrontations based on infidelity are
common enough in any of these three genres—the twist here is that Tony is not
confessing to adultery and Carmela’s expectations are thwarted, though the
audience’s are not because they know the secret already. Akass and McCabe
(2002) are interested in the introduction of strong women into a traditionally
masculine genre. Tony’s therapist is one of those strong women, and Carmela is
another. The dialogue here starts to point the audience away from a simple
“wronged wife” schema, particularly in Carmela’s enthusiastic response to
Tony’s admission. His own hesitancy (the presequence, the face-covering) dis-
play him as a weaker brand of godfather—at least in his wife’s presence, though
with a more assertive alternate repertoire also available to him, as displayed in
line 4. Aspects of the show’s discourse that are apparent at the broad level of its
narrative structure can also be recognized in microcosm at the level of the
dialogic exchange.
But this kind of drama is just the start. Some TV stories claim to be true—
based on real life. The characters in these are, or were, real people. Tony Blair,
Britain’s former prime minister, was constructed as “Tony Blair” in The Deal
(Granada Television 2003) in a performance by Michael Sheen—which Sheen
then reproduced for the feature film The Queen. A “Julius Caesar” character was
constructed, with much more creative latitude than in the case of Blair, for Rome
(HBO/BBC 2005). There is no guarantee that the lines spoken by these dramatic
characters were ever spoken by the corresponding individuals in real life—
usually “their” words come from the imagination of a writer, just as much as
those in The Sopranos. Nonfictional TV dramatization falls within the scope of
the definition. So, too, does advertising. Not all TV commercials take a drama-
tized form, but some do, and some of those use dialogue. The definition also
includes sketches in TV shows, as well as soap operas and situation comedies
that, although fictional and dramatized, sometimes fall inside, and sometimes
outside, the scope of the genre term TV drama, depending on the context.
Most television dramatic dialogue is pre-scripted, but this is not essential.
Game shows like Whose Line Is It Anyway? (UK Channel Four, 1988–1998;
USA ABC 1998–present) require comedy actors and stand-up comedians to
create characters on the spot and improvise dialogue, playing out scenarios to
order (partly from audience suggestions). The talk in Whose Line sketches is not
only improvised but proudly so, because it is the quick-wittedness of the contest-
ants in responding to one another, to the show’s host, and to the audience that is
Introduction 9
the show’s raison d’être. Elsewhere, improvisation may be disguised in postpro-

duction for the sake of fluency in the finished work, as it was in the British
comedy Outnumbered (BBC 2007–2009), about the routines of family life.
Up to this point, the focus has been on forms of production in which
storytelling and dramatization coincide, and dramatization that has included
dialogue. But not all storytelling on television takes a dramatic form,5 and not all
dramatization involves dialogue (multiparty talk among characters). Mime
is obviously excluded by my definition, and so is nondramatized storytelling
(including all those stories that form the daily news diet—the outcome of a court
hearing, a bad drop in the stock market, an important bill being voted down) has
no place for dialogue.
Also excluded are series like Jackanory (BBC 1965–1996, 2006)—a long-run-
ning children’s TV series in the United Kingdom that used celebrities to read
aloud from storybooks, and produced imaginative visual illustration to watch
while listening to the tale. Reading aloud is, for obvious reasons, more common
on radio than on television. The celebrity could perform the dialogue “in charac-
ter”—as well as narrating the expositional elements. This kind of production
certainly shares with The Sopranos an element of dialogue performance. But it is
a special case: not only are the character roles and the narrator role given to the
same performer, mitigating the normal arrangement in drama in which the
performer is identified with his or her character, but also the prose narrative
modality dominates over that of performed talk.
Dramatic monologues, such as the Talking Heads plays of Alan Bennett, are
another interesting marginal case, for a different reason:
It’s a funny time, three o’clock. Too late for lunch, but a bit early for tea.
This is what “Muriel” (played by Stephanie Cole) says at the start of

“Soldiering On,” (Talking Heads, series 1, BBC 1987). She is reflecting on her
experience at the end of the day of her husband’s funeral. She is the only one
on camera throughout the production: she speaks “to camera.” The performance
calls for a kind of “diary” voice, or an address to a nonparticipating interlocutor—
a sympathetic, interested “pen pal” for instance. Although there is no
linguistic or nonlinguistic input from this correspondent, Muriel speaks to
him/her as if they had a shared history: “I thought of Jessie Marchant,” she
says at one point, using a memory of this “Jessie” as part of an interpersonal
common ground. “Jessie” has not been referred to previously and will not be
referred to again. Such usages construct the monologue as a kind of dialogue.
Unlike the Jackanory characters, the speaker produces lines appropriate only
to her character of Muriel. Nevertheless, it is a marginal case because its dialogic
character is covert rather than overt, and begins to remind us of the Bakhtinian
argument that all speech and writing is engaged in conversation with other
voices.
One final observation is necessary in this section. For some years now
in Britain, and no doubt other countries too, closed-captioning (optional
written subtitles) has been variably available for broadcast programming,
for the benefit of hard-of-hearing viewers. Those who prefer sign language
are accommodated less well: a few shows are repeated with an inset screen
signing dialogue and commentary. Visual challenges are not overlooked either:
some digital services provide optional audio commentary. In Britain broadcasters
are legally obliged to attempt to meet the needs of all viewers over a variable
10-year timeframe, subject to some exclusions.6 The arrival of the digital age
has not made television drama instantly more accessible. My interest here,
though, is not in the politics, economics, and technology of access, but in the
variability of reception. Even at this basic level, different modes of delivery
and reception are currently possible, and being used by audiences. Throughout
the rest of this book, generalizations about how TV audiences receive informa-
tion will continue to be normative ones referring to the majority audience,
but it is important to acknowledge that this is an analytic convenience. There
are signs that these services, provided with particular subgroups of the
audience in mind, are also used more widely. Non-American audiences
have come to appreciate that it can be easier to follow the dialogue and plot
of some of the more “artful” American dramas with the subtitles turned on.
(see chapter 10).
THE PLACE OF DIALOGUE IN TELEVISION

DRAMATIZATION
Although this book is about language in TV dramatization, it is important not to

put language at the center of the study of dramatic form and meaning. When
drama is a way of delivering a particular kind of narrative, it falls within the scope
of Seymour Chatman’s view that narrative is a substratum of expressive form and
thus not essentially linguistic:
Literary critics tend to think too exclusively of the verbal medium, even though they
consume stories daily through films, comic strips, paintings, sculptures, dance
movements, and music. Common to these artifacts must be some substratum;
otherwise we could not explain the transformation of “Sleeping Beauty” into a
movie, a ballet, a mime show. (Chatman 1978)7
The substratum of narrative is supposed to involve some kind of cognitive

construct. Researchers such as Emmott (1997) have argued that the comprehen-
sion of narrative requires the construction of mental models of the fictional
world. Although Emmott writes about linguistic narratives, the points she
makes apply, mutatis mutandis, to all narrative texts.
Introduction 11
The distinctiveness of dramatic narratives has to do with the role of showing

and the shown. Drama requires, among other things, performed narrative actions.
These performances need not be linguistic ones, as the example of ballet clearly
shows. Even dramas that do make use of language will need to do much more
besides—especially in films and TV drama, of which so much is expected in the
visual dimension. The nonlinguistic aspects of film and TV drama are so
preeminent that in film studies it is necessary to argue for some attention to
dialogue—the tradition here is to ignore, downplay, and disparage talk in favor
of nonlinguistic form, structure, and meaning, as Kozloff (2000) has persuasively
argued. One kind of narrative action in a screen drama, on TV or at the cinema,
may involve an actor pulling a gun on another, or running from an assailant as in
the best James Bond tradition. Another kind of narrative action is the linguistic
kind, such as a threat, a declaration of love, an apology—or a confession, as in the
extract from The Sopranos at the start of this chapter. Of course the conduct of real
life also includes linguistic performances, as linguistic anthropology, ordinary
language philosophy, and sociolinguistics have long recognized. The balance
between linguistic and nonlinguistic actions will vary according to genre, but
very little contemporary screen drama is entirely dialogue-free—the Mr. Bean
series (ITV 1990–1995), and some film/TV commercials, are about as close as we
get to this in the past few decades. To eliminate dialogue entirely is to eliminate
not only actual speech acts, but also the possibility of using speech for exposition,
helping viewers to understand what has happened or is happening at the level of
plot, or as a contribution to the creation of plot expectations.8
Even when actors are required to talk, the vocal delivery of the words (timing,
pitch, melody, voice quality, volume, etc.) already takes us out of the sphere
of language and into that of the semiotics of sound (Van Leeuwen 1999),
and nonvocal aspects of delivery (gaze, gesture, bodily orientation) take us
further still (Naremore 1988). Language has a contribution to make to dramatic
expression, but it is neither a necessary nor a sufficient element of its construc-
tion. Its most basic contribution is to assist in the realization of the underlying
narrative form and characterization, though there are other less basic contribu-
tions too.
At the same time, not all language in dramatic texts takes the form of dialogue.
Those linguists who study literary drama, in its written form, are interested, for
instance, in stage directions (McIntyre 2006). Performed dramas may include
voiceover components in many productions involving dramatization—common in
dramatized documentary and TV commercials, but not unknown in popular
drama too: it is deployed in both Heroes (NBC 2006–present) and Desperate
Housewives (ABC 2004–present), among others:
Where does it come from, this quest, this need to solve life’s mysteries, when the
simplest of questions can never be answered? “Why are we here?” “What is the
soul?” “Why do we dream?” Perhaps we’d be better off not looking at all, not
yearning, not delving. That’s not human nature, not the human heart. That is not
why we are here.
(Heroes, season 1, episode 1, written by Tim Kring)
SHOWING AND TELLING
Dramatic dialogue exists within a storytelling frame. Stories can be shown, they
can be told, or they can use a combination of showing (mimesis) and telling
(diegesis). Drama aligns itself more with showing, and prose narrative more with
telling, but neither alignment is exclusive, and there are different kinds of
showing. Prose narrative and drama in its written form try to show using letters
and words—conventional codings of sounds and meanings, whereas prose
narrative, when read aloud, and drama, when performed and produced, appear
to offer more directness in their representations. It is important to understand
that writings and performances strive to show to the ear, as well as to the eye. The
distinction between showing and telling is not the same as the one between
audio and visual modes in TV and film drama. To understand this point, a
good place to start is with a minimalist written story already familiar in language
studies (Sacks 1972):
1. The baby cried. The mommy picked it up.
In this story we are not shown the crying—we are told about it. A writer who
wanted his reader to hear the cry in her “mind’s ear” might prefer the following:
2. The baby went: “Waaaagh!” The mommy picked it up.
“Waaaagh!” in version 2 is closer to the aural experience of hearing a baby cry

than the verb “to cry” in version 1, but it is still an approximation of sound, made
possible by the conventions of a writing system. The multiple repetition of the
letter “a” between a “w” and a “gh” corresponds to no English word, but literate
Anglophones can be relied on to get the point.
A raconteur (a term I will use to avoid confusion with a silent reader), reading
aloud the second story, can use this approximation as a clue to guide her
imitation of a baby’s cry at this point. Though true verisimilitude may be
missing, due to physiological differences if nothing else, we will at least hear
the imitation as a showing of what the baby did, and not as a telling about the
baby’s act. Version 3 takes the point further:
3. The child went: “It huuuuurts!” The mommy picked him up.
Introduction 13
A crying infant may be capable of verbalizing distress as well as emitting distress

cries. Our prose narrative is able to represent this, and our raconteur may be
as capable of doing vocal justice to the delivery of these words as she was capable of
imitating the cry. The introduction of verbalization into the narrative changes
nothing from a theoretical point of view. Nor does the elimination of written
textual clues regarding the vocal qualities of the speech, except to create opportu-
nity for someone other than the writer to take responsibility for those qualities:
4. The child went: “Kiss it better.” The mommy picked him up.
The child in examples 1–3 is obviously being vocally expressive: the writer has
indicated this, and the raconteur will want to do it justice. The writer of 4 makes
life harder for the raconteur, by eliminating expressive clues from the text. Any
vocal expressiveness in the words of the child then becomes the raconteur’s
contribution, in the absence of any other clues to build upon.
In a dramatization, showing is foregrounded and telling is backgrounded.
A dramatized version of the above story would take away the responsibility
to imitate speech/sound from the raconteur and give it to actors who, for story-
showing purposes, embody and en-voice the characters in the story. Telling is
linguistically manifest in the written and read-aloud versions: the sequencing
and cohesion of the sentences made it into the telling of a story, of sorts. In a
dramatization, including screen dramatization, sequencing of actions makes this
a story. The sequenced actions must be visually displayed. This requires deci-
sions about camerawork and other matters. Should there be one shot or two for
this scene? Should the “mommy” be in shot all along, or enter the shot following
the cry? Should the camera move to follow the mommy’s movements? Should
the mise-en-scène exclude or include other people in addition to the two prota-
gonists? How fast should the sequence progress? Should the mommy’s comfort-
ing action seem to be successful or unsuccessful in pacifying the child?
On television, it is in drama proper that aural and visual showing goes
furthest. In other genres using dialogue—dramatic reconstructions in current
affairs shows, TV commercials—there is likely to be a greater proportion of
explicit telling in the mix, in the form of voiceover narration and/or on-screen
written information (scrolling tickers, intertitles, captions, legends, etc.). In com-
mercials we are likely to learn from a voiceover narration the point of what we
have just been shown. A recent pharmaceutical product commercial features
a performance of suffering, taking the product, and recovering, accompanied
by this voiceover:
Isn’t it annoying when things aren’t complete? Especially when you’ve got all the
symptoms of colds and flu. That’s why we’ve created new [product], our most
complete remedy ever. So, when you’re suffering from a chesty cough, headache,
fever, blocked nose, or sore throat, [product] gives you all the help you need.
The soundtrack is a mixed compilation of voiceover, music, and a background

dialogue track in which only the fact of speaking matters and not the words
spoken, which are indecipherable.
In factually based dramatized stories, an emphasis on telling can inhibit
viewers from too readily transferring the show’s claims from the told to the
shown component. But the formal and conventionally permissible possibilities
are broad, so that a recent dramatized documentary about the life of the legend-
ary Spartacus is able to make the storyteller into a character in Spartacus’ world,
retrospectively pulling together what he knew of the hero:
Scene: a cell full of chained prisoners: pan from cell window down and across to pick
up one prisoner—Spartacus. Voiceover begins:
No one even knows where he came from. Some say he was from Thrace, in
Greece. But he never said.
Dramatized sound as Spartacus and a female prisoner are unfastened from the
wall, and escorted away by guards.
All I know for sure is he had once been in the army. And then he and his wife
were seized, and taken to the slave market in Rome. And that’s where the story of
Spartacus really began.
Fade down voiceover: fade up character speech:
. . . a woman and a child. We’ll start at three thousand sesterces. What am I bid?
[auctioneer selling other slaves].
(Heroes and Villains: Spartacus, BBC 2008, written by Colin Heber-Percy and Lyall B. Watson)
In this voiceover, the commentary is that of an implied narrator—a character with

a fictional identity of his own. Later the narrator tells that Spartacus was his
friend, and we learn that he, too, was a slave, and ran away as part of the
rebellion, though we never learn how he comes to tell us the story. As for
Spartacus’s origins—the narrator is required to convey the fact that historians
have no information on this. He is made to say that no one in Spartacus’s own
acquaintance knew where he was from either, because Spartacus “never said,”
but such a speculative proposition is more acceptable from the mouth of a
character from the (hi)story world than from a more authoritative, “voice-of-
God” narrator.
HOW TO STUDY DIALOGUE ON TELEVISION
As indicated at the start of the chapter, this is not a well-trodden research path.
There are contextual reasons to explain the lack of attention paid to television
dramatic dialogue in academic research. In those branches of language studies
in which conversation is of interest, naturally occurring unmediated talk
takes precedence over other kinds because of its greater claim to authenticity.
Introduction 15
Stylistics is canonically interested in the language of literary texts, including

plays (see, e.g., McIntyre, 2006, Culpeper 2001, Herman 1995), but most TV
drama seems insufficiently literary to be included in this enterprise. Broadcast
talk has its own literature, but this focuses on unscripted talk in chat shows,
interviews, phone-ins, and reality television—the agenda here is with the social
relations of broadcasting—including radio (Tolson 2006, Hutchby 2006). In
textually oriented studies of TV drama, shows are regarded as a source of
narratives and social themes that merit analysis, often with an interest in the
visual form through which such meanings are delivered, but, as we have already
seen, and as Geraghty (2003) also notes, they show little interest in the contribu-
tion of the dialogue. In each of these areas, the relevance of TV dramatic dialogue
is problematic—not authentic, not literary, not special to the medium, and not
visual. The limited amount of published work (see chapter 2) is evidence that
there is no single research agenda in this area.
I have tried to achieve a mixture of breadth and depth in the following
chapters. Breadth is important because, as indicated earlier, television dramati-
zation comes in many forms. The forms and functions of talk in a drama series
like Heroes are very different from those found in a TV commercial. Among those
productions that fall under the narrower designation of drama rather than the
broader dramatization, there are differences that seem to have something to
do with genre, as, for example, between The West Wing (NBC 1999–2006) and
CSI (CBS 2000–present). Both of these are American dramas, though they
use speech in different ways. Generic categorization is no guarantee of
similar language use either. Medical dramas, for instance, vary in the proportion
of talk that is technical/professional.
Breadth here also means thinking about the dialogue from different points
of view. Sociolinguists are inclined to see the meaning of a text as a given, so
that their job is to explain what makes that meaning possible—including
meaning that can be reasonably designated indirect. Other critics may be in the
business of proposing interpretations of particular works—as with Akass and
McCabe’s (2002) suggestion regarding the contribution of strong women in the
narrative discourse of The Sopranos. Typically in these cases they will require
evidence to support their interpretations: so that dialogue, along with image,
editing, structure, and so forth, will all, variously, be called upon in that capacity.
But criticism is not a methodology, in the social-scientific sense, and is thus
not necessarily bound to specific evidential protocols. The next chapter
has more discussion of how television dramatic dialogue has been treated in
different approaches in work already published. Subsequent chapters try to
move on from this point in different ways: by trying to specify what
kind of language this is (chapter 3), by considering the writers’ point of view
(chapter 4) and the audience’s point of view (chapter 5), as well as a textual
approach informed by sociolinguistics (chapter 6) and another informed by
cognitive stylistics (chapter 7). Between them, these five chapters cover a wide
range of perspectives; within each of them, reference is made to an extensive
range of examples.
Depth of analysis will be offered primarily in chapters 8 and 9 (the two case
studies), though I have also found it useful to focus on one particular extract
in one particular series for chapter 5.
The research is based on extensive viewing of contemporary work on televi-
sion, from dramatized TV commercials through to high concept drama such as
Heroes, and some consultation of secondary sources. A principle adopted for the
purposes of citation and analysis were that the works in question should for the
most part be produced in the decade 2000–2009, during which the research was
undertaken—this includes works that may have commenced broadcasting in
the previous decade but that continued thereafter (e.g., Law and Order, NBC
1990–present). Some of this work was no longer being produced when the
research began (e.g., The West Wing). Occasional mention is made to work
from earlier periods (e.g., Mission: Impossible, CBS 1966–1973). The non-U.K.
shows mentioned here are known to have been made available as broadcasts
beyond the country of origin, and also in DVD and electronic download format.
Most of the U.K. programs discussed have likewise been internationally
distributed. The general principles about the nature of dramatized dialogue
transcend national origins, and should be applicable to television dramas in all
countries and languages, even if there are significant national differences in how
those principles are applied. DVDs provide the bulk of these reference materials,
a few have been recorded off-air, and when I have referenced the research of
other scholars, I have occasionally had access only to their transcripts. A full
index of all the television material referred to throughout this book is provided as
an appendix.
WHY DIALOGUE?
Many years ago John Ellis observed of television that, although an audiovisual
medium similar to film in many respects, the medium’s conditions of reception
led it to rely more on the audio than on the visual track to hold its audience:
The role played by sound stems from the fact that it radiates in all directions,
whereas view of the TV image is sometimes restricted. Direct contact is needed
with the TV screen. Sound can be heard where the screen can not be seen. So sound
is used to ensure a certain level of attention, to drag viewers back to looking at
the set. Hence the importance of programme announcements and signature tunes
and, to a certain extent, of music in various kinds of series. . . . Sound carries
the fiction or the documentary; the image has a more illustrative function. (Ellis
1992: 128–129)
Introduction 17
At home, attention could be more easily distracted than in the cinema, and the
space-filling property of sound made it less escapable than the television set’s
restricted visual field. The feeling seemed to be that to be out of sight of the TV
could be accommodated, up to a point, but to be out of earshot was really to miss it.
Voices, sound effects, and music can be heard by domestic audiences within range
of the TV set when they cannot see the picture or are aware of the picture only as a
flickering image in peripheral vision. To hear is not necessarily to understand, and
Ellis himself talks of TV sound causing viewers to reengage with the image too,
rather than being a self-sufficient source of meaning or pleasure for audiences.
The three components listed here—sound effects, music, and voice—
function in a variety of ways across television’s varying generic forms, as well
as constitute a common ground between the two forms of broadcasting, radio
and television. Where drama is concerned, sound effects can be understood in
part as by-products of the dramatic business, not necessarily of narrative interest
in their own right. A chair’s legs scrape across the floor; a fire crackles in the
grate. The noises contribute to the realism, even when they are added in post-
production by Foley artists and their broadcasting counterparts. The spoken
voice itself can be a sound effect in that sense, the paid extras required to
contribute to a background “hubbub” of some kind. Or a sound effect can be
foregrounded for communicative purposes, as when in drama it is necessary to
hear the creaking door to “feel the fear.” Music’s mood-enhancing (and attention-
calling) functions are ubiquitous in television, and it is perhaps the extra-diegetic
role of music, as used in the delivery of television drama specifically (as also in
feature films), that most readily comes to mind. The human voice can be part of
this extra-diegetic discourse too. The accompanying music may use songs that
have pertinent lyrics, or a singer’s voice quality may contribute to a feeling.
But speaking voices have a potential hold on viewers’ attention that is qualita-
tively different from that of either sound effects or music. What viewers hear,
when they listen to the speaking voice using a language that they share, is
a unified combination of vocal and verbal meaning in which it is interpretatively
impossible to separate the one from the other. The vocal meaning is the
delivery—voice quality, volume, pitch, timing, rhythm—its prosodic and para-
linguistic features. These are all deployed in the service of verbal meanings—
wordings that are understood to carry particular significance at the place they
occupy in the developing text. So much is true of speech wherever it occurs in
television. The physical body as the visualized source of that speech is also
semiotically important, and I have no wish to downplay its contribution to the
construction of meaning in television texts. Nevertheless, Ellis’s argument
concerning the significance of the audio track in television broadcasting gener-
ally, and my own argument about the particular salience of speech as part of that
track, suggests that the interpretation of television’s heard speech will be central
to most people’s encounters with the medium.
In the case of drama dialogue, the speech in question is standardly of a

particular kind: pre-scripted and interactive. Not all talk on TV is interactive in
the sense I have in mind. A political interview is interactive, because interviewer
and interviewee are obliged to respond to one another’s contributions, even
if both parties have separately prepared for the event ahead of time, even down
to rehearsing particular lines that they intend to use if they have a chance.
A dramatic encounter, such as that between Carmela and Tony in the Sopranos,
cited earlier, is also interactive between the two characters: more accurately it is
displayed as an interaction between them. A newsreader’s bulletin is not interac-
tive in that sense: it is a monologue to a remote audience. The oddness of talk
that is both pre-scripted and yet displayed as interactive is a point that I will
return to several times in the coming pages. At this point, all I want to say is that
with pre-scripted talk the achieved unity of vocal and verbal contributions as
transmitted to the audience belies the origins of that talk in which vocal and
verbal properties have come together from the separate contributions of a per-
former and a writer. In standard cases, we are dealing, in Goffman’s (1979)
terms, with distinct authors and animators, and the contributions of the latter
are dependent on those of the former.
Television’s voices in Britain now speak with many different forms of pronun-
ciation and in the performance of many different identities and relationships.
But the variety being offered is not limitless or without structure. Mainstream
television is probably as monolingual as it ever was: speakers of other languages
are relegated to the margins to find, via the paying services, channels
that broadcast material they can relate to. There is also a bias toward the more
intimate end of the interpersonal spectrum. Even public discourse, from the
leaders to the citizenry, has had to come to terms with television’s preference for
the informal, interactive, and domestic. Viewers in the United Kingdom can, if
they choose, use TV to witness daily proceedings from the floor of the House of
Commons, politically the country’s foremost debating chamber. But such events,
by design “theatrical” and “spectacular,” at least in potential, have lost much of
their power over the collective imaginations except on certain key occasions that
viewers learn of in advance from the broadcast media. Rarely are parliamentary
debates staged as part of dramatic representations on TV. The cost of realistically
replicating the Commons chamber as a studio set is a factor in this. But the
money would be found, if there were good dramatic reasons to display this kind
of interaction and evidence suggests that this is not common. Nationally, viewers
seem to be more engaged by exchanges conducted in kitchens, living rooms,
bedrooms, and bathrooms, especially if there is a chance that such exchanges are
real—not just the product of a writer’s imagination or self-consciously staged
for the camera’s benefit. This preference is a factor not just in the success of
reality television, but also in the dramatized biopics of actual public figures, in
which satisfaction can also be had from exploring the space between private and
Introduction 19
public realms. Public discourse is frequently staged in the form of courtroom

drama (Judge John Deed, BBC 2001–present, Law and Order). But even in Law and
Order, a series that largely seeks to exclude the personal from its narratives
of crime investigation and prosecution, there is always behind-the-scenes con-
textualization as well, so that audiences can understand the strategies lying
behind the words spoken in the courtroom by one or more of the parties in
the case. Judge John Deed is more typical in allowing itself also to explore the
domestic dramas of its central participants.
The marriage of vocal and verbal meaning in the speaking voice is utilized by
TV drama for the purposes of displaying identities and relationships from the
intimate end of the range, and for accessing the personal meanings behind more
public identity displays. Voices are technologically (re)produced so that they
come across as congruent in respect to social distance with the faces and bodies
on the screen. Viewers expect more of the grain of the voice when the shot is a
close-up than when the shot is from farther away. Not all TV dramatization is
intimate in the sense of deploying mainly close-up shots and their audio equiva-
lent. Close-ups offer the greatest proximity of viewer to speaker, but the lens
and the microphone can draw back from this intensity and still show a prefer-
ence for the personal and interpersonal significance of talk exchanges. Studio-
based drama, for example, offers the acoustic of a room as a closed space, and
makes the talk appropriate to such a space in terms of either its verbal or its vocal
characteristics, or both in combination. Location filming deletes, then reintro-
duces, background sound for the sake of dialogue that is clean—every word can
be heard. To hear every word is also to hear every beat, every stressed syllable, and
every filled or unfilled pause. To hear these is to have access to the personal and
interpersonal meanings they may carry. Even TV drama that is perceived as
covertly or overtly thematically purposeful or didactic has to work with the
grain of dramatic fiction’s preference for issues personalized, and with televi-
sion’s preference for the more domestic and private versions of the personal.
This orientation toward intimacy cannot be sustained by vocality alone. It is in
the combination of the vocal and the verbal that the work is accomplished. Actors
do not deliver lines in the way that postmen deliver packages, with vocality just
the wrapping paper to be discarded on receipt. But neither can performers
constitute vocality as the only basis of exchanged meaning. The writer’s material
counts for something, and may preempt some of the decisions regarding vocal
expression. Nor is the conduct of personal relationships the only function of
drama on television, however prominent it may be. Such conduct is itself
a vehicle for other layers of meaning, contextualizing personal relationships
within contemporary or historical social institutions such as law enforcement,
marriage, schooling, government, and so forth. Relationships mediate the
plot details of the stories that TV drama tells—who wins, who loses, what are
the consequences?
The chapters that follow represent an attempt to construct an account of

television drama dialogue that is general enough to do justice to all of the
contexts in which this can appear, as well as examine the phenomenon from a
number of related perspectives. To begin, in chapter 2, I examine previous
research that has focused on dialogue in television texts and show that the variety
of work here is very small and diverse: different scholars, with different pur-
poses, have treated TV drama as a source of language-based interactive material
relevant to their disparate concerns. Chapter 3 sets up some points of compari-
son to determine the place that this kind of talk occupies in sociolinguistic
space—specifically, with naturally occurring unscripted talk in comparable social
situations, with other kinds of mediated talk on television, and with dialogue in
other representational genres. Chapters 4, 5, and 6 collectively set out to examine
how different perspectives—those of writers, audiences (including critics), and
sociolinguists—differ in their understandings of what dialogue is and the kinds
of meanings it can carry. Chapter 7 picks up a particular interest from cognitive
stylistics in the dialogic construction of character in plays, and develops this in its
particular relation to television drama. Chapters 8 and 9 each present a case
study, one British (Life on Mars, BBC 2006–2007) and one American (House,
2004–present), the former emphasizing the functions of the dialogue in respect
of the production, and the latter emphasizing particular interactional character-
istics. The shortest chapter in the book is its conclusion, chapter 10, which
returns to some of the themes of this introduction, to offer an overview of
what the book has accomplished, and considers how future research might
take that forward. It steps back from the details of particular TV shows and
their compositional elements to consider how these contribute to a “dramatized
society” (Williams 1975) with specific reference to current research on language
creativity in everyday contexts (Maybin and Swann 2007).
2
Previous Research
Who else has written about dialogue in TV drama/dramatization, and why

have they done so? Are their interests sociolinguistic, aesthetic, or cultural?
Are they theoretical or substantive? The following survey of the available research
demonstrates that there is no unitary project behind them, that what exists
focuses on fictional drama more than on dramatization in factual television,
and that there is considerable tension (as well as scope for cross-referral) between
an “arts” discourse, concerned with formal characteristics of particular texts and
text types (and sometimes, despite the difficulties, with the value/quality of such
texts), and a “social science” discourse, concerned with shared meanings and
social influence. This tension cuts across the disciplinary lines that separate
sociolinguistic research from media research.
The first section of this chapter focuses on references to dialogue from
the perspective of TV drama studies (a subbranch of media research) to provide
a context for the subsequent sociolinguistic account, with a digression on dia-
logue in factual television programming. The second section surveys existing
substantive research on dialogue in TV drama, along with an account of some
theoretical contributions. On the basis of its interest in language-in-use, this
section incorporates contributions from stylistics, usually positioned as an arts
discipline, along with contributions with a stronger social-scientific/sociolinguis-
tic heritage.
TELEVISION STUDIES, DRAMA, AND DIALOGUE
The first point to make is that although television drama research is now an
established field, dialogue is not yet a topic in its own right within that field.
Geraghty (2003) proposed that scholars working in this area should give greater
attention to formal aspects of TV’s dramatic texts, as part of a move to take more
seriously the aesthetic contribution of television to contemporary culture, along
with its ideological/representational contribution. She recognized in this
context the relative neglect of dialogue: “it is surprising in a medium that is
21
strongly associated in a variety of ways with talk, with “overheard conversations”

[ . . . ] that the tone and delivery of dialogue is often overlooked in favour of
narrative progression” (Geraghty 2003: 34). Since 2003, researchers have begun
to respond to Geraghty’s wider challenge.1 But dialogue is still neglected. In
the two most recent publications of this field, Nelson (2007) and McCabe and
Akass (2007a) the term dialogue does not warrant an index entry, and neither
does language. Dialogue does, however, come in for some attention in both of
these works. There are two ways in which it makes an appearance. It is used as
one marker among others for a particular kind of dramatic production—quality
drama (here quality refers to its descriptive, rather than evaluative, use), and it
is recognized as offering scope for the articulation of thematically relevant
content. In both cases dialogue may be quoted, by way of illustration for the
points being made.
Dialogue and Quality

Writing about quality drama, using quality as a genre classification (cf. Thomp-
son 1996), and trying to understand how quality in the genre sense relates to
judgments of worth and value (i.e., “quality” in its evaluative sense), Cardwell
offers The West Wing (NBC 1999–2007) as a member of the quality drama genre,
on the following grounds: “Other aspects [besides its high production values,
weighty themes, and strong characterization/acting] encourage an intense level
of audience appreciation and engagement, such as the complex narrative struc-
ture, its intricate themes, its use of erudite, technical, oratorical and even poetic
language, and its fast-paced style” (2007: 26).
Language use is treated here as a sign of West Wing’s membership status.
Cardwell is also indicating that the clever dialogue is not an arbitrary sign of that
status, but is a functional device in the communication between dramatist and
audience, because its cleverness encourages “appreciation and engagement.”
What is missing from this kind of account is any attempt to prove or demonstrate
that the dialogue does indeed have the characteristics ascribed to it. The
meanings—erudite, technical, and so forth—are taken for granted; it is the
value of these meanings that is argued for.2
Where space permits, some commentators are able to go into more detail:
The dialogue itself [in The Sopranos] is as sharp and streetwise as the camera style,
arguably introducing a greater level of realism than hitherto [ . . . ] it is low key and
oblique, with the characters unable to articulate that understanding of themselves
and their predicament which marks more regular, formulaic drama which feels the
need to be explanatory [ . . . ] A particular feature [ . . . ] is The Sopranos’ demotic use
of expletives in New Jersey speech patterns which the constraints of broadcast
television have previously kept from the small screen [ . . . ] the dialogue is on
occasion overtly witty and by no means politically correct, with Tony Soprano
Previous Research 23
afforded some of the sharpest lines. When Richie Aprile takes up again with
Janice [Parvati] Soprano, having served time in jail, he tells a sceptical Tony that
he and Janice “got history together,” to which Tony quips, “Yeah, Israel and fuckin’
Palestine.” (Nelson 2007: 32)
Nelson evaluates Sopranos dialogue positively on the basis of three main

criteria—realism, including the use of expletives; obliqueness in character reve-
lation; and wit. He gives examples, some of which have been omitted in this
citation, to explain and illustrate these points. He does not examine the logic
of the Israel and Palestine joke—it is offered as a piece of textual evidence
supporting two claims: one, that the drama displays wordplay for its own sake,
and two, that witty use of language is a character point for Tony Soprano.
Here and elsewhere in this literature, where there are dialogue quotations,
they are frequently offered as self-evidently manifesting the qualities they are
said to possess. Contrast Nelson’s account with my description, in the previous
chapter, of the conversation between Tony and Carmela Soprano in which he
tells her for the first time about his recourse to psychotherapy. That description
or analysis was developed in sufficient detail to support a broader interpretation
about gender relations in this series, while recognizing that the exchange in
question was just one moment in Tony and Carmela’s relationship. The domi-
nant approach to dialogue in television drama studies, although recognizing that
dialogue makes a contribution to dramatic meaning and value, perpetuates
a different version of the easy listening effect from the one discussed in the
introduction to the present volume. Basic easy listening involves hearing char-
acters as people and their talk as everyday talk. Advanced easy listening hears
dramatic qualities in that talk, but can’t or won’t say much about how those
qualities got there.
When dialogue is used as a marker of quality drama status, it may be the vice
of profanity rather than the virtue of wit that qualifies it for membership. There
is merit, it seems, for some audiences, and for some broadcasters (notably
America’s HBO subscription channel), in breaking with mainstream television’s
prescriptive language taboos. This, along with taboos related to sex and violence,
is the subject of discussion in McCabe and Akass (2007c), who point to the
way that HBO’s excesses, enabled by the economic basis of its restricted access
(which it shares with ordinary pornography) are legitimated by its metadiscourse
of quality and thus respectability, which intentionally restrict access along socio-
cultural lines.
Dialogue and Politics

Critics of the “aesthetic turn” in television drama research worry that this
distracts attention from more important questions of how television engages
its audiences’ thoughts and sensibilities on particular topics—the subject matter
of drama: “What was perhaps most troubling about the conference [on American
quality TV in 2004] to me was the emphasis in many papers on the aesthetic and
formal qualities of the programmes discussed, often at the expense of any
consideration of their content, and the ways they might play into real-life rela-
tions of power and politics” (Fricker 2007: 14). TV drama can be political with
a small p or a big one, without abandoning the appeal of intimacy. In either case,
characters are likely to produce dialogue that speaks to the political thematics
of the production and scholars such as Nelson respond to this as they do to
its formal aspects. Nelson uses the British series Spooks (BBC 2002–present) to
show how it sets in play two different arguments about Western interventions in
the affairs of other countries. A sympathetic guest character puts forward one
view, and a principal character from the main ensemble cast puts forward an
alternative:
We don’t want to see our country blown to bits like Iraq. The parallels between us
and Iraq are frightening. But it doesn’t seem to bother the Barthist [sic] hardliners
who are running the country.
I want you to help me get rid of the current regime . . . and replace it with a
real government . . . a government for the people but one which can keep the
Mullahs at bay (Episode 7, written by Raymond Khoury and David Wolstencroft).
(Nelson 2007: 145)
This will end up just like Iraq. We [the Brits] keep doing this. We keep getting
sucked up into these foreign nightmares and for what? Our job is to protect the
country. (Nelson 2007: 145)
The narrative plays out in such a way that the Syrian who favors intervention is
eliminated at the hands of his own government—but the wife of the principal
character also dies, and MI-5 does not come out of the mix as unequivocally
victorious and in control. Nelson says, “The political theme of conflict is used to
raise the stakes and crank up the tension of the narrative, but here questions
are articulated and left open in ways which invite thinking and, perhaps, debate
amongst viewers” (2007: 146). It is not the quoted dialogue on its own that raises
the issues, but interaction between dialogue and specific narrative contingencies.
There are questions to be asked on the back of this account that textual analysis
alone cannot answer, about the extent to which actual audiences do in fact use
this material for their own reflections on the politics of intervention in foreign
affairs, but this need not detract from the work involved in recognizing how
this theme is formally addressed in the production.
A distinctive thing about the television drama research reviewed in this
section is that all of it is grounded in an “arts” rather than a “social science”
epistemology, even when it seems to touch on questions of television’s effects on
its audience. The effects agenda is very muted, and there is no empirical research
in pursuit of hypotheses concerning influence and effect. Because of the
emphasis on quality in the two books chosen for attention, their dominant
discourse is either one of positive approval for the form and/or the content of
particular shows like The Sopranos (HBO 1999–2007), The West Wing, and Spooks,
or else more or less detached regarding value judgment. Explicit disapproval is
not very evident here. Elsewhere, when specific quality shows have been sub-
jected to negative criticism, it is generally in respect to their content, as with the
series 24 (Fox 2001–present), which has been attacked because of its reactionary
politics (see, e.g., Broe 2004). Later in this chapter, I will introduce some research
on dialogue in TV drama that, although retaining a focus on the text rather than
the audience, puts its approach on to a strongly social-scientific foundation in
order to support a negative assessment of a particular show’s possible influence
on its audience.
Factual Television and Dialogue

Published research specifically focused on dialogue in factual television is virtu-
ally nonexistent. This contrasts with unscripted talk on TV in which there
is a considerable literature. The fact that dialogue in fictional drama can be
improvised, and that supposedly unscripted talk, in interviews and so forth,
can be partially prepared in advance, complicates the picture here but does not
compromise the argument regarding prototypical forms. Almost by definition,
dialogue indexes “drama,” so any factually based programming that includes
dialogue is, at least to that extent, dramatic. The kind of programming
that falls within this description is variously referred to as dramadoc, docudrama,
or dramatized documentary, among other terms (Paget 1998). The functions
of dialogue in such documentary modes will be very similar to its functions in
fictional drama:
[Documentary drama] is usually carefully constructed to develop character, sustain
narrative and reveal context and circumstances [ . . . ] In drama-documentary, where
there is often a requirement to use dialogue to convey information to the viewer that
might otherwise have been conveyed by commentary, the conversational plausibili-
ty of the speech is sometimes in tension with its descriptive, explanatory functions.
(Corner 2006: 758)
Corner goes on to draw attention to one additional point of concern

for documentarists that writers of dramatic fiction do not have to worry about:
“The further issue, of how far it might approximate to what was really said in the
situation being reconstructed, is a long standing point of contention in the
discussion of films and programmes using this approach” (2006: 755).
Behind this specific point lies the general issue of documentary’s truth claims.
Being faithful to what was said is sometimes less important than being safe.
The mother of a child suffering from leukemia believed, and said, that
contamination from the Sellafield nuclear reprocessing plant caused her daugh-
ter’s illness. Her character could not, for legal reasons, be allowed to say this in
the show Fighting for Gemma (ITV 1993), because legal liability had not been
proven in court (Paget 1998: 41). The original script gave “Stella D’Arcy” the
stronger, more controversial, line—but, on legal advice, it was modified before
production.
Corner (1991b) focuses on dialogue in a selection of Associated-Rediffusion
(ITV) shows from 1956, broadcast under the series title Look in on London,
that center on ordinary people’s lives in the capital city. Corner’s interest is a
historical one, in the emergence of the location interview as a staple form
of dramatized exposition. One sequence (from the “Streetcleaners” episode) starts
like this:
INTERVIEWER : Good afternoon.

RESPONDENT : Good afternoon.
INTERVIEWER : You ever get tired doing this all day long?
RESPONDENT : No, I don’t get tired at all.
INTERVIEWER : Don’t you?
RESPONDENT : No.
INTERVIEWER : Don’t you . . . doesn’t it get a bit monotonous sweeping the same
gutters?
RESPONDENT : No, I got so used to it now.
INTERVIEWER : How long have you been doing it?
RESPONDENT : Seven years.
INTERVIEWER : Oh, what were you doing before then?
RESPONDENT : I was working for the Kensington Borough Council.
(Corner 1991b: 37)
Clearly this has nothing to do with reconstructing a prior, real encounter

between this interviewee and this respondent. But neither are the two having a
spontaneous conversation, having just chanced to meet, though there are mar-
kers here that some such spontaneous encounter is a model for what has actually
been written and performed. The interviewer knows the answers to his own
questions, and the interviewee knows that he knows them. The significance of
the extract is its creation of an interactive frame for expositional discourse. Its
awkwardness has to do with what the technique suggests about the social
identities and relationships of the various participants in this exchange—the
interviewer, the respondent, and the television audience—positioning the re-
spondent as working class and exotic, and the middle-class interviewer and
audience as sympathetically curious. The styling of the dialogue keeps it in
limbo between different realities. Contemporary equivalents of this program
would not use pre-scripted dialogue at all. In the interests of greater authenticity,
any interviewing now would allow more spontaneity in its question-and-
response sequences, and comparable shows would also create opportunity for
audiences to overhear the naturally occurring talk produced in the course of the
subject’s working life.
SOCIOLINGUISTICS AND TV DRAMA DIALOGUE
Because the media scholarship is short on analysis, it is necessary to look

elsewhere for research efforts that do pay analytic attention to the formal details
of conversational exchanges in television drama. However, in contrast with the
research described above, these efforts do not derive from a shared perception of
what their accounts should be trying to achieve—instead, there are three distinct
trends or groupings, with different intellectual starting points.
One of these trends is an approach that derives from the stylistic study of
drama dialogue in general, which very occasionally includes television drama.
This stylistic approach includes studies of, for example, Fawlty Towers (BBC
1995–1997), Monty Python’s Flying Circus (BBC 1969–1974), One Foot in the
Grave (BBC 1990–2000) and Little Britain (BBC 2003–present). These works are
analyzed as drama, but not particularly as television drama (Simpson 1998, Short
1998, Culpeper 2001, Snell 2006). That is to say, in formal terms the focus is
entirely on language and only in passing to the multimodal character of the texts,
or the particular circumstances of their production and reception. Monty Python
and Little Britain are sketch shows; the other two are situation comedies. It is no
accident that comedy, rather than straight TV drama, attracts the attention of
these scholars, because comedy is more likely to involve a playful relationship
with language and thus provide more for stylisticians to notice and comment on.
In the second place, there are some studies that use dramatic dialogue in TV
shows to stand in for comparable sociolinguistic phenomena in unmediated,
face-to-face settings. Tannen and Lakoff (1984), for example, are interested in
“couples talk.” In the absence of any recordings from actual couple relationships,
they make use of a surrogate: dialogue from Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a
Marriage (originally made for Swedish television in 1973; English language
theatrical release, Cinema 5, USA 1974) as their data. Coupland (2004) discusses
“stylized deception” using an episode of Sergeant Bilko/The Phil Silvers Show
(CBS 1955–1959). Scenes from a Marriage was a miniseries that became a
movie; Sergeant Bilko is a situation comedy. One book-length study (namely,
Quaglio 2009), uses corpus linguistic techniques and a theoretical approach
derived from Biber (1988) to compare the grammar of television dialogue (in
Friends, NBC 1994–2004) with that of naturally occurring American conversa-
tion. Quaglio finds the two corpora to be essentially similar, and distinct from
other English language genres as established in the earlier research. The dia-
logue is thus for him a credible surrogate of the “real thing.” He also uses
grammatical evidence to demonstrate that, by comparison with the naturally

occurring conversation, Friends dialogue is both narrower and more intense in its
usage of conversation’s distinctive forms in general and specifically those which
index emotional expressiveness and informality. The dialogue is less inclined to
deploy strategic vagueness and more focused on immediate context at the
expense of narrativising past or imaginary events.
In addition to these two ways of engaging with dialogue in TV drama, there is
a third approach that shares some of the goals of the media research and that can
therefore usefully be termed applied sociolinguistics. A distinguishing characteris-
tic of this work is that it is concerned with dialogue in TV drama for the sake of
the wider social and cultural issues that the particular shows in question seem to
raise—mostly focused on the representation of social identities and relation-
ships. Harwood (2000) and Harwood and Giles (1992) are interested in negative
representations of aging in The Golden Girls (NBC 1985–1992) and Frasier (NBC
1993–2004); Richardson (2006) is interested in positive representations of politi-
cal spin doctors in The West Wing; Bubel (2005) and Bubel and Spitz (2006) are
interested in negative and positive representations of gender relations in Ally
McBeal (Fox 1997–2002), and Mandala (2007a) is interested in representations of
youth social networks in Buffy the Vampire Slayer (WB 1997–2003). The Golden
Girls and Frasier are standard 30-minute situation comedies; The West Wing and
Ally McBeal could be considered “dramedies” on account of their mixture of
serious and comic elements in a 1-hour broadcast slot. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is
fantasy drama, with some comic interest.
Most of this work draws upon relevant sociolinguistic as well as media studies
literature. Fine (1981) points out some interesting interactional characteristics of
the conversation in daytime soaps such as All My Children (ABC 1977–present).
But Fine’s research was too far ahead of its time, and was unable to benefit from,
on the one hand, the later media studies research on the (gendered) cultural
significance of soap opera,3 or, on the other, the various areas of work that can
now be collected together under the umbrella of “spoken discourse studies”
(Cameron 2001; see also chapter 4).
Dialogue Stylistics
By the late 1990s, the usefulness of pragmatics, interactional sociolinguistics,
and conversation analysis in the analysis of literary drama was well established,
thanks to works by Burton (1980), Herman (1995), and Culpeper, Short, and
Verdonk (1998). This interactional approach formed part of textbook introduc-
tions to the subject, for example, in Thornborrow and Wareing (1998). Drama, of
course, is traditionally recognized as one of three major subdivisions in literary
discourse, along with poetry and prose narrative; the language of drama had
never been a neglected topic. What was new, in this branch of stylistics, was the
emphasis on dialogue as talk, rather than on its use of metaphor and other tropes
that it shared with poetry. The emphasis on interactive properties of dramatic
dialogue contributed to a conceptual realignment of generic forms. The affilia-
tion of drama with poetry became weaker, and its affiliation with prose fiction
became stronger, because drama and prose fiction both depend on underlying
narrative structures and both characteristically incorporate dialogue. This
realignment was also broadened: narrative as such was recognized as including
nonliterary (multimodal) texts such as feature films (Chatman 1978), and literary
drama itself was reconceived in terms of performance as well as of text (Swann
2006; McIntyre 2008).
In terms of the new alignments, and without prejudice to questions of aesthetic
and/or social value, it is possible to identify three major representational forms
that depend heavily on performed dialogue: stage plays (prototypically encoun-
tered in theaters), films (in cinemas), and TV dramatizations (at home).
Discussions of dialogue in drama stylistics have been able to provide a literary-
critical rationale for their approach. In relation to the stage play, for instance,
along with the preference among stylisticians to focus on the written play rather
than the performance, there is often a sense that the analysis is intended to
illuminate textual meaning—a characteristic visual trope in the discourses of
literary criticism beyond the specific territory of stylistics: “As the studies in this
book clearly demonstrate, applying methods and findings from linguistics to the
study of language in drama allows us to shed new light on the plays investigated”
(Mandala 2007: xiii; emphasis added). Mandala uses sociolinguistic tools to
explore plays by Pinter and Stoppard, among others, treating them in the first
instance as producers of written English literature. There is a point of connection
here with a tendency in television drama studies that now wants to develop a
better understanding of the aesthetics of TV drama (see discussion in the
previous section of this chapter). Mandala’s standpoint is an aesthetic one, in
which language use is of the essence. That standpoint does not need to be argued
for in respect of Pinter and Stoppard: it is the kind of analysis she proposes that
has to be defended. The aesthetic standpoint in respect of television is not
language-centered, though, as discussed previously, it could take more account
of language than it does in practice. Without wanting to downplay its particular-
ity and generic variety, from a historical perspective, the trajectory of TV drama
has been away from language/theater and toward image/film as its primary
models (Jacobs 2000).
Before the advent of postmodernism and the questioning of the literary
canon, there were attempts to recognize the aesthetic value of movie screenplays,
too, on a par with the scripts of stage plays, though not without considerable
conceptual difficulty (see Maras 2009: chapter 3), bearing in mind that screen-
plays are written to be a step in a process that culminates with a production. Even
if we reject this suggestion, the discourse of film studies has certainly
incorporated a range of critical idioms comparable to those deployed in the study

of literary texts—an aesthetic perspective (or range of perspectives) interested,
like Mandala, in the project of illumination. This perspective extends to the study
of dialogue in film. In the following quotation from Kozloff (2000), her initial
deployment of a functional frame—“‘why are these lines here?’”—suggests a
primarily analytic standpoint. A functional analysis does not assume any prior
evaluation of the text’s merits. But the quotation ends with the very suggestive
keyword “reverberation”—an aural metaphor that, coupled with the author’s own
reference to unpredictable factors of production and reception, potentially ex-
tends the scope of dialogue’s functionality beyond the range of categoric analytic
schemes.
The first questions to be asked when analyzing a segment of film dialogue may be:
“Why are these lines here?” or “What purpose do they serve in the text as a
whole?” Such inquiries might imply that one is attempting to uncover the
intentions of the screenwriters and director, and, indeed, a large degree of
overlap might be anticipated between what the filmmakers consciously had in
mind and the ultimate effects of dialogue. Some overlap, but not total; for through
“accidents” (psychological or practical) and through the unpredictable nuances of
performance, filming, editing, scoring, exhibition, reception, and so on, the
reverberations of a segment of dialogue may exceed or confound the intentions
of its authors. (Kozloff 2000: 33)
Kozloff believes that dialogue is interesting for what it contributes to the artwork
as a whole, whether or not the effects it helps create are supposed to be under
the conscious control of authors. Leaving to one side the vexed question in
textual criticism of intentionality, an aesthetic perspective is also invoked via
the assumption that the whole work is the object on which the study should
ultimately focus. The implication here is that this object has an integrity and
essence that must be acknowledged in the analysis. To encounter just a part of
it shows disrespect and risks misunderstanding.
The stylistic criticism of dialogue in television dramatization has a compar-
able interest in explaining the effects of that dialogue, and its own struggles in
setting limits on the extent of the meaning that it can be concerned with. This
struggle is apparent, for example, in Paul Simpson’s account of the well-known
“nudge, nudge” sketch from Monty Python’s Flying Circus, which I reproduce
here:
FIRST SPEAKER :Evening, squire!

SECOND SPEAKER : Good evening.
FIRST SPEAKER : Is, uh, . . . Is your wife a goer, eh? Know what I mean, know what
I mean, nudge nudge, know what I mean, say no more?
SECOND SPEAKER : I, uh, I beg your pardon?
FIRST SPEAKER : Your, uh, your wife, does she go, eh, does she go, eh?
SECOND SPEAKER : Well, she sometimes “goes,” yes.
FIRST SPEAKER : Aaaaaaaah bet she does, I bet she does, say no more, say no more,
know what I mean, nudge nudge?
SECOND SPEAKER : I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.
FIRST SPEAKER : Follow me. Follow me. That’s good, that’s good! A nod’s as
good as a wink to a blind bat!
(Sketch written by Eric Idle)
Simpson’s paper is concerned with absurdity and its functions in different kinds
of dialogue. Monty Python produces one kind, whereas the (stage) dramatist
Ionesco provides another. The equation of the two can either be taken as an
attempt to elevate the Python sketch to the level of the literary, where Ionesco
already sits, or else implies that for the analyst-as-technician, questions of value
are less important than questions of form and function. It is interesting that
Simpson seeks not only to analyze the Python material so as to explain the
incongruity effect, but also to indicate a way of reading the purpose of the
incongruity. As regards analysis, Simpson’s general claim is that incongruity is
often the result of a mismatch between the expectations deriving from a particu-
lar embedded discourse context and the interactive strategies that the partici-
pants actually deploy. In the case of this particular sketch, there is a mismatch
between the context (two middle class males, strangers to one another, sharing
a table in a British pub) and the talk (sexual innuendo, very pronounced, on
the part of one of the men, repeatedly and incredibly misunderstood by the
other). Simpson’s analysis goes into considerable detail in making this point, and
he goes on:
Foregrounding odd talk implicitly draws attention to the canonical and the everyday
in interaction and it is possible to read this text as a skit on the repressively
mundane trivia that often passes for conversation. Both interactants are white,
male and middle class and both speak with southern English accents, yet . . . the
interactive diffidence that might be anticipated in social interaction between (par-
ticularly English?) middle class strangers is shattered. To the extent that this
fracture is engendered by a fracture in discourse strategies, the sketch becomes
language about language—a kind of “meta-discourse.” It constitutes a form of
humor where language itself becomes the subject matter . . . and which relies for
its decoding on the cultural competence and cultural attitudes of the interpreter;
those very decoding strategies, in fact, which are brought into play in the interpre-
tation of absurd drama dialogue. (Simpson 1998: 47–48)
One telling aspect of Simpson’s account here is its attempt to find some
kind of thematic relevance in the properties of the sketch, through the invitation
for audiences to hear it as satire. This view, tentatively offered (“it is possible to
read . . . ”), without any commitment as to whether Eric Idle intended this kind
of effect, is a critical, interpretative move, appealing to aspects of context
that Simpson and his readership share, such as their knowledge of suburban
middle-class masculinity in Britain in the post–World War II world. This level of

interpretation is held in tension with the more analytic discourse cultivated
within stylistics more generally, by means of which Simpson can focus on the
metadiscursive characteristics of the talk. The specific characterization of the
sketch as satire in this account (I take Simpson’s term skit to be indicative of this
characterization) is also worthy of note. If we regard the meaning of satire as
essentially concerned with social criticism, then Simpson’s interpretation can
also be read as a validation of this particular material in terms of its social
purpose. The dialogue is interesting because of its oddness, it is pleasurable
because its metadiscursive characteristics appeal to a certain sensibility, and it
is, arguably, good dialogue because of its specific derived propositional content,
which is critical of contemporary manners. There is a point of connection
here with that strand in television drama studies that is interested in the content
and themes of dramatic production. The mix of social and formal criteria in
Simpson’s commentary is significant, and provides a marker for some of the
discussion to follow later in this book, notably in chapter 8, “Dialogue and
Dramatic Meaning: Life on Mars.”
The tension between interpretative and analytic frames is less pronounced
within the approach known as cognitive stylistics, adopted, for example, in the
recent work of Jonathan Culpeper, in which the function of contextual assump-
tions is built more explicitly into the analytic apparatus, and in which there is a
focus on normative levels of meaning. Culpeper (2001) adopts this perspective in
his work on the interpretation of character in plays and other works of fiction. He
discriminates between top-down and bottom-up comprehension. In top-down
strategies, familiar, general character schemata (e.g., American detective, hospi-
tal nurse, hapless middle-class parents) exist as mental constructs prior to the
readers’ encounters with the particularized versions of those constructs in
the text. Readers make sense of the specific cases by drawing on their general,
cognitive schemata. (These are my examples rather than Culpeper’s, supplied for
the sake of their specific relevance to the television experience.) Readers then
make use of textual information to allocate characters to those schemata. Bot-
tom-up comprehension occurs when characters are assembled from a range of
textual clues. This of course is a theoretical distinction because in practice read-
ers will make use of both top-down and bottom-up strategies as they engage with
texts. Most of Culpeper’s own examples are drawn from the works of Shake-
speare, texts which he can assume his readers will be familiar with, but the
theory is a general one, and there is a short discussion of an extract from One
Foot in the Grave (BBC 1990–2000)—a humorous mistaken identity sequence.
Viewers, as well as Victor Meldrew, the main character (played by Richard
Wilson), are led to suspect that two unannounced visitors at his house are
policemen following up a complaint about indecent exposure on his part; they
are actually Jehovah’s Witnesses:
1 VISITOR: Victor Meldrew?

2 MELDREW : Yes.
3 VISITOR: Wondered if we might have a little word with you sir.
4 MELDREW : Oh God.
5 VISITOR: On the subject of obscene behavior.
6 MELDREW : Look . . . it’s all very simple really.
7 VISITOR: Rather a lot of it going on these days wouldn’t you say? Acts of
unbridled filth perpetrated by perverts and sexual deviants who should know
better at their age.
8 MELDREW : Look . . . I . . . I just got out of the bath and I was just rubbing,
I was rubbing . . .
9 VISITOR: How do you think God feels about all this?
10 MELDREW : What?
11 VISITOR: How do you think the Lord feels about so much sin and wickedness
in his holy Kingdom on Earth? If we look at Proverbs 6 verse 12 I think we can
find the answer . . . a naughty person a wicked man walketh with a . . .
12 MELDREW : You’re Jehovah’s Witnesses! You’re bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses,
I thought you were policemen!
(Series written by David Renwick)
Culpeper’s account of the mechanism behind the humor here references

schema theory:
Given that the audience has fairly recently heard that Victor was reported to the
police for indecency, a police-related schema is readily activated . . . research sug-
gests that schemata that have been recently activated are more likely to spring to
mind . . . the opening turns, checking the identity of the interviewee and request-
ing permission to commence the interview (with lip service to politeness) are
strongly associated with the police interview activity type. . . . The recategorization
of the police detectives as Jehovah’s Witnesses is brought about by a switch in
activity types. [The question] How do you think God feels about all this clashes
with the police interview activity type, and this is clear from Victor’s response,
What. . . . After the question How do you think the Lord feels about so much sin
and wickedness in his holy kingdom on earth and the quotations from the Bible,
Victor realizes that the activity type is actually one of religious proselytizing,
and, consequently, that these are Jehovah’s Witnesses, a religious group that is
well known for making door to door visits. (2001: 99)
This example is used in the context of a discussion of character categories in

drama. Culpeper has argued that in top-down character processing, the basic way
of enhancing character understanding is to move from an initial categorization
into a subcategory, with a greater or lesser accumulation of attributes. The One
Foot in the Grave (OFITG) example illustrates an alternative to this—recategoriza-
tion. When there is recategorization it occurs, as here, because the dramatists have
deliberately encouraged an incorrect schema to be activated in the first instance.
Culpeper’s approach, which I have made more systematic use of in chapter 7,

“Dialogue, Character, and Social Cognition,” could be described as process
research: more interested in the how than in the what of textual meaning.
Meanings are regarded as given, obvious, and the goal of the research is to
spell out what resources and efforts are required to realize those meanings.
(This brand of research is therefore different from traditional literary criticism,
which seeks to penetrate more deeply into layers of meaning that are less
obvious). Culpeper’s example involves some very specific assumptions about
the resources necessary to get the proposed meaning of the OFITG passage.
Audiences must be able to understand English spoken in both a standard and an
(arguably) nonstandard accent, and they must possess schemas for handling
both police interviews and doorstep visits by evangelists. They must also recog-
nize the form and degree of politeness here to be within an acceptable range for
suburban British middle-class culture in the 1990s: on this basis, they will be
able to hear motivated impoliteness at line 12. My own personal cultural horizons
are such that I find it easy to accede to Culpeper’s assumptions. I hear the
meanings he proposes, I recognize that my repertoire does include the resources
he has specified for producing those meanings, and I believe in the widespread
availability of those resources in the wider audience. The analysis is a normative
one, but acceptably so, not just because I can relate to its principles but also
because of my confidence that those principles are fairly widely shared. But
it would be presumptuous to assume that they are universally shared.
Some viewers will not have had first- or secondhand encounters with Jehovah’s
Witnesses, and will lack a schema for this part of the exchange. Empirical
research through interview, questionnaire, and focus group methods is the
only reasonable way to pursue the question of what this dialogue means for
them, or for any audiences who cannot or choose not to contribute context on
normative terms.
Also of interest in Culpeper’s book is his mention of certain TV shows
(Neighbours, 7 Network 1985–present, Holby City, BBC 1999–present) as the
domain of flat characters: “. . . these soaps are phenomenally successful: viewers
come back day after day for more. It may be the case that some viewers positively
value the schema-reinforcing nature of flat characters” (2001: 96). Culpeper
offers a theoretically grounded account of the traditional concept of a flat charac-
ter in literature: “The attributes and features of a flat character are organized
according to a preformed category or schema to form a category-based impres-
sion” (2001: 94).
He contrasts a top-down category-based impression with a bottom-up person
based impression, which can lead to rounded characters. Whatever the truth of his
claim regarding soap opera characters, this passing observation on what viewers
value in their TV dramas opens up another possible avenue in the exploration of
dialogue on TV.
Dialogue as Talk
The stylistic research reviewed above has involved attention to comprehension
and/or interpretation of dialogue within the narrative frame, and has been
attentive to the dramatic purposes of the language, including aesthetic and
social-critical purposes. There is another tendency, in which the focus is more
on how the language in a show exemplifies a particular kind of data or sociolin-
guistic phenomenon. Coupland (2004) approaches an episode of Sergeant Bilko/
The Phil Silvers Show (CBS 1955–1959) as a researcher who is more interested in
the general phenomenon of stylized deception than he is in the fact that this
phenomenon is apparent in a particular television series. Whereas the writers
who employ a stylistic perspective mostly believe that analysts need only examine
written texts, Coupland shows that it is possible, and in this particular case
necessary, to engage with the performed material.
The theoretical point of departure here is the concept of stylization, referring
to “bounded moments when others’ voices are . . . displayed and framed for local,
creative, sociolinguistic effect” (Coupland 2004: 247). Such moments are very
common in this series, and they are usually the work of the main character.
Within the dramatic frame, Bilko’s performances are not in fact intended as
stylizations, but rather as attempted deceptions of others, notably his command-
ing officer, Colonel Hall. Silvers/Bilko produces outrageous lies when he speaks
to the colonel, to protect his face and his freedom of action as an unscrupulous
but lovable schemer. Sometimes he succeeds in deceiving the gullible colonel,
and sometimes he fails. But he never deceives us, the audience, for a number of
reasons. First, we are always well prepared by previous scenes to expect these
deception attempts. Second, the delivery of speech in deception attempts is
always markedly in contrast with that of the offstage, strategizing Bilko. Third,
part of the marking involves adopting characteristics that supposedly (though
wrongly) can be expected in the speech of willful deceivers (e.g., lexical repeti-
tion, distancing from message content, implausibility of utterance, and some
exaggeration of vocal and kinetic mannerisms). It is because of this marking that
they count as stylizations. Coupland argues that “familiar stereotypes of decep-
tive communication constitute a repertoire of creative possibilities for Bilko’s
projections to fail as deceptions . . . and succeed as stylizations” (2004: 268).
From a production perspective, we might want to say that Bilko, the character,
owns the failed deceptions, and Silvers, the performer, owns the successful
stylizations. The concept of stylization, and its articulation with the related
concept of deception, allows Coupland a theoretical perspective in which the
content, the wording, and, crucially, the delivery of wording (pitch, speed, voice
quality, etc., as well as management of gaze and facial expression) are essential to
the communicative effect. This is in contrast with the school of thought in
linguistic criticism (Short 1998) that written play texts are the appropriate object
of study. A written version of the script for this episode would give the talented
Silvers ideas as to which aspects of his delivery repertoire would best service that
script. It could not be predictive, let alone prescriptive, in the absence of a
codified metadiscourse around delivery. That said, there is an evident tension
in Coupland’s study between attention to Bilko as a character with goals and
strategies, and attention to the context of those goals and strategies as fictional
creations.
On the question of what ‘text’ to study, it should also be noted in this section
that Quaglio’s (2009) data comprises transcriptions of Friends episodes written by
fans and posted online, such transcriptions then being grammatically tagged so
that key features could be retrieved and counted. In this research too the focus is
on the verbal not the paralinguistic and kinesic elements of performance, though
in principle some of these elements (e.g., intonation contours) could be tagged in
a similar way to the grammatical features.
Applying Sociolinguistics to TV Drama Dialogue

In one particular published article from 1992, long before television drama
studies had a secure academic base, there is an unequivocal commitment to a
mainstream social science agenda for the study of such drama. Harwood and
Giles have questions about the effects of a particular show on its audience (or a
section of that audience); they undertake an analysis to establish that the effects
are likely to be bad, and they do so with an approach that focuses specifically on
the dialogue.
This publication was concerned with ageist stereotyping in representations of
older people and the potential effect one particular TV show might have on public
attitudes toward such people. Harwood and Giles focus on The Golden Girls—
another comedy—and lay their groundwork carefully. First, they demonstrate
that the show has a public reputation for being counterstereotypical—for repre-
senting older women as physically and sexually active as well as mentally alert.
Second, they establish that the age of the characters is very pertinent to its dis-
course, by analyzing the numbers and types of age markers in the dialogue in a
representative number of episodes.4 There is a separate analysis of the moments of
humor in the production, as signaled via the laugh track on the tape. Third, the
authors put their analysis into the context of a particular kind of relationship
between text and audience—an intergroup context, in other words, a situation in
which one party to the interaction belongs to a particular social group (the elderly)
and the other party is not of that group. This is important because there are certain
conditions to be met in intergroup contact situations if any positive or negative
responses to the encounter are to have cognitive effects. Harwood and Giles
demonstrate the extent of the overlap between age markers and humor markers
is extremely high. They conclude that the counterstereotypical elements of the
dialogue are also the laughter-provoking elements, effectively showing, repeatedly,

that older women are ridiculous when they go against cultural expectations—for
example, by expecting to enjoy a sex life. Although Harwood and Giles do employ
quantification techniques, it is particular discursive phenomena, not content that
they quantify (unlike Fine 1981), and they also provide a number of transcribed
extracts from the show in order to show in greater depth the nature of its humor
(Harwood and Giles 1992: 426):
Sophia is being taken to hospital by Dorothy, her daughter.

DOROTHY : Ma, I know you’re frightened, but do you really think I’d be pushing for
this operation if I believed there was any risk?
SOPHIA : I don’t know, my little beneficiary.
(Season 6, episode 2, “Once in St. Olaf,” written by Harold Apter)
The reliance on a laugh track as guide to the comic moments in the drama is
somewhat problematic: these will be the moments that the producers have
designed as “funny,” which may include some instances that home viewers may
not find funny—perhaps they do not understand the humor or do not appreciate
it. The extension of the concepts of intergroup research beyond the sphere of face-
to-face interaction in which they were originally developed and into the study of
mediated communication is another aspect of the approach that might require
further thought if this kind of research were to be further developed. Copresence
may make intergroup identities more salient for face-to-face interlocutors than
for audiences remote from the voices to which they are listening. The “us” and
“them” viewing relationship will not hold good for all parts of the audience.
Harwood and Giles are clearly not suggesting that it is part of the purpose of
The Golden Girls to make older women look ridiculous whenever they step out of
line. Rather, their point is that this stereotypical way of thinking about the older
generation is so culturally ingrained that it is hard to resist, that the goal of
attracting audiences through humor is such a nonnegotiable industrial impera-
tive, even in a series that wants to paint a sympathetic picture of life as an older
person. They do not provide any empirical audience research to support their
claims about its likely negative effects, and they also consider some arguments
against their position. From a methodological point of view, their research
provides support for the suggestion that social scientists researching effects
should pay more attention to textual form:
. . . it has been demonstrated that the examination of texts within the mass media is
a crucial counterpart to more conventional effects research. A sophisticated study of
mass media effects can only benefit from a fuller understanding of the nature of
what is causing the effects. Indeed, attempts to understand “effects” processes are
inadequately informed without commentary and discussion on the nature of the
“independent variable”—the show itself. It is argued that a socially grounded
discourse analysis is a productive and informative way of approaching such texts.

(Harwood and Giles 1992: 469)
As far as drama dialogue is concerned, this is another road not (yet) taken. Arts
perspectives have been stronger than social science ones, and even they have
been sparse, as my account has shown.
Theoretical Perspectives
The foregoing review examined the published work in TV dramatic dialogue
studies from a substantive rather than a theoretical perspective. In this section
I will focus on two contributions that have theoretical significance for the present
enterprise. One of these is by Short (1998), a piece which has already been
mentioned above; the other is by Bubel (2008).
Short writes a spirited defense, regularly cited in subsequent work in drama
stylistics (Culpeper 2001; McIntyre 2006; Mandala 2007b), of the value of study-
ing the literary dramatic text—the written Shakespeare or Stoppard play—when
drama critics had been arguing that only a performed version of the play was
worth studying.
With Fawlty Towers, what Short wants to establish is that the performance is,
to a very large extent, implicit in the written text:
I hope to have demonstrated that if you pay close attention to the linguistic form of
(parts of ) dramatic texts you can infer a huge amount of information about an
appropriate way to perform them. This comes about because we carry with us a
large amount of information about how to interpret utterances, and hence how they
will be said, what gestures and actions will be appropriate, and so on. Not every-
thing is predictable, and there is plenty of room for the director and actor to make
their contributions to performance. But the range of appropriate behavior is con-
siderably more restricted than many critics would have us believe. (1998: 16)
Short claims to see in the printed dialogue plus stage directions such matters
as the general layout of the set (it has to be congruent with our preformed ideas
of a hotel lobby, as specified in the script), right down to the appropriate intona-
tion patterns for particular utterances: “The fact that Sybil’s utterance assigns the
word “Goodbye” to a sentence of its own suggests that it will have to have its own
intonation group; and to receive that kind of weighting it will need to be said
fairly loudly and with quite a wide range of pitch movement” (1998: 11).
From here we move into a summary of the brought-to: the kinds of linguistic
and extralinguistic knowledge that Short’s “sensitive and experienced readers”
already have, and use, when they engage with play texts:
Background information about the world and how it works, often
arranged into pre-packaged schemata
Understanding of implicature/inference
Understanding of politeness requirements
Turn taking conventions
Speech acts
Sociolinguistic conventions
Graphological information
Sound structure
Grammatical structure
Lexical patterning (1998: 13)
These areas and possibly others all help with the interpretation of the text:
world knowledge is what helps us in relation to picturing the right kind of
studio set, whereas knowledge of grammar and of sound structure is what we
need to hear Sybil say “Goodbye” appropriately in our mind’s ear.
Fawlty Towers is an odd choice of case study text with which to make this point,
because in ontological terms it is undoubtedly more like film than plays and their
theatrical productions, and Short himself acknowledges that films are ontolog-
ically distinct from plays. He comments parenthetically (1998: 8) that films are
different from plays because in films the director is more important than the
writer and because most films have only one performance. Fawlty Towers exists in
a canonical, performed version (the 1970s broadcasts, canned and made available
since through repeat broadcasting, VHS, DVD, and even electronic download
format). The actress who played Sybil (Prunella Scales) brought to the part a
voice quality all of her own. All voices are different, of course, but some vocal
performances (think of Martin Luther King or Churchill) are distinctive (it helps
if the performances are frequently recycled, of course), and Scales’s Sybil is one
of those. Short is right, up to a point, because the contribution of voice quality
(note that the term quality has yet another sense in this collocation) must be
consistent with the shrewish persona prefigured in the wording of the script,
before any actress was selected for the part. A light, whispery voice would not
have served, for instance. But Scales’s specific voice quality is not anticipated by
the script. Here is the space that the script offers for performers and directors to
make their contribution to meaning, and it seems appropriate, when the pro-
duction rather than the written script is the canonical text, for analysts to focus
on the former rather than the latter. There is some recent work in drama stylistics
which has moved in this direction (McIntyre 2008).
Bubel’s (2008) piece was not mentioned in the previous section because it is
presented as an account of film discourse, not television, and does not feature
any TV extracts. Nevertheless, the author indicates that it is applicable as well to
small-screen drama. Bubel’s work is also different from the one and only book-
length study devoted to dialogue in movies (Kozloff 2000) in that it is interested
not so much in the details of the talk, but in the discourse structure of interaction
in this context. Bubel uses fragments from Mike Lee’s Secrets and Lies (Channel
Four Films 1996) to improve upon existing models of film discourse, in an attempt
to understand the relationships among various kinds of participants from actor,
to film editor, to cinemagoer, as well as the conversations witnessed (in her term,
overheard) on screen, as the outcome of a layering process. Bubel’s account points
us toward asking how audiences might make sense of what “Maurice” and
“Stuart” (characters in Secrets and Lies, played respectively by Timothy Spall
and Ron Cook) say to one another: how we “follow” their dialogue when there
are things they mutually know that we in the audience do not know, and so have
to construct. Bubel is also interested such matters as the fact that the actors have
to perform so that audiences can hear (audience design) even though from a
Maurice-and-Stuart point of view, there is no one else to hear them, and that this
“conspiracy” to include the excluded (the viewing audience) implicates the entire
production crew. Some of her commentary points toward the existence of an
underlying narration—for example, some comments on how audiences make
character inferences to guide their interpretation of subsequent behavior by
those characters—but this is underdeveloped in her account. Nevertheless it is
the most in-depth account available of the participation framework (Goffman
1979) relevant to fiction-film interaction (and by extension to social interaction
via TV drama).
DISCUSSION
The various studies reviewed over the course of this chapter approach the topic
from different angles. Despite differences of disciplinary orientation among
media research (e.g., Nelson, Corner), linguistic criticism (e.g., Culpeper), socio-
linguistics (e.g., Harwood and Giles), and film studies (e.g., Kozloff ), it is
possible to situate each contribution within an overall picture, as follows. Gener-
al attempts to understand the communicative basis of screen dialogue (Short,
Kozloff, Culpeper, Bubel) are complemented by efforts to make sense of particu-
lar kinds of dialogue (Simpson) or of particular communicative forms that can be
found in dialogue as well as elsewhere (Coupland), whereas some specific texts
are claimed to be intrinsically interesting/important for their time and place of
production and distribution (Howard and Giles, Corner, Richardson). Audience
research informed by these particular textual studies would be likely to produce
valuable results, though in some cases the moment has passed when such
research would have been possible and its findings of current relevance.
An interest in communicative form does not preclude an interest in the social
meanings mediated through dialogue, though some researchers are clearly more
interested in this than others. Although Simpson gestures only tentatively
toward the idea that the Monty Python sketch might be saying something to its
audience about their society, Corner is clear that the presumptions about the
social relations of the two speakers, mediated through innovative use of dialogue
on commercial television in the United Kingdom, are of particular significance
in the specific context of 1950s social change. The cognitive approach favored by
Culpeper is interesting here. Any analysis on these terms is compelled to spell out
the content of the schemata that it claims to be necessary to derive the required
meanings, and these can be fairly general ones (the police interview schema is
likely to be quite widespread in those English-speaking cultures that also have
a developed television culture) or more specific (the doorstep evangelist schema,
arguably). As long as the analysis requires this degree of explicitness, it serves
the useful function of drawing attention to social meanings brought to the text by
the audience, as well as those that might be taken away from the text by them.
3
What Is TV Dialogue Like?
The starting point for this chapter is a set of questions about the specificity of
this particular form of talk. Does dialogue on television do different things from
other kinds of talk? What, if anything, makes it distinctive? In order to answer
these questions, what should TV dialogue be compared with?
TV dialogue is talk that is both mediated and representational. It can therefore be
compared not only with the kinds of talk it claims to represent, but also with other
representations of talk found in other media and other genres. In addition, it can be
compared with mediated talk that does not have a representational function. This,
then, gives us three other points of reference. First, TV dialogue relates to naturally
occurring spoken interaction in real life (cf. Quaglio 2009). Second, it relates to
other depictions of talk, such as those in novels and written drama, as well as
in other kinds of performed drama on stage, screen, and radio. And third, it relates
to television’s other kinds of mediated talk, those that do not involve any attempt
at representation. This chapter will make use of these three reference points in
order to clarify, with examples, the particular nature of dialogue on television.
Naturally occurring face-to-face talk (or voice-to-voice if the talk involves tele-
phone calls) is sometimes called ordinary conversation. Tannen (1989) uses this
term, even while she is demonstrating the poetic qualities that such talk possesses.
Others have reservations about using this expression. Cameron (2001) points out
that talk can take many different forms, and observes that the use of the term
ordinary here contentiously suggests that this is talk at its most basic. It is certainly
true that an interview is very different from an informal chat between friends. But it
is inappropriate to regard the chat as ordinary and the interview as extraordinary, or
indeed vice versa. Each has its own specific configuration of participant relations,
and each involves strategies that have to be learned. However, for the purposes of
analyzing TV dialogue, any comparisons will always relate like with like. Drama-
tized job interviews are comparable to job interviews in the real world. Dramatized
informal chats are likewise comparable to their unmediated, nonrepresentational
equivalents. The important principle is the real-time coconstruction of spoken
interaction, shared by both the job interview and the chat. It takes two to tango,
and it takes at least two to create conversation—making it up as they go along.
42
What Is TV Dialogue Like? 43
If there is a first-order world, constituted by action and interaction, then one

characteristic of this world is that it can be transformed into tales, accounts,
plays, novels, gists, summaries, and other representational versions of what
happened. Versions can also encompass depictions of what might happen, or
what can be imagined, such versions being anchored to the presumed real world
at different points and in different ways depending on the nature of the repre-
sentational project. The anchoring of a fantasy drama such as Pushing Daisies
(ABC 2007) is distinct from that of a newspaper report on a United Nations
conference.
TV dialogue can also be compared with other kinds of represented talk. This
would include not only other forms of drama and dramatization, whether made
for radio, theater, or film production, but also prose fiction. Fictional talk differs
from real-life conversation because it is usually composed by someone other than
the performers (i.e., not jointly constructed by them) and the writing takes place
before the speaking (i.e., the composition does not take place in real time).
Occasionally, dialogue in performed fictions may be improvised by performers,
but this is the exception, and noteworthy when it does occur. On the very
comprehensive Internet Movie Database, the entry for the recent U.K. comedy
series Outnumbered (BBC 2007—present) specifically notes that the dialogue is
“part-improvised.” The speech in Outnumbered, however, is canned (the show was
not broadcast live), which means that the shots of people could be edited prior
to transmission, with some thought as to the management of the improvised
material for best effect—not at all the same as what happens in corresponding
real-life situations. Of course, one of the things that fictional talk has to imitate is
the real-time, joint construction effect of nonfictional talk. A revelation by one
character must be met by a reaction of surprise by another, if that is what would
have happened in the corresponding real-world situation.
When dialogue on TV is compared with other kinds of represented talk, the
comparison has to be respectful of the different media and generic forms.
Speech in novels and short stories raises issues about the grammaticization of
the words spoken: direct versus indirect speech, use or omission of verbs of
reportage, and so forth. The option of studying drama as written, literary text
is attractive to some researchers. This might involve, for instance, attention to
written stage directions prefacing and contextualizing speech (McIntyre 2006). It
is performed speech in other dramatic media (theater, radio, and cinema) that
compares most directly with dramatized speech on TV. Of these three, cinema
has the greatest potential for overlap. Television and cinema are both in the
business of delivering screen fictions. The grammar of cinema as a visual discourse
is similar across these media: many practitioners, behind the camera and in front
of it, move readily between the worlds of TV and film production. Television
drama production, at least at the “high” end (see previous chapter) has become
more film-like in recent years.
Finally, TV dialogue can be compared with broadcast talk/media talk (Scannell

1991; Tolson 2006). This kind of spoken interaction, such as an encounter on
The Jerry Springer Show (NBC 1991–present) is like naturally occurring speech
in some respects and like fictional speech in other respects. It is jointly
constructed in real time, and can even go out live. In the era of 24-hour news,
the live two-way between a studio anchor and a location reporter is a well known
instance of this (see Montgomery 2006). Media talk of this kind shares with
dramatized fictional talk a complex discourse structure. On one level, partici-
pants are talking to one another: the anchorperson and the reporter in the news
report, and the accuser and the betrayer in a Springer episode. On another
level, the participants themselves, or someone puppeteering them, are com-
municating with an audience or readership. The talk carries the effects of both
communicative relationships.
Represented talk can, in principle, be transferred among media. Television
drama includes numerous adaptations (for some relevant research, see, e.g.,
Cardwell 2002) along with its original works. Pride and Prejudice was originally
a novel with embedded character dialogue. It has also been a theater production,
a radio play (in an adaptation by Arthur Miller in 1944), a television broadcast
(more than once, including BBC 1995), a feature film (more than once), and an
audiobook. The dialogue of the original novel, despite being cut, reworded,
and supplemented on every occasion, along with aspects of plot, characters, and
elements of description, remains an important point of reference in the mediation
of the earlier text.
The media talk literature, by contrast, is clear that unscripted interactive
speech production on radio and television is somehow distinctive. The genres
developed here—radio phone-ins, reality television arguments, formal political
interviews, celebrity chat shows—do not and could not have equivalents outside
of broadcasting, and they are constitutive of the social relations between broad-
casters and audiences. The oft-quoted phrase intended to differentiate broadcast
talk from unmediated face-to-face talk, that it is “designed for an overhearing
audience” is not helpful here, because drama dialogue (and not just on televi-
sion) is also talk designed to be overheard. Below are some more extended
discussions of these comparisons, drawing on a range of television dramatic
productions by way of illustration.
TV DRAMA DIALOGUE AND UNMEDIATED

FIRST-ORDER TALK
All dramatic dialogue occurs in a context of representation, to which it makes a

contribution. Plenty of previous commentary on dialogue in literature has made
the descriptive point that it is not appropriate to expect, even from realistic drama
and novels, full fidelity to the characteristics of spontaneous talk (Abercrombie

1963, Page 1973, Burton 1980). Drama outside of the realist tradition may be
more interested in aesthetic than in realistic effects. Books for students
often introduce this topic by presenting transcripts of naturally occurring talk,
complete with false starts, repetitions, overlaps, filled pauses, hesitations, and
self-corrections, for comparative purposes. Sanger (2001) and Thornborrow and
Wareing (1998) both take this approach. Burton observes that some dramatic
dialogue gives a better impression of verisimilitude than others, and that it is
important to try to account for that impression. Most writers on drama dialogue
make only minimal comments on why true verisimilitude is not achievable.
Comprehensibility is certainly a factor (when there is too much overlap, audi-
ences can’t hear the lines), as is the obligation to convey meaning at different
levels (dramatists use character dialogue to get across information about place,
time, and action that the characters themselves could probably have taken for
granted). Less often mentioned is the fact that real-time interaction leads to
multiple possibilities of uptake at all points, and that dramatic versions of
talk have to foreclose on all but the most relevant to the ongoing narrative.
There may also be, on the part of some linguists, a suspicion that dramatists
themselves don’t fully understand what naturally occurring talk is really like. As
ordinary language users, they, like the rest of us, mentally edit out disfluency and
other complications in the everyday business of making sense—and carry this
deafness over to their representational work.
But some dramatists and directors certainly do have an awareness of the ways
dialogue can be fashioned that move it away from standard-issue, one-speaker-at-
a-time fluency. Harold Pinter’s pauses, Woody Allen’s repetitiveness and dis-
fluency, and Robert Altman’s use of multiple voices are all well-known examples
of divergence from the standard model. Nor is such divergence unknown on
television. A current British forensic crime series, Waking the Dead (BBC 2000–
present), is very keen on the use of overlapping speech, as in the following
example from a 2008 episode.
The police officers and scientists are investigating a death. The corpse is
headless and handless, but one of the hands has been found. The chief scientist
suspects that the murder weapon is a sword, and knows the age of its construc-
tion. The crime is linked to an army base, and swords are found there.
A particular sword is tested:
(Brackets and indentation indicate overlapping speech)

Is this our murder weapon?
No. Because even though it’s the same age, it’s been re-shaped and re-sharpened, the metal frag-
ments contained in this sword are markedly different to the ones in the hand as you can see there
(indicating computer screen images).
So how does this help us?
Because each and every sword is unique in its [metallurgic composition].

[But that’s fantastic, I mean] Mallam would’ve
got rid of the sword wouldn’t [he? I mean, it’s incriminating evidence so . . .
[No I don’t believe he would have got rid of it because if it was
a hundred and fifty years old it’s historical significance wouldn’t [let him] dispose of it.
[No].
Also, if you go some way towards matching up the fragments you go some way towards
finding out who the killer might be.
That’s right because he’s initiated a lockdown so whatever sword he uses . . . We can’t get into
the barracks so it could be anywhere by now.
(Season 7, episode 5, “Duty and Honour,” written by Adrian Mead)
The overlapping speech here is not just in the service of realism. Its use under-
writes a sense of urgency and frustration, as well as of competition among the
characters to hold the floor and have their views prevail. Audibility suffers: the
line that begins “I don’t believe he would have got rid of it . . .” is inaudible after
“historical significance,” when two other voices join in. However, the key points
in each contribution (not entirely coherent) are allowed to stand proud of the
hubbub—“it’s not the right sword,” says the scientist, “the right one has been
disposed of by now,” says the senior detective (played by Trevor Eve); “probably
not,” says the forensic psychologist (played by Tara Fitzgerald), “if it is has
historical significance”; “but we’ve been prevented from looking for it, and it
could be anywhere now,” the detective concludes.
The most useful comments in this area of study are those of Herman (1995),
who is aware that the “language of drama” is hardly a neglected topic (e.g., in
relation to the plays of Shakespeare) but recognizes that this scholarship has
focused primarily on such matters as textual imagery, thus valuing drama
insofar as it can be seen as a type of poetry, and having little to say about realist
drama (i.e., most contemporary drama) in which poetically styled eloquence is
not a high priority:
Conversational language, apparently, reveals us to be tongue-tied, incoherent

when our passions are aroused; we splutter with rage or are stunned with grief.
Playwrights who use a realistic mode are hampered by the mismatch between the
force of felt emotion and the threadbare possibilities for expression of them
afforded by everyday speech. (1995: 4)
Herman here is not presenting her own view but giving an account of traditional
prejudices in some literary critical discourse against realism as a dramatic mode,
with particular reference to the implications of this for the description and
analysis of language in dramas that adopt this mode. (That a dramatization’s
nonlinguistic ways of conveying emotion, as in film and television, might be
aesthetically interesting, is beside the point in this context.) As Herman points
out, what gets neglected in the poetic approach to drama language is precisely its
character as dialogue, as the interactive exchange of utterances between speakers.
Her own contribution is to take this character on board, exploring the language
of plays from Shakespeare to Beckett as they exploit the resources of spontane-
ous conversation and turn these to expressive effect. Her aim is to do this without
falling into the trap of treating (fictive) dialogue as simply a copy of nonfictive
talk:
It is not therefore a question of whether dramatic dialogue is seen to mirror

faithfully some real life correlate or not, even assuming that some such exists to
be mirrored. Even the most naturalistic forms of dramatic speech do not quite
reproduce the real life product. The mirror is not the point of reference between the
two forms. Rather, it is a question of mechanics, in the exploitation by dramatists
of underlying speech conventions, principles and “rules” of use, operative in
speech exchanges in the many sorts, conditions and contexts of society which
members are assumed to share and use in their interactions in day-to-day ex-
changes. (Herman 1995: 6)
Herman can be seen as on a mission to find the everyday basis of drama

dialogue, inasmuch as her approach involves exploring such dialogue using
the tools developed for studying talk in naturally occurring social interaction,
from speech act theory, to conversation analysis, to the pragmatics of implicature
and politeness. Other linguists, notably Tannen (1989), have put forward the idea
that strategies (repetition, quotation, and imagery) traditionally viewed as literary
or poetic not only have their source in spontaneous talk, but also have a specific
social function there as involvement strategies. From Herman we learn that literary
drama dialogue may do its work by virtue of what it shares with everyday talk;
from Tannen we conversely learn that everyday talk is interestingly “literary.”
Note that Tannen’s approach does not involve a view of literary language as more
original (novel, inventive, creative) than everyday forms of talk. As she says
herself, repetition is the key feature, in different guises.
Where does television drama dialogue fit into this picture? Dialogue in stage
plays became primarily realistic in the twentieth century. The practice of particu-
lar dramatists (notably Harold Pinter) opened scholarly eyes to the possibility of
recognizing purposeful aesthetic craft in materials perceived as ordinary (Quig-
ley 1975, Burton 1980). Three consequences flowed from this recognition. First,
a particular kind of ordinariness became recognized as a possible design feature.
Second, it became clear that not all ordinary-sounding talk in plays, films, and TV
shows has the expressive value of Pinteresque dialogue. Third, stylisticians came
to appreciate that the recognition of the particular expressive qualities of dia-
logue in realist drama generally required an analytic apparatus different from the
one traditionally brought to bear on the language of plays. Attention to imagery,
rhythm, rhyme, and so forth might work well for Shakespeare, but would be of
much less help with John Osborne, let alone Harold Pinter. Realistic drama
dialogue would reveal its particular kind of creativity only through the use of
approaches drawn from the study of naturally occurring talk, as argued by
Burton in the 1980s (Burton 1980), Herman in the 1990s (Herman 1995), and
Mandala in the present decade (Mandala 2007b).
Realism, broadly defined, has always dominated in television drama, and
departures from it have attracted attention. A notable example of this (chosen
here because its nonrealist dramaturgy affected the dialogue) would be Dennis
Potter’s Pennies from Heaven (BBC 1978), a narrative about a frustrated sheet
music salesman in the 1930s. This miniseries took the form of a musical and it
had actors miming to 1930s popular songs—the main character’s principal
source of imaginative release. The show was a critical success, and a popular
production.
Even more popular was the comedy The Royle Family (BBC 1998–2006). But
whereas the dialogue in Pennies from Heaven eschewed realism by becoming
more obviously artificial, The Royle Family follows a more Pinteresque formula,
engaging in what might be called “foregrounded banality.” Banal talk in drama
can be construed as talk that is not about anything that matters and is inconse-
quential in relation to plot developments. The inconsequentiality of the talk, as
when Barbara, wife and mother (played by Sheila Johnston), regularly asks every
visitor to the house what they have had for their tea, is a trademark feature of this
show, frequently mentioned in reviews and critical treatments.1 Tea is under-
stood as a reference to the main evening meal in this working-class environment.
The inconsequentiality of the exchanges teaches viewers what to expect in this
world. It also does character/relationship work. Some of the banal dialogue has
the effect of displaying how all family members from time to time ask the
younger child Antony to make cups of tea for them, or pop out to buy cigarettes,
and how Antony does their bidding—mostly without complaint.
The series does not deny audiences the pleasure of story. Things happen over
the course of the seasons but they are not melodramatic events, just the same
kinds of high points (births, marriages, new jobs, deaths) that all families
experience. (A ‘season’ in the United States is a finite run of 20–24 episodes,
generally broadcast consecutively from late autumn to the following late spring/
early summer. Throughout this book, I have expanded the term to refer to
consecutive episode runs of any series irrespective of national origin or schedul-
ing). These high points are planned for, and talked about, more than they are
shown. They do not absorb the attention of the characters to the exclusion of all
other topics of talk, such as whether or not to buy a new jacket. In the majority of
television drama, dialogue exists to service the narrative: in The Royle Family, the
priorities are reversed. The levels of intimacy the characters enjoy with one
another allow the routine exchange of nonperturbing insults (insults that are
part of the relationship and that therefore leave relationships unchanged). In
episode 1 alone, there are 26 face-to-face exchanges of epithets and insults. These
range from the innocent, teasing, “you lemon,” through the more forceful/
masculine “knobhead,” to conversational insults that require more than a single
line to bring about:
DENISE : Cheryl, that’d look good on you.
ANTONY: What is it, a tent?
(Denise is played by Caroline Aherne, who also cowrote the scripts with Craig
Cash; Antony by Ralf Little; and Cheryl by Jessica Hynes). The mutual intimacy of
the dramatis personae also allows the talk to focus frequently on the vulgar body
and bodily processes (defecation and flatulence the application of makeup and
cosmetics, the inspection of bodies for wounds and blemishes). The first episode
begins with a shot of Denise’s feet: she is painting her toenails—not in the privacy
of a bedroom or bathroom, but in the living room and in the presence of Barbara
and Jim (played by Ricky Tomlinson), her parents. The absence of any talk about
this is significant in depicting Denise’s actions as normal behavior. Later discus-
sions fix on hairstyles, clothing, weight, going to the bathroom, other people’s
makeovers (including TV celebrities), foot massages, and verrucas (warts).
It is important to point out that The Royle Family does not rely exclusively on
the audience’s sensibility to hear the dialogue as banal. There are textual cues,
verbal and visual, that invite us to hear it in that way. Jim, for example, picks
on Barbara when he thinks she has gone too far in this direction, thus introdu-
cing a reflexive element:
1 BARBARA : Have you had your tea, Dave?
2 DAVE : Yeah.
3 BARBARA : What’d you have?
4 DAVE : Corned beef hash.
5 BARBARA : Ooh. We should have that one day. Hey, Jim, Dave’s had corned beef hash.
6 JIM : Funny, they never mentioned it on the news.
(Season 1, episode 1, “Bills, Bills, Bills,” written by Caroline Aherne, Craig Cash, and Henry Normal)
The sarcastic wit in Jim’s response to Barbara, characteristic of his persona in the
series, is certainly there to add to the show’s comedic value. From a critical
perspective, it also raises questions of audience alignment: do we hear Barbara
as Jim does, and share with him the very mild joke at her expense, or do we align
with Barbara as the victim of a put-down, albeit one verbalized humorously? The
banality of Barbara’s talk about food is of the foregrounded kind, but the banality
of the joke is something else.
Given the realist basis of most TV drama, it would be surprising if dramatic
dialogue in television was not formulaic to a considerable degree, because
research suggests that large proportions of naturally occurring language, both
in speech and in writing, is itself formulaic. Estimates vary, but even the lowest
gives a figure of around one-third (Schmitt and Carter 2004: 1). The research in
the present book is not quantitative, and cannot therefore assess the extent of the
phenomenon in televisual contexts. In any event, the estimates in the formulaic
speech literature come with a health warning, because the scope of formulaic is
troublesome, as Schmitt and Carter indicate. It is another category that has clear
central members but many borderline cases. Strings of words that repeatedly
occur together, and without any grammatical modification, such as the idiomatic
“beat around the bush” are certainly regarded as formulaic. But so are sentence
frames with slots in which speakers can place a word or phrase of their choice,
appropriate to the situation. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting” is formulaic in this
sense even though the “I” could be “we,” or it could be the name of a third party.
If intensifiers, adverbials, or other optional elements are added, this still does
not compromise the essentially formulaic character of the sentence frame here:
“Mr. Jones is very sorry that he had to keep you waiting again.” But there are
limits, and it seems to me that “Mr. Jones is mortified to realize that he’s had to
keep you kicking your heels in here for so long” has virtually abandoned the
formulaicity of the original version. (“Kicking one’s heels” is a different formula,
and its use here does not impinge on the argument.) Beyond this, Wray and
Perkins (2000), citing Bouton (1998), point out that there are formulae of
language use that are based on semantic-pragmatic factors rather than formal
ones at word and sentence levels: “In response to the question Did you enjoy the
party? a person might answer Is the Pope a Catholic? Does a one-legged duck swim
round in circles? Does the sun rise in the morning? Etc. [This formula] allows the use
of any question to which the answer is both obvious and is the same as the
answer to the original question” (Wray and Perkins 2000: 12). All kinds of
predictable language use occur in drama as they do in real life. However,
comparing real life to drama in respect of formulaicity is a complex business.
Schmitt and Carter (2004: 9) argue that recurring situations in the social world
may call for conventionalized language to realize such functions as apologizing,
making requests, giving directions, and complaining. One important function is
“maintaining social interaction” (2004: 10), in which the content of the talk is less
important than the fact of talking. Formulaic expressions produced in such
contexts are less likely to occur in (realist) dramatic dialogue than in real life,
because the contexts themselves are less likely to be dramatized than more
weighty encounters between speakers. It is therefore possible that TV drama
dialogue—especially in comedy—features more defective and reflexive uses of
such speech than it does of straightforward instances, contributing displays of
irony (dramatic or otherwise), mistrust, hostility, and communicational trouble,
to give point to otherwise bland material. Prodromou (2007: 20) cites an example
from Fawlty Towers in which one character introduces formulaic speech, and
another makes creative play with the formula for sarcastic purpose—instantiat-
ing a conversational display that is characteristic of the relationship between the
two characters—Basil Fawlty, hotel proprietor (played by John Cleese), and his
wife Sybil (played by Prunella Scales):
SYBIL : No Polly doesn’t forget things.
BASIL : Doesn’t she?
SYBIL : Can you remember the last time she did?
BASIL : No, I can’t but then my memory isn’t very good
SYBIL : You can say that again.
BASIL : Can I, dear? Oh, thank you . . . I’ve forgotten what it was.
(Series written by John Cleese and Connie Booth)
“You can say that again” is a conventionalized way of agreeing, emphatically, with
what the previous speaker has said. It is playful, albeit in a rather predictable way,
to respond by actually repeating the previous utterance. Basil’s creativity goes a
step beyond this: there is semantic and pragmatic relevance in his claiming
forgetfulness as a reason for not repeating what he said, because the observation
that is not repeated is precisely his forgetfulness. He does make the point “my
memory isn’t very good” for a second time, but in the second occurrence the
point is implied rather than stated explicitly. As we shall see in the next section,
when television dramatists do display routine encounters using routine dia-
logue, they often have ulterior, that is to say, narrative, purposes for doing so.
And chapter 5 will return to the question of banality in its discussion of TV
drama and catch phrases.
TELEVISION DRAMA DIALOGUE

AND REPRESENTED TALK
A very large proportion of all represented talk is deployed in the context of

narrative. Both prose fiction and drama, as narrative modes, make use of
represented talk. Because prose fiction makes it possible to separate narration
from character speech, the speech does not have to service the narrative to the
same extent that it does in drama. Some novels and short stories may make no
use of dialogue at all. We should not forget that narrators in fiction can be
characters too, and their discourse can be a kind of speech, with its own point
of view or “slant,” in Chatman’s (1990) terms.
Drama itself may provide space for a narratorial voice and for direct address to
the audience, in the tradition of the Greek chorus. Such narrators have varying
degrees of dominance over the textual discourse: a production may take the form
of a narrative recitation, with occasional dramatized inserts, or there may be little
more than an introductory scene-setting remark before the drama “takes off” in
its own internal time and space. Television dramatization spans all these possi-
bilities, as well as the more usually preferred option in which there is no narrator
at all. A crime reconstruction on Crimewatch (BBC 1984–present) will give the

narrating voice prime control.2 A largely wordless reenactment will be witnessed
while events are recounted in voiceover. The voiceover soundtrack will provide
occasional gaps for the audience to listen to the voices of participants, real
people, but played by actors—especially if there is some kind of firsthand record
of what they actually said to one another at the time. If a physical recording
exists, for example, of a phone call to the emergency services, then this may be
used in the broadcast in the interests of authenticity.
In TV drama proper, uses of narrator speech are much more restricted though
some recent shows have introduced it. Both Heroes (NBC 2006–present) and
Desperate Housewives (ABC 2004–present) use voiceover speech at the start of
episodes and occasionally elsewhere. In both cases the speaker is one of the
characters in the fictional world. In Desperate Housewives the voiceover is that of a
character who is already dead by the time the story events begin, and she seems
thereafter to have an omniscient view of the story world. In Heroes the “narrator”
(an inappropriate label here, because he does not recount narrative events) steers
clear of story events, and articulates quasi-philosophical musings (see chapter 1)
that purport to be relevant to those events. The connection between these
musings and the narrator’s on-screen character are very tenuous. In TV and
film drama, audiences may be given verbal help with story information visually
rather than aurally, via subtitles, keeping alive a tradition that began with the
early silent films.
Relevant information may also be provided visually in nonlinguistic ways:
iconic shots of particular locations can be included to show where the action is
meant to take place; once the action is under way, it is always possible to return to
locations that have been established earlier. The Amazing Mrs. Pritchard (BBC
2006) opens with a close-up shot, from neck to chest only, of a besuited female
pinning a name badge to her lapel that reads, “MANAGER: ROS PRITCHARD.”
Immediately we know that this is the eponymous Mrs. Pritchard (played by Jane
Horrocks), and that she is a manager. Before a word is spoken we learn, again
visually, that she is the manager of Greengages Supermarket: a subsequent shot
includes a poster reading, “Greengages: This is how the customers see you.” These
possibilities raise the issue of being versus showing. It is one thing for characters
to “be” in a flat, in London, in the 1960s. It is another thing for productions to
show that this is where and when they are, providing audiences with sufficient
visual and verbal clues to come to the right conclusions.
Dialogue, therefore, is one of the means that dramas use to provide story
information, alongside or instead of direct narration and subtitles, and alongside
mise-en-scène. Such provision accounts for two out of nine functions in a useful
typology developed by Kozloff (2000) with reference to dialogue in feature films.
The nine functions in Kozloff’s account are divided into two groups. Her claim is
that the first group relates to functions that are “fundamental because they are
centrally involved in the communication of narrative”—such as the anchorage of

the diegetic world, characterization, and the enactment of narrative events—
whereas the second group “involves functions that go beyond narrative commu-
nication into the realms of aesthetic effect, ideological persuasion and commer-
cial appeal” (2000: 2).
Is this typology relevant only to feature films? In practice, there are certainly
differences among media. In theater, the expositional responsibilities of dialogue
(encompassing functions 1 and 2 below) may be greater than they are in cinema,
because of the limitations of the physical space. In radio, they may be either
fewer or greater. They will be fewer when a narrator is given most of the
expositional work. Otherwise, they will be greater, because there is no physical
space that can be shown to audiences. Notwithstanding these differences in
realization, the typology itself may be generalizable, and it is certainly a useful
starting point in relation to television drama, fiction film’s closest analogue.
It is worthwhile to take a closer look at Kozloff’s schema. In the first, basic
group, she gives us the following:
1. Anchorage of the diegesis and characters
2. Communication of narrative causality
3. Enactment of narrative events
4. Character revelation
5. Adherence to the code of realism
6. Control of viewer evaluation and emotions (2000: 33)
There is no suggestion here that dialogue is necessary or sufficient to fulfill these
functions, only that if dialogue is present, then it must discharge some or all of
these functions. No indication is given as to any order of priority, and it is
acknowledged that any given stretch of actual dialogue is likely to be multifunc-
tional in these terms. The two functions that are of particular interest here are
the first two: anchorage and causality. I have already dealt with realism (Kozloff’s
function 5) in the previous section, discussing the relations between performed,
scripted dialogue and everyday forms of talk, and I will be discussing character
revelation (function 4) at length in chapter 7. The other two functions in this
group deserve a brief comment, if only to indicate what is meant.
Enactment of narrative events (function 3) is distinct from communication of
narrative causality (function 2), inasmuch as, in the first case, audiences see and
hear narrative events as they happen to the characters, whereas in the second,
characters learn from one another about what has happened, what might have
happened, and what might happen in their future—and audiences, thereby,
learn this too. None of this is peculiar to feature film dramatization, though
screen fictions can and do tend to show more action than other dramatic media.
This conception of action treats sex, fights, and car chases on a par with confes-
sions, declarations of love, and threats: those that are linguistically “lite” with
those that are linguistically full. The difference between a car chase and
a confession is roughly as follows: a car chase is an event in which talk may
occur as an adjunct feature: “Go, go!” “That way, quick!” “Lost him!” A confes-
sion, by contrast, is an interpersonal event in which talk is likely to take a lead
role: “I’ve been seeing other men.” However, the distinction between talk and
action in this context is a scale, not an opposition, because the car chase
undoubtedly requires some talk, and the confession exists as much in exchanges
of gaze and body language as it does in its wording. Different narrative events
will call for more or less verbalization according to context.
Function 6, “control of viewer evaluation and emotions,” is harder to pin down
because it is so often developed alongside other functions. It refers to dialogue
that exists to direct the viewer’s attention to specific aspects of the mise-en-scène
or plot, but also to manage the nature of that attention. An example from the
world of television drama will help to clarify this. In season 5 of 24 (Fox 2001–
present), one pivotal character is the president’s wife, Martha Logan (played by
Jean Smart). Before the audience sees or hears Martha, we are guided in what to
expect by the following exchange between the president (played by Gregory Itzin)
and an aide (John Allen Nelson as Walt Cummings):
1 LOGAN : Have you checked on my wife?
2 CUMMINGS : She’s still getting ready. She’ll be fine, sir.
3 LOGAN : Hmm.
4 CUMMINGS : I’m in contact with Dr. Hill.
5 LOGAN : I’d feel better if you would check on her yourself. She cannot have one of
her meltdowns today. Look, you’re the only one she listens to, Walt.
(Season 5, episode 1, “7:00–8:00 A.M.,” written by Howard Gordon)
Here we not only learn that the president’s wife is the sort of person
who has “meltdowns,” but get a pretty good clue that the drama to unfold
will certainly include at least one such meltdown. When she appears on screen
in her first scene, we are ready to read her behavior in light of this prior warning.
In addition to the six basic functions in Kozloff’s account, there are three
“value-added” ones—to use an economic metaphor. I will briefly introduce and
comment on these, before returning to the subject of dialogue and exposition:
1. Opportunities for star turns
2. Exploiting the resources of language
3. Thematic messages/authorial commentary/allegory
The three functions that come into this second grouping all offer meanings that
are essentially nonnarrational, in other words, which do not require to be
delivered in the form of narrative texts. Two of them (opportunities for star
turns and exploiting the resources of language) are indicative of meaning as
display.
This idea of verbal display can be related to an interest in the cognate

idea of spectacle and the spectacular in some of the film studies literature. The label
spectacular suggests a primarily visual experience but aural display is also included.
The musical numbers in musicals are simultaneously visually and aurally spectac-
ular in this sense. Films, notwithstanding the general preference for the prosaic
over the poetic, do provide opportunities in which language itself is put on display
(“exploitation of the resources of language” in the schema refers to this kind of
formal foregrounding). They also provide moments of performance display, the
spoken equivalent of the operatic aria—this is what Kozloff has in mind when she
refers to “opportunities for star turns.”
In television dramatization, too, display of the former kind certainly occurs
from time to time. Star turns, in which the performance is more noteworthy than
either the narrative context that houses it, or the words that are being performed,
may also occur. In January 2008, an entire 30-minute episode of the popular
British soap opera EastEnders (BBC 1985–present) was given over to a single
character, Dot Cotton (June Brown). The pretext for Dot’s talk was that she was
speaking into a tape recorder for the benefit of her sick husband—also, as the
monologue progressed, she was meant to discover her true feelings about the
prospect of having him back to live with her as an invalid, should he ever come
out of hospital. This episode required considerable acting stamina and skill from
June Brown; the unusual nature of this episode was extensively trailed before-
hand, and the actress was subsequently nominated for a BAFTA award (the
episode was written by Tony Jordan).
The third of the value-added functions in Kozloff”s scheme she labels “the-
matic messages/authorial commentary/allegory.” Within the scope of this con-
ception come ideas about texts as arguments: bits of discourse with a point to
make. Argumentation and point making can take many forms: stories can
illustrate and provide evidence for the case being made. If all stories have a
point (as some, e.g., Labov and Waletzky 1967, have claimed), then perhaps this
function belongs in the first and not the second group of Kozloff’s schema. Yet it
still seems to me to fit better in the second group, because first, argumentation
can be carried out without the use of narrative, and second, because within a
narrative context, the argumentative/thematic meanings are typically implied
rather than made explicit.
Returning to the first two functions that together can be called the exposit-
ional functions, it is clear that in television, as in the cinema, dialogue is indeed
one of the ways of conveying story information. It can result in rather bland
talk, as in this example from the British/American thriller, The State Within
(BBC 2006):
1 CAROLINE : Mark.
2 MARK : Caroline, hi. How are you?
3 CAROLINE :
Good. This is my dad, Anthony. Dad, Sir Mark Brydon.
4 MARK :
Mark. How do you do?
5 ANTHONY: Delighted to meet you.
(Series written by Lizzie Mickery and Daniel Percival)
On one level, this kind of dramatic dialogue is as banal as it gets. But it does its
job: the main character now has a name as well as a body. The cited lines do not
constitute the whole scene, which does other things besides giving Brydon (Jason
Isaacs) a name. Anthony (Jonathan Whittaker), father of Caroline (Genevieve
O’Reilly), will be one of the passengers to die in a plane explosion, caused
by a suicide bomber, shortly following this scene. One strand of narrative
development will focus on his involvement in events that led up to the atrocity,
so it is significant that he is the father of Mark’s former lover (as we learn
here) and dramatic irony in the meeting taking place so very soon before the
fatal crash.
Kozloff believes that dialogue in many movies is confined to the functions of
her first grouping, with no interest in either thematic content or display. Outside
of comedy, drama on television may have similarly restricted productions. The
thriller series 24, excerpted earlier in this chapter, is a case in point. In this series,
each episode depicts an extraordinary day in the life of the Counter Terrorism
Unit and of one of its key members, Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland). As an action-
adventure thriller series, we shouldn’t be surprised to find that much screen time
is devoted to showing bodies in action rather than speech. However, some acts
and events must be realized verbally; on top of that, our characters need to talk, so
that we know who they are, what they are like as people in these dramatically
momentous circumstances, and what is happening to them.
Toward the start of season 5, with Jack Bauer supposedly dead but in reality
living under an assumed name as a casual laborer in the Mojave Desert, the
production contrives to display him in “off-work” mode by including some
otherwise irrelevant dialogue (a possible illustration of function 5 in the narra-
tive-related function group) between himself as Frank Flynn and his new girl-
friend Diane (Connie Britton):
1 JACK / FRANK :
Since I don’t have to go to work today, I can take care of the fence out
back if you want?
2 DIANE : Oh, that’d be great. I can’t thank you enough for all the work you’ve done
around here.
This is the last we ever hear of Diane’s fence, or “Frank’s” work commitments.
These topics are quickly set aside by the demands of the plot. Nevertheless,
the dialogue here has narrative-related functions besides that of constituting
normality through realism. It is also helping to display the current state of their
relationship. They are intimate enough for him to take on this kind of work for
her, but not so intimate that she can demand it or take it for granted.
Within seconds of this exchange, Bauer will be caught up in the aftermath of a
former president’s assassination, because he has been set up as the perpetrator
of the crime. From then on, his style of dialogue is better illustrated by the
following:
1 DEREK :Don’t shoot me!

2 JACK :
What the hell are you doing here?
3 DEREK : I’m sorry I followed you, I’m just—I’m just worried about my mother.
4 JACK : Get up. Get up. Get up. Dammit! Come here. You’re going with me.
5 DEREK : This is none of my business. This is none of my business. I won’t tell
anyone. Just let me go, okay?
6 JACK : I really wish I could, kid, but I can’t. You’re going with me. Now, get in the
helicopter.
Derek (Brady Corbet), Diane’s son, has become suspicious of “Frank” and
followed him. Jack needs to get to Los Angeles, where he has arranged to meet
another regular character, Chloe O’Brian (Mary Lynn Rajskub), who has narrow-
ly escaped her own murder and is now on the run. Jack can’t afford to postpone
his trip, for which he hijacks a helicopter, nor can he afford to let Derek betray his
whereabouts. Hence the abduction of the scared and confused young man, and
the brutality of its verbal and nonverbal management, with unmitigated direc-
tives backed up by the threat of further force. Jack’s only concession to their prior
relationship is in line 6, in which he acknowledges Derek’s request and “apol-
ogizes” that he can’t accede to it. Uncompromising is a good description of the
persona that emerges from dialogue such as this and much more of a similar
kind throughout the several seasons of this series.
Functionally basic dialogue in television, as illustrated here, need not be
uninteresting or poorly written. In particular, the use of dialogue for characteri-
zation, function 3, is crucial for dramatization in all media—perhaps especially
so in television drama where, because of the long-form possibilities, there are
opportunities for audiences to develop attachments to particular characters as
well as in-depth knowledge of their histories and backstories. Dialogue for
characterization is the topic of chapter 7.
Television comedy is where we might expect to find examples of dialogue that
extend beyond functional basics, with particular reference to function 8: exploi-
tation of the resources of language. Not all comedy is in the business of language
display, but some of it certainly is. The Royle Family, with its foregrounded
banality, is a good example (see above), but, in a very different way, so is The
Thick of It (BBC 2005–2007), another British comedy. This behind-the-scenes
sitcom about British politics has been described as offering “a masterclass in
creative swearing” (“Today’s TV,” Daily Mirror, July 3, 2007), on the basis of
scenes such as “the iPod rant,” composed by the series’ “swearing consultant,”
Ian Martin (video available on YouTube at the time of writing):
JAMIE ( PAUL HIGGINS ):You take the piss out of Al Jolson again and I will remove your
iPod from its tiny nano-sheath and push it up your cock. Then I’ll put some
speakers up your arse and put it on to shuffle with my fucking fist. Then, every
time I hear something that I don’t like—which will be every time that something
comes on—I will skip to the next track by crushing your balls.
(Season 2, episode 1, “Special: The Rise of the Nutters,” written by Jesse Armstrong,
Simon Blackwell, Armando Iannucci, Tony Roche, and Ian Martin)
Television dialogue can be seen, therefore, to have the same functions in respect
of dramatized narration as feature film does. However, across the range of
television dramatization (i.e., including dramatized documentary and factual
shows like Crimewatch, involving reconstructions), much wider than that of
feature film, it exploits those functions differently. In television drama proper,
the similarity with cinematic dialogue will be extensive. But even here there are
differences. British television drama has not always sought to distance itself from
theater to the extent that film has. In the earliest period, before 1955, stage drama
was the principal resource for live on-screen performance. Even after 1955
the words play and theater were used as names of anthology series, for identifica-
tion and promotional purposes: Armchair Theatre (ABC Weekend Television,
1956–1973), Play for Today (BBC 1970–1981), The Wednesday Play (BBC 1964–
1970)—though television by then had certainly emancipated itself from more
established forms of dramatic production, whether in theater, cinema, or on
radio. This suggests that the rejection of dialogue, familiar in cinema, as “too
theatrical” need not apply here. Jason Jacobs (2000) argues with the too-easy
characterization of early British television drama as displaced theater, but his
emphasis is upon the development of new modes of visualization and has little to
say about the implications of this for dialogue in such work.
Media theorists such as Ellis (1983) and Altman (1986) have emphasized
the significance of the sound track in television generally. Dialogue is not espe-
cially significant in this elevation; music and announcements may be more
important. But talk is nevertheless part of the sound track and may benefit in
terms of audience attention from the relative priority given to sound in general.
In radio drama, talk is its essence, whatever augmentation is supplied via
sound effects, music, and narration. Television dramatization in the area of
comedy has an extremely strong radio heritage, with many popular shows
(Dead Ringers, BBC 2002–present, The League of Gentlemen, BBC 1999–2002)
making a transition from one to the other. Nor should the connection between
television soap opera and radio be forgotten. Guiding Light (CBS 1952–2009), the
longest running soap opera in the world, started on radio in 1937 and made the
transition to television in 1952, before being finally cancelled in 2009.
The role of dialogue may be significantly different in a medium that has

increasingly adopted the long-form series as exemplified by The Sopranos (HBO
1999–2007), Desperate Housewives, and many more (see Creeber 2004) with both
episode-level and running storylines (story arcs) as its characteristic drama form,
in contrast to a medium in which narrative closure over a number of acts is the
standard model.
TELEVISION DRAMATIC DIALOGUE

AND BROADCAST TALK
The study of broadcast talk has developed a small but focused literature, includ-
ing two recent works with the identical title, “Media Talk” (Hutchby 2006, Tolson
2006). Despite differences of emphasis, especially regarding conversation-ana-
lytic methods and other approaches, the one thing both authors agree on is that
simulated talk (i.e., drama dialogue) is excluded from the scope of the research:
[Media talk] often appears to be “live” (even when the programme has been
recorded) and relatively unscripted (though usually some sort of pre-planning is
apparent). This book is not concerned therefore with the overtly scripted dialogue of
fictional programming such as forms of drama, including soap opera and situation
comedy. (Tolson 2006: 3)
Much of the talk that radio and television audiences encounter is pre-scripted: for
instance in news bulletins, in documentaries, in drama or in situation comedy. But
in phone-ins, talk shows, interviews and the like, while there may well have been
some planning and preparation prior to the broadcast, the talk as it unfolds in the
real time of the show is not scripted, meaning that the participants have to be
creative in reacting and responding to one another’s talk in the course of its
production. (Hutchby 2006: 1)
In Hutchby’s account, three characteristics of media talk are specifically mentioned:

it is prototypically scripted, it is “as-if” live, and it involves participants who are not
professional broadcasters (politicians, celebrities, “ordinary” people), as well as, or
instead of, professionals. Drama, by contrast, is prototypically scripted, scarcely ever
live, or even “as-if” live (performers can not be allowed to be heard fluffing their
lines), and is performed and produced by professionals. These professionals strive
to conceal, as much as possible, that the “conversations” in drama are designed by
writers, producers, and actors with an audience in mind, rather than by characters,
for other characters. They strive to maintain the imaginary fourth wall of classical
realist dramaturgy, and keep viewers on the other side of it.
However, most of these criteria can be questioned. It is not a necessary
condition of drama dialogue that it be scripted: it can be improvised and, to
that extent, coconstructed. Although modern TV drama is not broadcast live, it
certainly used to be (see Jacobs 2000). It is not true that only media talk, and not
drama dialogue, is designed for an overhearing audience—it is usually con-

structed without overlap between turns, for example, in the interest of audibility.
Media talk is much more likely to be directly addressed to an audience, though
such talk constructs the audience as ratified listeners, not overhearers, in Goff-
man’s (1979) terms. Recipients of drama can be ratified listeners too, in produc-
tions such as Desperate Housewives, which allow for a narrator role. Breaches in
the fourth wall are not unknown. A TV play from the 1960s by Dennis Potter,
Vote, Vote, Vote for Nigel Barton (BBC 1965) had one of the characters, a cynical
political agent, speak directly to the camera, in other words, the audience, about
the candidate’s strengths and weaknesses in politics.
We are accustomed to using the idea of the filmgoer as a voyeur, surrepti-
tiously spying on the actions of the on-screen characters. What has often been
overlooked is that viewers are also listeners; in fact they are eavesdroppers, listening
in on conversations purportedly addressed to others, but conversations that—
in reality—are designed to communicate certain information to the audience
(Kozloff 2000: 14; see also Bubel 2008).
Another potential point of contrast is that in media talk, performers are
being “themselves” and in drama dialogue they are being “other people”—
characters. This can be challenged, too, as an absolute means of discrimination.
In media talk, performers (especially the professionals) are being versions of
themselves. The concept of persona is often used here (Horton and Wohl 1956,
Tolson 1996, Tolson 1991). Sometimes they are being other, fictional people.
Fictional interviewers in that sense include “Dame Edna Everage,” aka Barry
Humphries (Tolson 1991), and Mrs. Merton, aka Caroline Aherne (Montgomery
1999).3 Sometimes, in dramatizations, performers play themselves—Kirsty Wark,
a professional news presenter and interviewer on British television played herself
in the TV drama The Amazing Mrs. Pritchard (Corner and Richardson 2008).
It is necessary, then, to imagine the marginal case of a live production, with
improvised dialogue, respectful of its audience’s needs, with all performers
playing themselves and no opportunity to edit out or conceal production errors.
This would be an unusual, nonprototypical example of the category, but it could
still be TV drama, not media talk, even though it ticks all the boxes in Hutchby’s
characterization. It would be drama, as long as it understood and displayed itself
as representation. This would involve the use of displaced deictic coordinates of
time and space: here would have to mean “somewhere else,” not the place of
production and not necessarily real—it could be an imaginary setting. Now could
mean concurrent with the time of production but it could also mean “some other
time”—past or future.
Among the possible events that TV drama can set out to represent, we can
include events that are themselves televisual. Television can be reflexive about its
own forms and practices, not only in journalistic treatments but also in its
fictionalized, dramatic modes. Thus, many TV dramas set out to display, along-
side the “private” discourse of characters, moments from television news reports,
TV interviews, celebrity talk shows, and confessional TV chat shows, when it is
topically appropriate to do so. It is not surprising to find extensive use of this
particular kind of metacommunication in political series such as The Amazing
Mrs. Pritchard, The West Wing (NBC 1999–2007), and The Thick of It. In the real
world of professional politics and government, engagement with the mass media
plays a crucial part in both institutional and personal terms, and displays of
political performance on TV are amongst the ways that dramatists can address
this aspect of political life.
The potential for communicative layering in TV drama is considerable and
various. Jerry Springer: The Opera (BBC 2005) is a particularly complex example.
The Jerry Springer Show is a notorious American confessional TV chat show. Its
basic character was reinterpreted in 2005 in the terms of a theatrical musical that
provided scripted dialogue and song lyrics where the actual series featured
spontaneous unscripted talk. A single performance of this production was, in
its turn, treated as a pro-filmic event for the purposes of a national broadcast
transmission in the United Kingdom, which went out amid much complaint
regarding blasphemy and bad language. So far away was this broadcast produc-
tion from the prototypical characteristics of TV drama that it is arguable whether
or not it should be included under that designation.
The West Wing (see Richardson 2006) and Jerry Springer: The Opera have very
different relations to the fourth wall. West Wing’s drama takes place on the other
side of the fourth wall as a classic realist text (McCabe 1974). The generic conven-
tions of mainstream television drama are here respected and its representations
of media talk (e.g., when the president is interviewed about his energy plans) are
given a clearly defined place within a coherent diegetic world, “behind the
scenes” of political life.
By contrast, in Jerry Springer: The Opera the diegetic world is a front-of-
stage event—the event being an imaginary, fantastic, episode of The Jerry Spring-
er Show (“Jesus Christ” is one of the characters). This world is represented
nonrealistically, deploying the conventions of an opera, so that participants
sing rather than speak their lines. The third lamination (the TV broadcast),
preserves the generic condition of the second (the musical). A staged
production, not a made-for-television dramatization, is shown to the audience.
In relation to the theater experience, the broadcast has an as-if live status. The
theater production does not have, and could not have, an as-if live status in
relation to Jerry Springer’s actual series. West Wing–style representations of
media talk are more common than those of the Jerry Springer musical, though
of course all we ever get are fragments of imaginary broadcasts, not complete
events.
IS TV DIALOGUE DISTINCTIVE?
Because of its representational character, television dialogue is different from

both primary, face-to-face interaction and from media talk in Tolson’s (2006)
sense. There is some common ground, however. Of these two forms of nonrep-
resentational talk, TV dialogue shares with everyday talk the goal of mediating
social relationships in a wide range of interactive situations, whereas it shares
with media talk its public quality, its obligation to have regard for an audience.
In comparing TV dialogue with representational talk in other fiction and
nonfiction contexts, its closest relation would seem to be dialogue in feature
films, because both work with essentially the same visual/aural resources,
whereas the resources available to prose fiction, stage drama, printed drama
texts, and radio each make for very different affordances, to use the term in its
social semiotic sense (van Leeuwen 2004). Despite the similarity, film and
television drama do not produce identical results in all cases as far as dialogue
is concerned. Long-form drama, for instance, may present greater opportunities
to use language for characterization (see chapters 4 and 8) than feature film does.
When television drama was ephemeral, it tended not to produce memorable
quotes as the movies did (“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn”), but, like radio,
it did produce catchphrases, by virtue of extensive repetition (“You may think
that, I couldn’t possibly comment”—House of Cards, BBC 1990). Conditions of
television distribution are very different in the twenty-first century, though
catchphrase repetition may still be significant (“Save the cheerleader, save the
world”—Heroes, NBC 2006–present). The social significance of the television
catchphrase is the subject of further attention in chapter 5, in the context of an
analysis of what television audiences know about dialogue.
4
What TV Screenwriters Know about

Dialogue
Chapters 2 and 3 have prepared the ground for the next stage of this book’s
project by showing, with particular reference to dialogue, how questions of
textual form are repeatedly referred back to the sociocultural contexts that
make television’s dramatic texts possible, meaningful, and satisfying—or un-
satisfying. TV dramatizations, as imaginative transformations of the socio-
cultural world, are accountable in that world for their choices. On one side of
the social relationship between dramatist and audience, those choices are con-
strained by industrial and cultural conditions of production. On the other side,
they are subject in interpretation to the operation of other intellects and other
imaginations—those of the audience, whose understanding, skills, values,
tastes, and beliefs dramatists must anticipate without being able to control.
Dialogue is one of the elements that mediate the relationship, and so it is
appropriate to not only ask how dramatists themselves (specifically, screenwri-
ters, who take primary responsibility for dialogue) understand its semiotic
affordances (the topic of the present chapter), but also to examine how audiences
make use of dialogue from the productions they encounter (the topic of the next
chapter). These two inquiries are consistent with a broadly ethnographic ap-
proach to the study of creativity in communication generally and language use in
particular, a theme that is revisited in the book’s conclusion.1
SCREENWRITING IN CONTEXT
Television dramatic dialogue is a particular kind of speech, one that has origins
as a form of written language. The design of this written-spoken language takes
place under particular social conditions of production within an industry. This
chapter shows that these conditions influence not only what is crafted by writers,
spoken by actors and displayed by directors, but also the kind of understanding
that its writers develop as to what is required of them.
63
There is a traditional belief that holds that writers become good at what they
do by practicing the craft, building on and developing innate talent, which
cannot be taught. In this view, very little of writers’ craft knowledge is explicitly
formulated. The distinction is one between tacit understanding, knowing how,
and explicit knowledge, knowing that. If this is true, then, there is, for writers,
nothing practical to be gained by acquiring explicit understanding of the lan-
guage they and other writers use in the exercise of that craft. It will not make
them any better at what they do, and may make them worse. Such understanding
will make them worse writers if it interferes with their writerly instincts, introdu-
cing a smoke screen of cognitive-rational discourse in which success depends
on keeping rationality in check. Along with this gap between different kinds
of knowledge, there is a related but different gap between the activities of writing
and of criticism, when writers feel that critics are “reading into” their work
meanings they never intended and were not themselves conscious of. From
either perspective, there is an issue as to what the writer consciously contributes
to the creation of meaning.
The above account relates primarily to the Romantic theory of authorship, in
an ideal-typical form. “The death of the author” in this Romantic, source-of-
meaning sense was announced many years ago (Barthes 1977) and has become
widely accepted, even in relation to such individualist forms of writing as poetry
and prose fiction. There is even less reason to subscribe to such a theory in
respect of texts that are designed and built by teams, such as those that are under
investigation in this book. Challenging the Romantic view of authorship has
involved, for example, looking carefully at all forms of intertextuality on which
supposedly “new” written works depend. It also involves interrogating the basis
of the walls that have separated writing from criticism and analysis. This is
enough to justify trying to find out whether, and to what extent, screenwriters
themselves as a professional community had already worked out everything they
needed consciously to know about the forms and functions of dialogue in TV
drama. It would be a mistake to expect that this professional community would
use the same metalinguistic terms that sociolinguists use, but interesting none-
theless to be alert for signs that screenwriters were aware of interactional forms
and devices that have also been the subject of scholarly investigation.
Interactional sociolinguistic approaches to dialogue-as-talk (the subject of
chapter 6) would only ever be of partial value to screenwriters because, where
dialogue is concerned, they impose a naive reading position—one that treats the
characters as people rather than constructs. A character stumbles and hesitates; a
listener infers from the awkwardness that he-the-character is embarrassed. The
sociolinguistic account takes its point of departure from this inference and is to
that extent naive, indifferent to the fact that the hesitation has been put there
in order to convey embarrassment. The meaning is given by the dramatist but
given off by the character. The naivety of the sociolinguist analyzing a
What TV Screenwriters Know about Dialogue 65
conversation in a TV drama is strategic, of course, adopted as part of an analytic

protocol, but for writers (and also for critics) its value is limited.
The knowledge of screenwriters does incorporate, in general terms, under-
standing of what filled and unfilled pauses and nonfluent pronunciations can
achieve in a performance. However, the industrial conditions of textual produc-
tion are such that a written version of a hesitant line may well not include any such
forms, or at least rather fewer than the actor eventually produces, and differently
managed. Within the industry, other things being equal, such departures from
fluency are regarded as matters of delivery (the province of the actor) not as matters
of script (the province of the writer): “Don’t try to force things by putting in ‘uh’ and
‘er,’ or telling them when to laugh or cry. Let your basic words be their guide, and
sit back and enjoy the actors’ ride” (Brody 2003: 215; see also Jane Espenson, Jane
in Progress, http://www.janeespenson.com, blog entry for July 18, 2007). In prac-
tice, scripted disfluency is only partially excised from television screenplays.
Writers cannot bring themselves completely to repress it. The searchable script
for the first episode of Ashes to Ashes (BBC 2008–present; script available online at
http://www.twiztv.com) has no “um,” “er,” or “uh” forms. It does, however, use
sequences of dots for short pauses, and occasional disfluent repetition, as when
detective inspector Alex Drake, who has time-traveled from 2008 to 1981, is meant
to be nonplussed when she recognizes Gene Hunt and his colleagues from Sam
Tyler’s descriptions of them in her own world.
The interest of this advice is the indication it gives that screenwriting culture
constructs its division of labor between writers and actors through a practical
implementation of the general folk-linguistic understanding that expressions of
disfluency are not part of the (verbal) meaning but instead are performance errors.
Writers are meant to manage meaning only up to this particular water’s edge.
The fact that they cannot completely remain behind their lines shows that the
distinction is a difficult one to maintain in which this kind of communication is
at stake. As far as the finished production is concerned, no one doubts that the
errors are meaningful. But phenomenologically speaking, hesitation phenomena
belong to speech, not writing. The industry understands that professional writers
are likely to be less successful than professional speakers (actors) in creating and
integrating such phenomena convincingly.
RESEARCHING SCREENWRITING
The starting point for these inquiries was with the textbooks, websites, online
forums, and blogs designed for novice and apprentice writers, along with partici-
pant observation in a U.K. television writers’ workshop in autumn 2008.
There are no manuals or websites devoted specifically and exclusively
to dialogue in television, though there are some instructional books about
dialogue in novels (Chiarella 1998, Kempton 2004) and one (Davis 2008) about
dialogue in scripts for theater, cinema, radio, and television, which I will discuss
further below. There are plenty of resources about screenwriting in general,
though in some of the books (e.g., Keane 1998, Field 2005) television scripts
are an afterthought—the main focus is on feature films. Dialogue is one of the
topics that is mentioned (often rather briefly) in such general works on TV
writing as McKee (1999), Brody (2003), Epstein (2006), Smethurst (2007) and
Batty and Waldeback (2008). The dominance of American perspectives here
(Batty and Waldeback wrote the only British book in this collection) is to be
expected, given the quantity of drama production coming out of Hollywood.
Scriptwriting blogs and forums also discuss dialogue from time to time. Jane
in Progress (http://www.janeespenson.com) is particularly valuable, along with
TVwriter.com, and, in the United Kingdom, the BBC’s writersroom blog (http://
www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/writersroom/) is a useful starting point. Batty and Walde-
back also wrote the only book in the list above that tries to integrate critical and
creative approaches to screenwriting, in other words, relating academic perspec-
tives with more vocationally oriented advice. However, its chapters on dialogue
focus more on the latter than on the former, and they do not use any sociolin-
guistic references in their exploration of this area.
These resources provided a way in to the professional folk theories (no
condescension intended) of dialogue in TV drama, developed as part of the
practicalities of producing it. It provided substantial evidence of television’s
work culture, which includes screenwriting, in which the theories developed
take the form of a discourse developed by writers themselves, in order to
talk to one another about their work, as well as to the other professionals invo-
lved in the making of television shows. Before discussing the findings of this
inquiry, it is worthwhile to spend a little time talking about the work culture
itself.
The processes of screenwriting encourage reflexivity, to the extent that screen-
writers have to engage in conversations with others about the effectiveness of
their scripts and how the scripts can be improved. Auteur screenwriters such as
Steven Poliakoff, Aaron Sorkin, and Lynda LaPlante may suffer the pressure to
revise, or be revised, less than others do, but for TV drama in general the picture
is clear—TV production starts with an idea, which becomes an outline (which
may have references to speech, but no dialogue as such), which becomes a script
(in which dialogue is first introduced), which goes through several passes and
several drafts before entering production. Production may then require further
written drafts on the way to becoming an audiovisual product. The original writer
is usually asked to rewrite his or her own work on the basis of notes (practical
criticism) from others; some rewriting may also be undertaken by script editors
and/or executive producers (showrunners). This is different from the world of
cinema, in which drafts may often be passed to other writers for revision, and
different again from theater, in which an authorized version of text remains

much more sacrosanct in the hands of the director and actors.
This account shows some different ways in which the individuality of creative
writing is sacrificed in television. There may be some collective “writing by
committee,” some serial rewriting (one writer redrafts the work of another and
may not consult the first), and a lot of self-revision (writers take notes from other
people—editors, executives, actors, directors—and change their work to suit the
requirements of those who own and control the show). In Goffman’s (1979)
terms it is not just “authorship” that is shared in the world of TV drama but
“principalhood” as well. The vision of the show as a whole does not come from
the freelance or even the staff writer, but from the showrunner (Messenger
Davies, 2007, discusses this in relation to Gene Roddenberry’s role on Star Trek
Enterprise). The blurring of boundaries between these different blends of author-
ship is inevitable, so within the business the crucial decision has to do with
official, public credit. Because it is impossible to credit everyone who has influ-
enced actual wordings used in the production, there have to be conventions of
attribution. Very often, the convention is that the person who wrote the first draft
gets the credit, however much the text was subsequently adjusted and by whom
(Epstein 2006: 231). Television writers in Britain may get a more individualized
experience than writers in the United States, but they are certainly just as aware
of how writing for television is not a matter of personal expression, particularly
on continuing serials:
My Eastenders episode was finally great to watch after the 3rd viewing. After I’d got over
the shock of cut scenes and changed dialogue, which is what happens when somebody
else interprets your story. It’s a “cog in the machine” scenario—my humble little
episode is only part of a bigger picture. A goody bag with various different elements
thrown into the mix, elements such as budget, casting, choice of director, rehearsal
time, etc. (Abi, “Cog in the Machine,” writersroom blog, October 22, 2007)2
In the United States, and specifically Los Angeles, the craft discourse of TV
writing is developed partly “in the room” to facilitate cooperation among teams of
writers. “The Room” is the heart of the writing process for a majority of TV
dramatic series productions. For noncomedic drama it is where episode stories
are normally constructed, and possibly series’ arcs as well, and for comedy it is
where jokes are created, tested, and revised:3
You want to keep the conversation moving and the ideas flowing, but you can’t just
blurt out everything that pops into your head because you need to respect the
direction that the story is already moving in (unless you have an unbelievably
genius idea). And even if you have a genius idea and it gets shot down, you have
to let it go right away and not take it personally. Some of the worst things you can do
in a room are: (a) stay immovably fixed on a single idea; (b) not come up with any
ideas at all; and (c) fail to keep up with the discussion—e.g., forget discarded ideas
that have already been raised, not follow the twists of the story that the other writers
are proposing, not think fast enough and have to have things repeated and reex-
plained for your benefit. (Melinda Hsu, quoted in Epstein 2006: 226–227)
“Room” conditions are favorable to the creation of specialized terminology, and

this includes terminology that refers to dialogue. For example, it seems that Ameri-
can TV writers have their own term for what nonprofessionals simply describe as a
“stale joke.” Writers, more than others, need to be able to name this concept, for the
practical reason that they need to be able to quickly identify instances of it and move
(if necessary) into dealing with the problem it represents. On the cultural level, they
may also value its contribution to their group solidarity, sharing language that is
opaque to outsiders in a way that “stale joke” is not. Hence the term clam:
HOW do jokes age? Like a bottle of fine red wine left on the kitchen counter a few
days, without a cork. Yet as the most casual watcher of TV sitcoms knows, jokes can
live well beyond their natural life span, losing more of their punch with each
retelling. Just think about how many times you have heard these lines:
“Don’t go there.”
“Too much information.”
“Don’t talk to me. Talk to the hand.”
Or the time-honored, “That’s why (I/he/you/she/they) gets paid the big bucks.”
Concerned sitcom writers have come to call these jokes “clams.” These clams are
not to be confused with the jazz term that has come to mean “bad note,” or with the
popular shellfish. Comedy clams are jokes that you’ve heard once too often, that
make you groan instead of laugh. (Blum 2001; see also http://www.janeespenson.
com, passim)
The professional argot of screenwriters contains many terms of this kind—

employed more informally and without the rigorous, technisized, meaning en-
forcement that sociolinguists would associate with terms like implicature or
presupposition. Technical vocabulary of this latter sort is unlikely to emerge in
the world of TV writers because there is no formal theory to which they are, or seek
to be, accountable in their use of specialized terms. There is, however, another
strand of specialized vocabulary, which includes terms like spec script, slug line, and
parenthetical.4 These are words that have come to have more enforceable mean-
ings, perhaps because they are not confined to the writers’ community itself but
are used within the wider discourse of the entertainment industry, in conversa-
tions that cross the boundaries of professional expertise.
TOWARD A THEORY OF DIALOGUE FOR SCREENWRITERS
With the exception of Kozloff (2000), whose work has been mentioned elsewhere
in this book, the nearest thing to an explicit theory for dialogue is Davis (2008). It
is appropriate to discuss Davis in this chapter because his book is designed as a
practical manual for writers rather than an academic account. Unlike Kozloff, it
includes an account (with examples) of naturally occurring talk, facilitating
comparison of this with the scripted kind. Davis also proffers a typology of
different types of dialogue, which merits some discussion. It should be noted,
however, that the book is concerned with all dramatic scripted dialogue, not
just television. The typology he comes up with emerges from this broader
perspective. His three main stylistic categories are naturalistic, heightened natu-
ralistic, and nonnaturalistic. He rejects the label realistic because of its ambiguity:
naturalism as Davis uses it refers unambiguously to mimetic intentions.
Naturalistic dialogue comes in two subtypes: selective naturalism and extreme
naturalism. The rationale for this division will be easy to explain in the light
of how he characterizes naturalistic dialogue in general. This is dialogue that
displays the following:
. . . a consciousness of the class, gender, geographical origins and upbringing of
each speaker, as well as the particular register employed for the specific setting [ . . . ]
each individual will tend towards a particular phraseology, use of certain vocabulary
and even, in some cases, distinctive sentence construction. Then, naturalistic
dialogue has to conform to the general messiness of spoken language—the unfin-
ished or ungrammatical sentences, hesitations, repetitions, interruptions, simulta-
neous speeches and verbal shorthands, much of it resulting from interaction
between individuals [ . . . ] dialogue is fundamentally affected by the agendas—
conscious, semiconscious and unconscious—of each character. (2008: 44–45)
Davis understands that screen dialogue is not and cannot be faithfully mimetic,
though some will strive harder than others for that goal. Selective naturalism, as
exemplified in his account, in different flavors, by Arnold Wesker, Mike Leigh,
and U.K. television series The Bill (ITV 1984–present) edits real speech:
Selective naturalism is the style of writing which attempts to faithfully imitate

dialogue as we normally speak it, but, unnoticed, manages to omit all those pas-
sages—not only beginnings and endings but also all sorts of other uninteresting
sections—which would add nothing to the production. For it is not enough merely to
imitate life: scripts are not straight, one-for-one imitations of slabs of life. In selective
naturalism they are crafted, moulded to appear as if they were. (Davis 2008: 48)
In thus pinning down selective naturalism, Davis is able to identify one

possible alternative mode—extreme naturalism, as exemplified by The Royle
Family (BBC 1998–2006; Davis 2008: 46–47; see also chapter 3 in this book).
Writers who focus more exclusively on television in their accounts offer char-
acterizations that are congruent with Davis’s description of selective naturalism,
while seeming to understand it as even more selective than in his account:
The TV writers who rise to the top are those who know what real people sound like
when they talk, but also know how to edit that reality so their characters are more
intense, more clever and more expressive than real people usually are. Everyone’s
been through the real life situation where, after an emotional verbal confrontation,
you wake up the following morning and thing, “Damn! I should’ve said this last
night instead of that.” In your teleplay, all your characters, especially your hero or
heroes, should say what you would if you had the time to second-guess yourself.
Because, as the writer, you do have the time to second-guess and third-guess and
fourth-guess the words that come out of your characters’ mouths, and every reader
expects that’s exactly what you’ll do. (Brody 2003: 213–214)
Screen dialogue is not real-life talk. It is sharper, more directed, highly constructed
to fit story, layered with subtext and conflict, and though it may sound like a real
conversation it is more like polished speech. (Batty and Waldeback 2008: 62–76)
Eavesdrop on any coffee shop conversation and you’ll realize in a heartbeat you’d
never put that slush onscreen. Real conversation is full of awkward pauses, poor
word choices and phrasing, non sequiturs, pointless repetitions; it seldom makes a
point or achieves closure. But that’s okay because conversation isn’t about making
points or achieving closure. It’s what psychologists call “keeping the channel open.”
Talk is how we develop and change relationships. (McKee 1999: 388)
Heightened naturalism for Davis is a separate affair. He starts with certain

playwrights in mind (including, e.g., Bernard Shaw and Caryl Churchill). Such
writers, he claims, “have not always been content to leave dialogue as being
closely imitative of speech in ‘real life’—they have taken it beyond naturalism
[but] they do not positively draw attention to their artifice” (2008: 100). Some
TV writers are included in Davis’s conception of heightened naturalism, notably
Alan Bleasdale (author of GBH—Channel 4, 1991—and Boys from the Black-
stuff—BBC 1982). Davis contends that this mode is acceptable to audiences when
it is consistent, whereas an internal consistency also creates opportunity for
intratextual deviation. A passage of poetic or rhetorical eloquence may be effec-
tive against a background of more naturalistic speech, as in Trevor Griffiths’s
Comedians (1975) or Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman (1949).
The third kind of dialogue in Davis’s model is nonnaturalistic: “. . . the line
into non-naturalism is crossed when the dialogue appears to acknowledge the
hand of the author” (2008: 130). One subtype of nonnaturalistic dialogue for
Davis is a political kind, inspired by Brecht, and another is an absurdist kind
deriving from Beckett. The former kind, for instance, Davis illustrates with
reference to Edward Bond’s play Restoration (1981), which includes “many
asides, poetic speech direct to the audience and also songs [ . . . ] the dialogue is
about the idea of the character (Lord Are) [ . . . ] it is not pretending to be the
character. . . .” (Davis 2008: 133).
Davis is clear that we should not expect to find much reflexive speech in the
popular media of film and television, as opposed to the more literary market-
places of the theater (radio, at least in the United Kingdom, has space for a
wider spectrum of possibilities). One reason for this is that the industry itself is
prescriptive about what constitutes acceptable writing, and treats selective
naturalism as the norm. Novice writers with no produced work cannot afford to
go off-piste if they want freelance commissions, and journeyman writers have to
respect the conventions of the shows they work for. Epstein even suggests that
the latter do well to regard themselves as ghost writers: “Your job is to write the
show the way the showrunner would if he had had time to do it himself. One of
the greatest talents a story editor can have is not only to write well, but to write
well with the showrunner’s style, in the showrunner’s voice” (2006: 228). The
showrunner, in the parlance of the American television industry, is the executive
producer of the show who outranks all other personnel and who is that show’s
creative source, even when he or she delegates writing and directing responsi-
bilities down the line. Joss Whedon (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, WB 1997–2001;
UPN 2001–2003) is a notable showrunner in the United States, and although
that terminology may be less common in the United Kingdom, Russell T. Davies
has certainly been so described in relation to the relaunched Dr. Who (BBC 2005–
present).
If, in Davis’s terms, selective naturalism is the default choice for television
drama (with some scope for stylistic variations among genres and for distinc-
tiveness in particular series), then, both in the United Kingdom and in the
United States, this does not entirely eliminate work that rejects that default
option. Some of this may fall outside the standard series format and take the
form of a made-for-television movie/feature/miniseries. An example of this in
the United Kingdom is God on Trial (BBC 2008), a drama written by Frank
Cottrell Boyce, based on the premise of holocaust victims spending their last
day on earth formally debating whether their God had broken his covenant with
the Jews. This drama exploited the “trial” idea to allow its characters to make long
and rhetorical speeches—not generally acceptable for mainstream drama on
television and thus arguably an instance of heightened realism. In the United
States, the mannered dialogue of Mad Men (AMC 2007–present) could be
considered to push the boundaries of selective naturalism, not by lengthening
of lines to turn them into speeches, but by an even greater move in the direction
of indirectness and ellipsis.
STORY IS KING
The telling of stories may be an aspect of life that is universally present in human
cultures. The demand for stories in Western popular culture has led some
writers to see it as a kind of addiction: “The world now consumes films, novels,
theatre and television in such quantities and with such ravenous hunger that the
story arts have become humanity’s prime source of inspiration, as it seeks to
order chaos and gain insight into life” (McKee 1999: 12). It is certainly true that
television’s own rate of consumption for stories is a phenomenal one:
Television is more story-driven than any other medium. TV shows eat stories up and
spit them out again in a never-ending binge-purge that usually ends up leaving
writers and producers emotionally and creatively exhausted. What’s the protago-
nist’s need? What’s the protagonist’s problem? What’s a new way to show the need?
A new way to express the problem? What’s a new way to satisfy the need? To solve
the problem? (Brody 2003: 59)
The centrality of storytelling in popular culture generally and television in

particular is the reason that story is king in the creation of television shows. It is
king in the sense that other aspects of a drama production are understood to be of
lesser importance to overall productions. It can also be seen as the default level of
textual organization. At a superordinate level there will be some idea of what a show,
or an episode, is really about—its thematic content5—whereas dialogue takes its
place at a subordinate level, when the story comes to be materially realized.
If this structural view of storytelling corresponded to the processes of TV drama
production, then one person or group might be responsible for thematics, another
could take care of story, and yet another could attend to dialogue as one of the many
modules of story realization. In fact, all three are aspects of writing, understood
holistically. A screenwriter is meant to be able to create story form as well as its
action and talk realization, while doing so in a way that carries some kind of thematic
content prosodically distributed throughout the text. She would be free to decide
which, if any, took priority in the planning process. Sometimes, especially in the
United States, a separation is made between the creation of story structure and its
expression in dialogue and action, so that a team of writers takes care of the story and
an individual author takes this forward to the next written stage, providing the core
text upon which other professional groups can base their own contributions.
Theme and Dialogue

Thematics has a Cinderella part to play in the process of TV drama creation,
perhaps out of the fear of being didactic or propagandistic by making themes too
obvious, or too crudely propositional.6 Nevertheless, screenwriting advice, even
when it does not use the words theme or thematic, certainly thinks that this is
something that good stories will have:
Plot is hard. So when you find a series of events that actually string together to make
a story—a beginning, middle, end—it’s tempting to consider the job done. In fact,
it’s tempting to throw your arms in the air and caper in circles singing “We Are as
Gods.” But unless the story is *about* something, all you’ve done is come up with a
pile of stuff that happens. And that can leave readers and viewers with a sense of
arbitrary action, a sense that a different pile of stuff could’ve happened without it
making a lot of difference.
When writing a spec (or even an episode of a show for which you’re being paid),
the mistake is in starting with the story. Instead, think first about what you want the
episode to be about—is it about the triumph of love? The destructive quality of

envy? About how expecting the worst in others brings out the worst in oneself ?
About how emotional resiliency is better than virtue? About kindness trumping
truth? About how love isn’t blind, but wishes it were? About how emotional infideli-
ty is worse than physical? About how an anticipation of betrayal can cause that
betrayal? About how denial can sometimes be a choice? About how living a happy
life is also a choice and not an event?
Find something like that—something you believe in. Now, you’re ready to find a
story. ( Jane in Progress, http://www.janeespenson.com/, blog entry for September
22, 2006; see also the thread “Theme in Screenwriting and TV Too,” http://www.
TVwriter.com, posted September 17, 2007)
Writers understand as a matter of practical accomplishment, that thematic con-

cerns such as these have an impact on the plot. Analytically speaking, actions
(including verbal ones) mediate the plot, which in turn mediates the theme.
Propositional expressions of thematic content can take the form of actual speeches
by particular characters—the atypical God on Trial has many such expressions. The
beliefs and opinions of the screenwriter him/herself are generally thus hidden,
displaced on to the characters so as to downplay authorial didactic intent. Although
it is possible to find writers like Jane Espenson (writer on Buffy the Vampire Slayer,
Battlestar Galactica, Sky One/The Sci-Fi Channel 2004–present, and others) who are
committed to thematic meaning, it is also possible to find others who seem much
more nervous in this area: “A show’s job is to entertain. It’s plot-driven, and the
writer should commit, tell the story and let nothing get in the way—not educating
the audience or political correctness or ‘arias.’ The hero must have desire. He must
be thwarted. There must be complications” (Ann Donahue, showrunner for CSI
Miami, quoted in Littwin 2004: 126).
Plot and Dialogue

Story production, in the sense of working out a particular narrative form from
beginning, to middle and end, with all parts in between, is nowhere more
organized than it is in American television production. Another significant
term of art from the discourse of screenwriting is the verb-noun break. In
journalism, to break a story is to announce a news event to an ignorant world.
In screenwriting, breaking a story refers to the articulation of the plot. In
productions that make use of a writers’ room, story breaking is likely to be a
collective activity:
In an assignment situation, once you’ve worked out the beginning, middle and end
and gotten someone to hire you based on that, you’re going to come in for a meeting
with the staff of the show (or the rest of the staff if you’re already on the weekly
payroll), or the development team if it’s a TV movie or pilot. Together, everyone
involved is going to dig in and “break” that story. They—you—are going to figure
out every single scene you will write in the teleplay, with each scene defined as an
“event” (sometimes a long one, sometimes just a moment) in the development of
the situation you created in your leavebehind, moving it from the beginning to the
end. (Brody 2003: 75–75)
The result of the breaking process is, as Brody indicates, an outline composed of
25–30 scenes (in a 1-hour episode). The most significant breaks, however, are the
breaks between acts. This is where art meets commerce. On the level of the art form,
stories need acts as markers of significant transitions or turns in the narrative. On
the level of commerce, American TV dramas need acts, because they need to create
spaces during the course of a broadcast into which commercials, trailers, and
sponsor announcements can be inserted. Some television drama (e.g., on the
BBC in the United Kingdom and HBO in the United States) has no need for
commercial breaks. For artistic reasons it may still be appropriate to structure
such drama in terms of discrete acts. Those who believe in the universality of a
certain kind of narrative form would undoubtedly agree with this:
I view the need to include essential scenes in drama the same way I view the need
for every story to have a beginning, a middle and an end. It’s not a formula, it’s a way
of satisfying an audience that has proven itself over time. Just as a story without an
ending feels incomplete, so does a fantasy show without a quest. Certain events
move an audience. That’s why they’re there. Certain events work and make the
entire story work as well. Take those events away and the audience is confused,
dissatisfied—and ultimately scarce. This isn’t a matter of giving viewers what
they’ve had before because they want it, it’s a matter of giving them what they
need. (Brody 2003: 132)
One of the recurrent injunctions to screenwriters is that dialogue is a potential

danger to good storytelling on TV and in the movies, for three reasons. First, TV
and the movies are both audiovisual media (and increasingly produced in film-
like ways), so that the storytelling needs to depend more upon the visualized
action than the verbalized action. Second, dialogue as such is the “icing on the
cake,” mere decoration in relation to story as the more fundamental basis of the
entertainment. And third, the multifunctional properties of dialogue in drama
can be abused: exegetical, storytelling requirements can damage the realism of
exchanges among characters as authentic expressions of what they understand
and believe within the diegetic world:
Many developing screenwriters begin with scripts that sound more like radio or
theatre plays, heavy in dialogue with little attention to how the screen can be used to
tell the story. (Batty and Waldeback, 2008: 3)
Dialogue is the Christmas lights on a story . . . The story is the backbone of your
script. If everyone is so flavorful that you begin to show off in the writing, rather
than sticking to the spine of the story, that stays fun for the audience for about four
minutes. (Anthony Zuiker [CSI], quoted in Epstein 2006: 103)
Writers often try to rid themselves of exposition quickly and early, so that they may
concentrate on moving the story forward visually. This is a noble intention but you
get lumpy exposition if you try and impart it all at once, rather than gradually over
the course of a story. It is also poor choice to try and reveal too much information or
information that is not crucial. Here’s one view of “taking your lumps.”
MORTIMER
Don’t you understand? The reason I can’t marry Edna is not because
I don’t love her. When we met seven years ago at the hot dog stand
at the greyhound races, I was deliriously happy. Of course, that
was before I was involved in the freak anvil accident which not
only crippled my left kidney but my confidence as a soy bean
futures salesman . . . and as a lover.
(Brad Schreiber, Student Filmmakers, May 2006, also on http://www.TVwriters.com, forum

“13 Things Bad Screenwriters Commonly Do”)
Whereas story making is recognized to be so hard that it may be better to assign

this work to a team of writers rather than to any individual, the production of
dialogue is not thought to offer the same degree of challenge for a career writer:
“You can’t overestimate the importance of good dialogue. One of the paradoxes of
television writing is that, although the story is king, writers are judged by their
dialogue. That’s because stories can always be constructed by the entire staff,
with everyone pitching in, but your dialogue reflects you, the writer.” (Brody
2003: 213). Dialogue also threatens good storytelling when its use for exposition-
al purposes (explaining the story-world to the viewer) originates outside the
consciousness of the characters chosen to deliver it:
Feel the need to have your characters tell each other something they would already
know so you can make sure the reader or viewer knows it too? Resist it!
People discussing a “plan” at a point where they would already have planned
it or when they’re already putting it into effect immediately sticks out as unrealis-
tic. The surgeon who tells his assistant, “First we do this, then this, then this,”
when the two doctors have worked together on similar surgeries 600 times is
guaranteed to make a showrunner shudder. Find another way to give the infor-
mation. Or, better yet, re-examine the need for giving it at all. Most of the time
you’ll find that the reader or viewer can live without it quite easily, thank you.
(Brody 2003: 218)
DIALOGUE
“Good dialogue has a generally accepted definition. It’s dialogue that is concise,
witty, believable, and revealing of human character and emotion” (Brody 2003:
213). If Brody is to be believed, the industry agrees on the characteristics of
strong dialogue. Particular productions are vulnerable to criticism whenever the
dialogue is found unsatisfactory on any of these counts.
DIVISIONS OF LABOR
Screenwriting as part of an industrial process is conditioned to know its place

within that process. Writers accept constraints on what can go into their screen-
plays, and on how these texts are to be presented to their readers. Specifically,
these constraints carry prohibitions on writers trying to control the behavior
of either directors or actors. The industry wants something left on the table for
other professionals to sink their creative teeth into.
The trend in Hollywood is toward the reduction of directorial indications in
scripts for television. Brody (2003: 155–165) talks about a shift from the classic
format to the contemporary format for screenplays. The latter approach calls for
fewer indications as to how the viewer sees the scene:
P.A. SYSTEM (OFF SCREEN)
All non-military personnel, clear the
airfield-
No one listens, as we ANGLE WITH the descending jet, TO:
INTERIOR. MILITARY TRANSPORT JET—DAY—

MASTER SGT. EZRA JACKSON
Haggard in his dress uniform, gazing down at the base eagerly.
Jackson is about 40 years old, Black, a career non-com who
looks like he’s returning from hell
BRANDON’S VOICE (OFF SCREEN)

. . . Remember, Ezra, short and sweet. ‘Yes,’
you’re glad to be back. ‘No,’ you’ve got no
comment on the negotiations.
WIDENING, we see that seated next to Jackson is MARTIN

BRANDON, 35, dark-suited, immaculate, the perfect State
Department undersecretary.
JACKSON
Don’t worry, Mr. Brandon. I’m not saying
anything that might hurt those poor bastards
still in Baghdad. (Brody 2003: 157)
This is a small part of a scene representing the return of a newly released hostage,
presented in the older, classic format.7 (I have spelled out Brody’s abbreviations for
the convenience of the general reader.) The underlined words above are the ones
that Brody omits when he re-presents this material in the contemporary format.
There is some reordering as well, so that in the contemporary version it is left to the
director to decide whether to include or exclude Brandon from the shot that initially
shows Jackson to us: the stage direction between Brandon’s first line and Jackson’s is
incorporated into the previous one, making the two lines of dialogue contiguous.
There is a belief that the absence of directorial indications in actual scripts makes
for a draft that reads more easily (Brody 2003: 164–165). The convenience of the
reader, who may have to scan hundreds of such texts, thus outweighs considera-
tions about the appearance of the final product. But the prohibition does also relate
to professional demarcation. Epstein (2006: 104) argues that TV writers are more
likely to break the rule against directing the camera than movie writers are. Given
that it is directors rather than writers who take the principal creative credit for a
movie, the greater protection of their privileges in the motion picture world makes
sense. If television screenplays are becoming more like those for feature films, then
perhaps this is indicative of a shift in which drama production for TV and for
movies is converging.
The avoidance of instructions to actors regarding their performances is also a
matter of professional distinction:
It would be a waste of time, an exercise in futility, and an insult to your co-workers
to say too much in your script [about direction, set design, and props], just as
it would be an insult to write in such a way that the actors are forced to say their
lines as you, the writer, believe they should be said, and not as they, the actors, feel
would be appropriate. It would be more than a waste of time because the wonderful
thing about working with good actors is that they can come up with readings, and
facial expressions (“character shadings,” we call them) that no writer—or director or
anyone else—would ever think of. (Brody 2003: 48)
Don’t coach an actor on how to say his lines. You’ll be wasting precious words. Once
a good actor has learned his lines, they are part of his character, not your screenplay.
[ . . . ] Throwing in acting directions does not do anything but add extraneous
words to your screenplay that you do not need, cannot use, and they slow the reader
down. Let the dialogue represent the character, and let the actors bring out the
character. (Flinn 1999: 66)
This injunction covers the use of adjectives and other descriptive glosses—
“melancholy,” “with sudden passion,” and so forth—as directions in the script,
as well as delivery indications such as underlining, which are overlaid on the
lines themselves. In the latter case, the prohibition follows the lines of the
culturally familiar argument that in well-written expression, it will be obvious
from the words and their context where the emphasis should fall:
Don’t tell the actors which words to punch:
JENNY
The minute I don’t shine for you, you can fire
me. But I’ll be damned if you’re gonna pass on
me because of my watch! That’s not me.
(thumps her chest)
This is me. Guts!
(pats her temples)
And brains. You can’t do any better.
[ . . . ] Too many stage directions drive actors crazy, and nobody ever follows them.
They’re just in the way. If your dialogue needs that much thumping up, maybe it
really needs polishing instead. (Flinn 1999)
At the start of this chapter I discussed how particular word forms and the meanings
they represent—specifically the “um,” “er,” “uh” forms that stand for filled
pauses—are also viewed by script readers as undesirable instructions to actors
regarding their performances. If there is good dramatic reason to include such
forms, the actors will introduce them in accordance with the selective naturalism of
their mode and genre of production. If there is no such story-led dramatic reason to
make speech hesitant, then fluent lines in a screenplay will become fluent lines in a
performance. “Normal nonfluency” (Abercrombie 1963) might be more naturalis-
tic, but would tend toward “extreme” naturalism, in Davis’s (2008) terms and would
occlude the meaning of particular disfluent utterances as signs of hesitancy,
embarrassment, uncertainty, disbelief, and so forth.
PROHIBITIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS
Beyond these considerations of the proper responsibilities for writers, directors,

and actors in the production of screen dialogue, the profession has developed
some more specific ideas about both its form and content. With respect to form,
one major concern is that dialogue should strive to be concise, and this leads to
specific recommendations on what television’s selective naturalism can afford to
leave out. But recommendations do not cover only the exclusions of scripted talk.
Writers are also encouraged to include a particular kind of meaning, referred to in
their discourse as subtext. With respect to content, it is the revelation/expression
of character that is most important.
Questions of Form
With respect to the form of screen dialogue, two sorts of generalizations occur
repeatedly. One of these prescribes that dialogue be concise; another prescribes
that it should possess subtext—both aspects of selective naturalism as described
at the start of this chapter. Though the meaning of these two terms is not self-
evident to an outsider, there are more specific recommendations, as well as
illustrations, in the advice that writers give one another.
If the elimination of filled pauses is one way that selective naturalism chooses
to make dialogue more concise, then two other ways are the reduction of what
sociolinguistics refers to as hedges and discourse markers:
The third most common dialogue mistake made by new writers is to put what I call
“qualifying words” into speeches. Phrases like “I think,” “it seems,” and “kind of,”
and words like “pretty” (as in “pretty good”) and “fairly” (as in “fairly certain”) are
common in real conversations, but you should avoid them like the
proverbial plague when you’re writing for TV. They take up space, they take up
time, and when you hear them they always sound unnecessary and redundant.
(Brody 2003: 215)
“Handle” is one of my favorite writing terms, and one of the most common. It
refers to those words at the beginning of a line of dialogue. Handles include, but
aren’t limited to:
Well, Look, Listen, Hey, Oh, Say, Um, Actually, So, Now, I mean, C’mon, Anyway,
Yeah, You know, and the name of any character used when speaking to that
character.
I hear that some show runners object to handles in general, and will cut all of them
out. I heard today about an editor who did the same thing when cutting episodes.
But usually, handles are freely employed, with certain limits. (http://www.janee-
spenson.com, “Actually Not,” September 8, 2006)
The elimination of hedges, as per Brody’s edict, as well as achieving the goal of
more concise speech, should also have the effect of realizing characters as
altogether more emphatic in their views than their counterparts in real life—
corresponding also to his suggestion that characters in drama are “more intense”
(2003: 213). The professional equivocation around the use of discourse markers
is also interesting. As Espenson, one of the most analytically minded writers
about TV drama dialogue, appreciates, there may be particular uses of certain
handles that will be dramatically significant. Her entry on this subject includes
some discussion of what sociolinguists have learned to call the “dispreferred
response.” Espenson does not use this terminology, but the usage she describes
is certainly in the same area:
CHARACTER ONE
I think I’ve lost weight, don’t you?
CHARACTER TWO
Actually, I think you might’ve found it again.
(Remember, this is demonstration comedy, not actual comedy.)
Certain handles, like “actually” and, sometimes, “well” are used to contradict
the previous line. That means that when Character Two starts the line
with “actually,” the reader/audience already knows they’re about to hear a contra-
diction. In the example I’ve given, they know, in fact, that they’re about to hear
a slam.
(http://www.janeespenson.com, “Actually Not,” September 8, 2006)
For the sake of the comedy, Espenson argues against using “actually” in this and
similar cases. The word signals to the reader to expect the slam, the reversal, the
dispreferred response. The humor is better, she says, if it comes as a surprise.
Keeping It Real: The Uses of Subtext

If the writers’ term handle approximates to, but does not quite equate with the
sociolinguistic term discourse marker, so, too, the professional term subtext
does not quite equate with any of the specific categories of indirect meaning
elaborated within pragmatic theory—conventional implicature, conversational
implicature, presupposition. The concept of subtext owes something to an
appreciation of what indirectness can accomplish in unscripted talk, and thus
to the requirements of naturalism, as well as an idea that subtext makes dialogue
more interesting for audiences than direct expression of feelings and motives:
Real people—and realistic television characters—don’t blurt out what’s on their

minds. They don’t ask directly for what they want, if they even know what
they want, they manipulate and insinuate, either unconsciously or intentionally.
(Epstein 2006: 101)
In good dialogue writing, two characters can seem to talk about the weather, a
neighbour or their favourite colour, when what is really going on underneath is that
they are challenging each other, one trying to draw the other into a trap, or trying to
tell each other how much they care and are sorry for what they did. A script which
avoids dialogue which is “on-the-nose” (stating the obvious) and instead allows
space for the audience to figure the subtext out by themselves makes them active
participants in the drama and therefore more likely to stay engaged. (Batty and
Waldeback 2008: 63; for an example, see also http://www.janeespenson.com, blog
entry for May 4, 2007, “Also Good for Swimming Pools with Diving Boards”)
Subtext as understood here might therefore refer to the illocutionary force of an

utterance as opposed to its locutionary value, or it might refer to off-record
meanings as understood in politeness theory—intentionality disguised and
made deniable because of its face-threatening potential. The term can also be
used when speakers are thinking things that they cannot convey to one another,
but where the audience gets some indication of these unspoken thoughts, or
infers unspoken thoughts based on knowledge of what the character has done or
said previously. Consider the case of scenes that require body language and facial
expression to express something about the character’s state of mind that is at
odds with the verbal meaning that her words express. That state of mind could be
considered to be the subtext of the dialogue. Yet this subtext is heard only by the
audience, and is withheld from other character(s) in the scene. Because this use
of language in screen dialogue implicates the relationship between writer and
audience independently of the relationship between the characters, it has more
in common with dramatic irony than with instances of subtext in which (for
example) implicature is involved.
Observation of actual broadcast drama demonstrates that scriptwriters are
adaptable in their use of subtext. They do not use it just for the sake of it.
Thrillers, which rely more on action than on dialogue, may find direct speech
more serviceable, especially in scenes of confrontation. There is little subtext in
this, transcribed from 24 (Fox 2001–present; also quoted in chapter 3):
1 DEREK :Don’t shoot me!
2 JACK :
What the hell are you doing here?
3 DEREK : I’m sorry I followed you, I’m just—I’m just worried about my mother.
4 JACK : Get up. Get up. Get up. Dammit! Come here. You’re going with me.
5 DEREK : This is none of my business. This is none of my business. I won’t tell
anyone. Just let me go, okay?
6 JACK : I really wish I could, kid, but I can’t. You’re going with me. Now, get
in the helicopter.
If a particular relationship is characterized by indirect strategies, the emotional

temperature will rise should they, at any point, allow themselves to be direct.
But this, too, is conditioned by genre and viewers’ expectations. The viewers
of Pride and Prejudice (BBC 1995) were treated to a visual, embodied “moment
of truth” between Elizabeth and Darcy: their one and only kiss at the end of the
series, after their wedding. But there is a verbalized moment of truth in an earlier
scene. Darcy renews his declaration of love and marriage proposal. Elizabeth
finally expresses her own reciprocal feelings. Jane Austen never wrote the
words that Elizabeth spoke on this momentous occasion, but screenwriter
Andrew Davies supplied the lack. Did he allow them to be direct with one another?
Almost. They are embarrassed, and their embarrassment makes them oblique.
Darcy tells Elizabeth that his feelings are the same as when he originally (ardently—
and very directly) declared his love for her. She tells him that her feelings are “quite
the opposite” from what they were when she rejected him on that previous occasion.
For a brief moment they look into one another’s eyes. Verbally and visually it is
enough for them, and it is appropriate, for their characters and their world.
Questions of Content: Delivering Character

When they reflect on these matters, professionals agree that story and character
are interdependent (Brody 2003: 33, McKee 1999: 100, Epstein 2006: 14, Batty
and Waldeback 2008: 18–20). Ensemble drama distributes heroic behavior across
a number of characters, and all TV drama individuates characters above and
beyond their basic plot functions. TV drama differs from drama in films and the
theater by offering characters that viewers can invest in over a period of time.
(Radio can also do this, though long-running drama on radio is much more low
profile than on television, with the possible exception in the United Kingdom of
The Archers, BBC4 1950–present.) This is relevant in different ways to continuing
series (Days of Our Lives, NBC 1965–present), series with story arcs (Life on Mars,
BBC 2006–2007), and episodic series (Diagnosis Murder, CBS 1993–2001). A long-
running soap such as the United Kingdom’s Coronation Street (ITV 1960–pres-
ent) has characters like “Ken Barlow” and “Sally Webster” that its viewers have
grown up with—who have aged as they have aged, and gone through narratives
appropriate to their age and stage of life.
Characters in drama are distinguished by their roles in the plot (protagonists,
antagonists, helpers) and by their distinctiveness from one another, realized
through the content and style of what they do and say, as well as what is done
and said to them. They are also embodied and costumed, though as with
direction and action, these are matters that writers are steered away from
specifying in their scripts. Screenwriters say that in television no dialogue
should be included that does not advance the plot. Characterization through
dialogue is allowed only to the extent that it respects this principle.
What does that allow in practice? At a minimum it allows characters to perform
speech acts appropriate to their function in the story. In romantic comedy we can
expect declarations of love between the lead characters; in action thrillers, both
heroes and villains will use threats (I do not mean to deny the possibility of
nonlinguistic threats and expressions of love). Hero-doctors in medical dramas
will need to use orders while their patients will make cries of pain. In TV writing, a
beat is a single event in a story: the smallest unit of storytelling (Epstein 2006: 77).
Beats do not have to include any dialogue but if they do there will, in sociolinguis-
tic terms, be at least one key speech act in its realization:
Blues comes home to find Charlie there waiting for her. He apol-
ogizes for standing her up the other day—but he can’t explain.
There were ‘things he needed to do.’ Blues blows up at him. She’s
sick of him being so mysterious. She tells him to get the hell out
of her house. (Epstein 2006: 77)
There are several speech acts here—an apology, an excuse, a rejection of the
apology, a complaint, and an order. The meaning of the beat for the story is a
hazarded reconciliation that does not come off. Although “Blues” and “Charlie”
are characters in a science fiction drama (Charlie Jade, CHUM Television 2004),
and his mysteriousness is linked to the existence of parallel universes, the
character roles, as played out here, are simply those of lovers at a difficult
moment in their relationship.
Dialogue can go beyond this in delivering character. Television displays
to audiences what characters say and do. It does this in such a way as to
indicate that they also think and feel. Their inner lives, their subjectivities, are
understood to direct their outward behavior. Stories require characters that
make decisions and act on them. These decisions help determine the course of
story events. Davis talks about people possessing “agendas” when they engage
in talk:
This is some sort of idea of what we want from the conversation.[ . . . ] for example, a
man meeting his partner after a long separation might have an agenda consisting of
the following, not necessarily in this order:
(a) Making it clear to her how much he has missed her, (b) telling her how well
he has used the time while she has been away, (c) the need to sort out major
financial problems. (Davis 2008: 26)
Writers give agendas to characters to make the stories work, and also so that they
will seem like real people. But agendas are not umbrellas and handbags to be
waved in front of the camera. If appropriate agendas can be inferred from
characters’ behavior, then to that extent the writer has been successful. More
accurately, we should say that the writer and the actors have been successful. The
earlier discussion of professional demarcation lines makes it clear that there is
plenty for an actor to do to ensure the inferrability of agendas that are fit for
purpose—no more and no less than the narrative circumstances require.
DISCUSSION
It is not my intention in this chapter to suggest that the concepts and accounts used
to discuss dialogue by screenwriters are theoretically unsatisfactory in comparison
to the concepts and accounts used within sociolinguistics. The comparisons I have
been drawing are not for the sake of evaluation in that sense. The purpose of the
chapter, is, rather, to explore the professional metalanguage and its underlying
principles, to discover where those principles focused on the similarity of dialogue
and unscripted speech, where they focused on the differences of the two modes, and
how the industrial subcultures influence the nature of the product.
Screenwriters do, consciously, know about such things as hesitation phenome-
na, discourse markers, and hedges, and about some of the functions these can serve
in spoken interaction. The use they make of them depends on the following:
· The particular stylistic effects they are producing

· The importance of naturalism among those effects
· Their relationship with the actors who have to speak the lines
Writers’ own role as top-down designers of spoken interaction in a story
context allows them to use dialogue for purposes that have nothing to do with
characters’ imaginary mental lives and relationships. They know how to use
dialogue as a way of advancing the narrative, and they also appreciate that such
usage creates a source of problems for the naturalism that they are also obliged
to sustain.
This is important because it underlines the point that when it comes to
understanding dialogue in TV drama, sociolinguistics has something to learn
from the professional discourses, as well as something to contribute. The
strategic naiveté of sociolinguistics, as described at the outset of this chapter,

needs this kind of corrective in a full account of what we can expect from talk
when it appears in television’s dramatized genres.
The professional angle also makes it harder to ignore, even for strategic
reasons, the industrial circumstances that condition the kinds of things that
characters on television can be allowed to say to one another. Despite these
circumstances, creativity, in the sense of something out of the ordinary, some-
thing more ambitious than usual, is possible in TV drama dialogue, as I showed
in my discussion of The Royle Family in chapter 3. But The Royle Family was not
an easy show to get made, because of its unconventional approach. It did get
made, and in the way its writer had wanted. It was a comedy, so humor could be a
justification for that approach, and it was unconventional in an accessible way,
taking account of, rather than resisting, popular modes of expression. Similar
arguments will be made in chapter 9, which focuses on the American medical
mystery drama House. Questions about what writers can “get away with,” given
the nature of the medium they have chosen to work in, often focus on the issue of
swearing (though this is not restricted to drama), and there are some well-known
parameters here—British mainstream broadcasting has become more accepting
of “bad” language than equivalent channels in the United States, where the main
divide is between the networks and cable TV; a temporal watershed ensures more
permissiveness after 9 P.M., the tolerance of swearing by regulators is much
greater overall than in the earlier years of television, and so forth. But in truth
this is just one rather prominent aspect of a much more general question, where
it is likely we will need a combination of scholarly and professional frames of
reference in further exploration of the issues.
5
What Audiences Know about

Dialogue
This chapter complements the previous one. Both offer reflections on dialogue
from beyond the text itself. Both try to sidestep the limitations of formal
textual analysis alone by focusing on the production and consumption (interpre-
tation) of dialogue as situated cultural practices, open to ethnographic explora-
tion. In the case of writers and dialogue, this exploration is easy to justify:
writers are part of an industry that has a compositional view of texts as product
and draws on different professional craft skills for different parts of the whole.
It is instructive to learn about how and where the lines are drawn between
writing, acting, and directing, and the effects of these demarcation lines on the
product.
In the present chapter, focusing on television audiences, the rationale for
the inquiry is less obvious. It involves extracting dialogue from the compositional
mix that has been so carefully constructed for viewers’ benefit. What is the point?
Surely audiences respond to the drama as a whole, and to its meanings, not to its
forms? Is this chapter an artificial exercise undertaken simply for the sake of the
complementarity with the previous chapter? This is a serious point, and I will
address it in this chapter by demonstrating that (a) some audiences, at some
times, do single out the dialogue in their responses, (b) attention to dialogue
varies according to which audience we are talking about, (c) when audiences
respond to meaning (in their interpretations of particular characters for in-
stance), dialogue—in other words, form—helps create those interpretations, as
it is intended to do, (d) the creation of new dialogue for characters invented by
dramatists for television has become a significant activity for one segment of the
audience, and (e), some bits of dialogue are appropriated by the audience, taking
on a second life in the form of catchphrases.
The approach is also justified for me by its value in trying to extend ethno-
graphic perspectives so as to encompass cognitive concerns. Cognitively
speaking, the question is this: how are texts interpreted, and what does dialogue
85
contribute to interpretation? The ethnographic issues are as follows: Who

and what is “the audience”? How does it use its interpretations? How are
interpretations expressed by viewers and negotiated in their social relationships,
including relationships conducted through public forums? From this point of
view, audiences’ relations with dialogue are just one aspect of a more complex
inquiry into their relations with media texts more generally.
Writers and audiences bring their real-world identities and interests into their
media literacy practices, as producers and consumers of texts. The practices of
audiences as textual consumers include their ways of hearing dialogue. Poten-
tially, there are many ways in which these practices might be turned into data
for research purposes, including experiments, interviews, focus groups, and
participant observation. The approach adopted here is to focus on some of the
secondary texts that audiences themselves write and publish as a result of their
encounters with the primary texts, and to treat those as research data. Such data
exist in a variety of generically distinct forms—critical reviews and previews, blog
entries, online discussion threads, Twitter streams, and fan fiction. All but the
last of these are straightforwardly about the primary texts. The last involves
attempts to create something new, but in the spirit and style of the primary
text and under its influence.
There is an inevitable bias here toward the articulate audience—viewers with
the desire and ability to verbalize their reactions and opinions, and to do so in
writing. It is a common viewing experience to watch a program without ever
finding occasion to speak about it, and it is likely that a significant proportion of
the viewing public rarely say much about what they have seen. On the other
hand, for those who do like to verbalize their response, the contexts of text
messaging, Twittering and blogging, which have emerged in recent years, may
have weakened reluctance to put this verbalization into written form, because
these genres impose much less prescriptive conditions on writing than more
traditional ones. The Internet, as a multimodal textual environment, also per-
mits a certain rather limited kind of nonverbal commentary on media texts by their
viewers via YouTube, in which contributors draw attention to scenes and images
they find significant by cutting and pasting short audiovisual extracts from
shows they have enjoyed, to share the pleasure. To the extent that this constitutes
infringement of copyright, it seems that copyright holders are not energetic in
enforcing their rights, under YouTube’s own conditions, to have such material
removed from the site.
As well as making a number of general observations about audiences and
dialogue, I will focus on some audience activity provoked by and responsive to
dialogue in one particular episode of one particular series. The chosen series is
Doctor Who (BBC 1963–present), and the episode is “Partners in Crime,” first
airing April 5, 2008, in the United Kingdom as the launch episode for the season
as a whole.
What Audiences Know about Dialogue 87
THE INFLUENCE OF DIALOGUE
As chapter 4 showed, screenwriters appreciate dialogue as an element that can

contribute to textual meaning in naturalistic as well as other kinds of drama.
In respect of naturalistic drama, there is a default reading position that is
“innocent,” nonanalytic. Drama productions of this kind situate audiences as
flies on the fourth diegetic wall, colluding with the constructed, fictional reality.
From this position, dialogue is meant to help bring off interpretations of charac-
ter, story, and theme, while passing unnoticed in its own right. See how this
viewer talks about a character from Doctor Who:
Donna’s her own woman. She’s lived a bit. She’s confident; as likely to enter a new
situation with a healthy skepticism as with wide-eyed excitement. And she’ll
fight her corner—she’s not afraid to tackle the Doctor, to challenge his actions or
beliefs. You could argue he learns as much from her as she does from him. (Laura
Pledger, “Why I Love . . . Catherine Tate as Donna Noble,” Radio Times, “Why
I Love . . . ” blog, http://www.radiotimes.com/blogs/339-why-i-lovecatherine-tate/,
June 16, 2008)
This overview of Donna’s personality is not limited to a single information

source: it extrapolates character information from dialogue, from performance,
and from storylines. It is unnecessary for the writer in offering this sketch to
refer to any specific act of Donna’s, much less to refer to or quote the words
through which that act was performed.
Not all noticing is off-limits when the audience colludes with the naturalistic
illusion, only the kind that recognizes its artifice. Viewers can attend to what
characters say, can notice their sayings, just as they can attend to any other
kind of speech, mediated or otherwise. They can then quote or refer to these
utterances subsequently in their own talk or writing. Thus, in relation to a
hypothetical apology scene, for a viewer to notice the dialogue and write, “They
both said they were sorry,” in which “they” are characters in that scene, is
different from “He had them apologize to one another,” in which “he” is
the writer of the scene. The former colludes with the fiction, the latter does
not. Yet, because it can be tedious for someone who is perfectly well aware of
textual artifice always to write such things as, “They had her say x,” rather than
“She said x,” it will not always be apparent from single statements like this just
how much recognition of constructional work is involved on the part of particular
viewers.
There are certainly circumstances under which the default, “naive,” reading
position is not observed. Its limitations can be overcome or bypassed. Particular
sectors of the audience, such as professional reviewers, may have interests that
predispose them to take a more analytic view. The text itself can invite a more
conscious attention to dialogue (e.g., verbal humor). Or it can attract such
attention despite itself (e.g., when the writing, or the performance, or the story-
line, is perceived as “bad” in some way). Each of these circumstances will be
explored in the sections to follow, starting with some preliminary work on the
concept of the audience and its genres of writing about television drama.
WHO IS THE AUDIENCE?
It is important not to oversimplify the concept of audience here, or to treat it

purely as a construct of the text. Market research can be used to categorize the
audience in terms of demographic variables: children/young adults/older adults/
the elderly; unemployed/manual workers/white-collar workers/professionals/
entrepreneurs; males/females. Academic research, also focused on audience
demography, can be used to take this further to investigate more specific fault
lines in the viewing and listening public, such as political partisanship.
Such differences within the audience may variously lead to differences of com-
prehension, differences of interpretation, and/or different evaluations.1 All of
these questions about the variability of audience uptake are concerned with
overall interpretation/response, and not, as in this chapter, with specific aspects
of texts. The relevant fault lines in this case are rather different, and the most
important subgroups from this point of view would include wannabe writers,
journalistic reviewers, scholarly critics, fans, and casual viewers. These groups
are ideal types: in practice their interests overlap and merge.
Wannabe writers are themselves learning the craft skills of dialogue produc-
tion, and this gives them a reason to pay attention to how specific effects are
achieved, including effects that depend upon dialogue. Reviewers are under an
obligation to entertain as well as inform through their criticism, the balance
between entertainment and information varying with the context. Judicious
quotation of the dialogue can give flavor to the commentary. Scholarly critics
are less interested in the value of the production on its own terms than on what it
signifies symptomatically in respect of the culture that produced it. Dialogue for
them can have important social subtext. Fans have become particularly signifi-
cant with the growth of the Internet, as they became more accessible to one
another and much more able to self-constitute as communities (Baym 2000; see
also Gray et al. 2007). Fans have an interest in fostering textual features they
appreciate, and are alert to uses of dialogue that disappoint them, for instance,
when characters are given lines that seem inappropriate for their personalities.
As for viewers who are not recruited into any of the previous categories—the
phrase “everyone’s a critic” captures the rueful mindset of the cultural producer
whose disappointment is that this audience, too, has engaged in some decon-
struction unfavorable to his or her work. The disappointment is also tinged with
the frustrated awareness that members of the general public are merely critics:
freely, happily, licentiously able to comment on the deficiencies of the product

and to that extent possessing power over its producer, despite the inability among
themselves to produce equivalent texts and submit them for reciprocal judg-
ment. Criticism demands no qualifications. The situation is the same for ath-
letes. We spectators and audiences often think we know what has gone wrong,
even though we do not and cannot ourselves perform. It is true that everyone is a
critic, in the sense that everyone has some kind of response to what they see
and hear, including the responses that involve turning a show off or not watching
any more episodes. But not all criticism is shared, let alone publicized, or even
articulated. It takes more effort to discuss a text than merely to watch it, think
about it, and move on. That effort is still more or less private when the discussion
takes the form of oral communication in a domestic setting. The Internet,
in providing a channel and a range of genres for sharing opinions, has lowered
the barriers to the publication of those opinions, and expanded the range of
commentators to include more “ordinary” viewers alongside fans and critics.
AUDIENCE GENRES
Whatever audiences know about dialogue, these understandings remain their

own until they talk about them with others. In television studies there are various
approaches to the production of data on audience responses generally: quasi-
experimental approaches in which respondents are systematically recruited from
the general audience and participate in protocols designed to examine the
effectiveness of television discourse; interview approaches with similarly re-
cruited participants who watch material under research conditions and talk
to researchers afterward, individually or in (focus) groups; and quantitative
approaches with multiple-choice questions about aspects of viewing and large-
scale sampling. There have even been observational approaches, in which cam-
eras are installed to watch and record processes of watching.
In the era of the Internet it has also become possible to investigate audiences
on the basis of texts that they themselves produce, not under research conditions.
Undoubtedly the kind of viewers who actually take up this opportunity is self-
selecting and unrepresentative of the full range of actual viewers. However, a
significant selection of two important viewer categories do use the public sphere
for commentary on television productions: professional critics (reviewers) and
fans. The genres they use for these purposes are, in no particular order, the fan
forum thread, the blog entry, the published review column, the customer review
(e.g., for DVD box sets on Amazon), and fan fiction. Whereas the first four all call
for commentary about television shows, the fifth demands an ability, using
words alone, to reproduce significant aspects of its discourse. For obvious reasons,
dialogue design is prominent in this genre. Fans are likely to use fan fiction, fan
threads, customer reviews, and blogs for their discourse; professional critics use
reviews and blogs. Amateur criticism can also turn up in threads, blogs, Twitter
streams, and customer reviews. Threads, blogs, and Twitters are native to online
communication; fan fiction and reviews both existed independently before the
arrival of the Internet, and continue to do so. Newspaper reviews are produced
both electronically and in print, though the electronic versions are easier to
access once the publication date has passed.
Threads
Threads are the online equivalent of face-to-face conversation but with signifi-
cant differences. Online interaction comes in two main forms: synchronous, in
which messages follow one another in real time, and asynchronous, in which
any amount of time may pass between contributions. Forum threads are of the
latter kind. On most threads there are more than two active contributors (and
unknown numbers of passive auditors, both lurkers, who attend to the develop-
ment of a thread as it happens, and others who access contributions retrospec-
tively, as I did in the research for this chapter). Threads may be manifestations of
communities with shared interests and goals, or the mutual links of participants
may be minimal and thin. Messages orient to previous messages, producing the
equivalent of adjacency pairs such as question-and-answer. But the ordering of
these messages in linear sequence is not controlled by adjacency sequencing.
Messages take their place according to when they are received on the server, so
the linear organization of the textual product is to that extent arbitrarily imposed
by technology. Contributors could have been typing and sending at the exact
same moment but without mutually displaying this until after the full message
is received on the server. Cohesion devices within the authored text indicate how
contributions relate to one another. There may also be technological (rather than
authorial) displays of textual relationships, as when degrees of indentation from
the margin place contributions at a certain depth in relation to the originating
contribution, this indentation being automatically generated by the software
depending on which contributions are replying to which.
Blogs
Blogging is sometimes compared with diary keeping because, in the standard
blogging template, entries are date-stamped and accumulate chronologically, the
most recent displaying at the top of the screen. But offline diary keeping is
essentially a private activity until such time as the diarist, retrospectively, chooses
to publish (this option being mainly for celebrities—such diaries have to be
marketable). Online, blogging incurs minimal publishing costs after initial
investment in the technology, so does not require a market, and publication
occurs on the day of writing, not retrospectively. Blogging is monologic, though

bloggers can choose to enable the receipt and publication of comments on their
entries. Compared with forum threads, the result is more hierarchical: the
original entry has a necessary superiority in the discourse over comments.
Blogging has overtaken the less structured personal web page as the most
popular way for individuals (as opposed to institutions) to contribute to the
World Wide Web. In addition, it seems now that many blogs are themselves
produced under the auspices of an institution, and these have more in common
with authored newspaper columns than they do with personal web pages.
Nevertheless, anyone who can access the Internet can find a way to blog if they
want to. Blogs may be freestanding, or they may be part of more general websites
offering other resources such as images for downloading, video clips, and
message boards. Entries related to television shows may be their main fare or
just one possible area of that writer’s blog. Blogs may be the work of individuals,
or they may be offered within an institutional context. Television-themed blog-
gery thus exists in three main contexts: as part of general TV/film-related
websites (TVheaven.com; televisionwithoutpity.com), as part of websites focused
on specific shows (whovianet.co.uk; drgreghouse.com), and as occasional topics
on miscellaneous blogs.
Review Columns
Daily and weekly periodicals, in print and online, are the principal source of TV
reviews and previews. Reviews are addressed to audiences either to help them
decide what to watch ahead of broadcasting or to reflect on what has been
broadcast in an entertaining way. Reviewers are professional writers and are
expected to write well about TV shows, not just to emit statements of like or
dislike. They are surrogates for the audience in general, but highly articulate
surrogates. Reviews are the least interactive and most monologic of the audience
genres here discussed. Traditional print reviews may result in no interaction
at all in the public domain (private correspondence between reviewers and their
readers does not count). Online reviews may, like blogs, enable comments to be
reviewed and displayed.
Fan Fiction
Fan fiction involves contributions of varying lengths, from short scene fragments
to book-length stories written about characters created in various kinds of fiction,
including television drama. Authors may be wannabe writers for real, or fan
fiction may be enough to satisfy their creative and publishing desires. These
writers imagine additional encounters, within or very close to the parameters of
the original text, and supply dialogue and action to bring these encounters to life,
though without any expectation of performance by actors or any kind of produc-

tion. Fan fiction writers do not necessarily see themselves as writing scripts or
even fragments of scripts. They are mostly writing prose fiction. They do not
write stage directions, as scriptwriters do, and they elaborate the thoughts of the
characters, which scriptwriters do not. But prose fiction can incorporate dia-
logue, and fan fiction certainly does.
THE WRITING PERSONA
As indicated above, audience members who write about their viewing experi-
ences in any of these forms may be individual viewer-critics (whether fans or
more detached viewers), they may be professional critics, they may themselves be
writers of TV drama, and yet it is not always possible to determine an offline
identity, distinct from the persona the writer adopts within the text itself.
It is in its online voices that the writing audience identifies itself—that mem-
bers of the viewing public constitute themselves as ordinary viewers, fans, or
critics. Stances are variously offered by writers to their readers. At one end of the
spectrum viewers provide unarguable expressions of personal taste at the level of
“I never liked ER as much after George Clooney left,” whereas at the other end
there are lengthy and highly articulate accounts of strengths and weaknesses in
particular productions. In genres that enable discussion, disagreements may
break out. Commentators do not want to deny one another the right to an
opinion, and they appreciate that preferences as such (e.g., the inclusion of a
comic dimension in “serious” drama) are essentially beyond argument. But they
do want to test and examine the perceptions on which preferences are based. Any
statements about shows that go beyond “I like x,” however tentatively phrased,
are likely to be propositional and invite some kind of intersubjective validation.
Not all viewers were equally irritated by Catherine Tate’s “loud” performance in
her first episode as companion Donna Noble in Doctor Who, but in this case there
was little dispute that it was a loud performance. Other propositions are more
contestable.
In the rest of this section I will illustrate and explore the different ways that
the writing audience responds to TV drama shows. This general picture will
provide a background for examining the presence of dialogue in such responses.
The British science fiction series Doctor Who is a good choice of series for this
purpose because of the extensive amount of attention it attracts as a flagship BBC
production with strong overseas sales as well as a large cross-generational
audience in the United Kingdom. The popularity and longevity of the series
has given rise to such enormous quantities of commentary as well as secondary
and tertiary intertexts available via the Internet (and beyond) that a full overview
is not possible within the scope of a single chapter. I focus on a single episode,
“Partners in Crime” (series 4, episode 1, written by Russell T. Davies). This

episode is recent enough to be regarded as contemporary television but old
enough to be available in DVD format at the time of writing (either as part of
the full-series box set, or with three other episodes on a single DVD). There is a
related downloadable episode of Doctor Who Confidential (via BBC i-player) with
behind-the-scenes commentary, and a copy of the shooting script (via http://
www.thewriterstale.co.uk). When it was first broadcast in the United Kingdom it
attracted the second largest audience of the day (8.4 million viewers—almost
40%; of the viewing audience that night), beaten only by a major sporting event,
the Grand National Steeplechase, a daytime broadcast.2 Even with the focus on a
single episode, my approach is selective rather than synoptic. The selections have
been made to encompass the varieties of voice/identity as discussed above and to
incorporate in each case commentary that at some level showed attention to the
dialogue. A more traditional approach might have been to analyze the episode’s
dialogue first, identify some significant scenes/lines on the basis of that analysis,
and then discuss whether and how audience commentary responded to those
same scenes and lines. Instead, I have constructed this as, essentially, an analysis
of the secondary texts themselves, with the original episode as a background
intertext. I will provide information regarding this intertext as appropriate to the
discussion—starting here with a brief plot summary.
In this episode the Doctor (David Tennant) is reunited with Donna Noble
(Catherine Tate), who will be his companion for the rest of the series
(Tate’s character was previously introduced in a one-off Christmas special).
Before their reunion they have each independently decided to investigate what
lies behind a mysterious new dietary product and the company marketing it.
The plot hinges on the role of the company’s CEO as an intermediary between
an alien civilization and Planet Earth, using the fat tissue of human bodies
to produce, illegally, the next generation of the alien species. Human hosts do
not necessarily die as a result of this process, though death is a possible
outcome in certain circumstances. The Doctor and Donna discover the plot
and defeat the villain who perishes, while the “monster-children” escape to
their home planet on a space machine. Before Donna and the Doctor depart
together for new adventures, a previous companion makes a surprise reappear-
ance, though only to Donna, who, in a moment of dramatic irony for the
viewers, does not react, not knowing her to be the much-missed Rose Tyler
(Billie Piper). The return of Rose is constructed to serve as an important high-
light of the episode for the audience, albeit one that is dependent on familiarity
with the story so far.
A Google search for “Doctor Who: Partners in Crime” leads to thousands of
sources, some of them rather predictable: Wikipedia, YouTube, BBC, Amazon,
the Internet Movie Database, and various newspapers. Along with critical judg-
ment, the material at these locations included episode summaries and
production information. In such cases, the authorial voice tends to be either

impersonal and descriptive, or promotional, or a mixture of both.
“The Professional Reviewer”

The first episode of the latest Doctor Who season was bound to attract the
attention of the mass media, especially in the national Sunday press (Doctor
Who is a Saturday evening program), including the Sunday Times and the Sunday
Mirror, and then beyond, in more restricted and specialist publications (Metro,
Digital Spy). The following is an extract from a professional review (note that
I have made some cuts to save space):
Nerds rejoice . . . Doctor Who is back! And oh look, he’s brought his mum.
[...]
Anyway, it’s a racing cert that the Doc’s vast army of devoted fans will not have
been disappointed by last night’s silly curtain-raiser. They never are.
But it didn’t exactly ooze tension.
All we got in the way of terrifying space enemies was Sarah Lancashire ham-
ming it up as an intergalactic super nanny, a couple of security guards with guns
and lots of cute little fat babies. Err, that’s it.
Meanwhile, Ms Tate unwisely entered the BBC’s weekly Doctor Who overacting
contest.
A word of advice Catherine—try as you might, you’ll never beat David Tennant
on that score.
Crazy-eyed Dave is the king of the OTT performance [ . . . ] (Kevin O’Sullivan,
“Not Bovvered by the Doctor,” Sunday Mirror, April 6, 2007)
This review exists as a monologue: no reactions to it were solicited by the

paper. Reviewers like O’Sullivan will almost always be writing to a specific
word length. O’Sullivan distances himself from the fans in the second quoted
paragraph, makes only negative comments about the episode, and does so with
mocking humor: “Crazy-eyed Dave is the king of the OTT performance,” to
entertain his readers while evaluating the show. He disapproves of Tate on
account of her age, which he humorously exaggerates (“his mum”) and her
acting style (“overacting”). The dramatic qualities of the plot dissatisfy him
(“it didn’t exactly ooze tension”), and he implies that “lots of cute little fat babies”
are a perverse way for an ostensibly shocking series to represent monstrosity.
It is fairly typical in not making any explicit reference to dialogue, only to
performance.
Other critics reacted positively: some approved of the very same things that
O’Sullivan disapproved of, notably the relative “lightness” of this particular
episode in “shock, horror” terms. This is a difference of judgment, but it is
founded on a substantive agreement. Other critics disagreed substantively—
Andrew Billen in the Times regarded Tate’s performance as “toned down,” not
overacted. Not all the journalists ignored dialogue, though they do not converge
on any single line, scene, or dialogue function.
“The Fan”
It is more difficult to illustrate the voice of the fan with a single quotation than to
illustrate the voice of the critic, because of the huge amount of material and the
different flavors of fandom. This is complicated further in relation to Doctor Who
because of the longevity of the series and the various changes it has undergone
since the 1960s. The most important change is the 15-year break between the
original series, 1963–1989, and the 2005 relaunch. This creates space for fans to
diverge in respect to whether or not there is some essence that new episodes
should honor. Generally speaking, however, what distinguishes fans from re-
viewers is a level of detail in the critical engagement—a more acute, often
reasoned, perception of how and why things could have been done differently.
Unlike reviewers, they are not restricted by the number of words they can use.
What interests me about this is how it relates to the “us” and “them” relationship
between viewers and producers. Whether sympathetic or unsympathetic, in this
discourse, we-the-(serious)-viewers identify with the project of textual produc-
tion. Fans are not just sitting on the sofa, throwing casual brickbats, nor writing
entertainingly on behalf of the ordinary viewer. They are attempting, through
their discourse, to make the producers accountable. The standards they ask the
series to uphold are often precisely those it would wish to be judged on:
production values, quality of acting, convincingly dramatic shock values, balance
of humor and seriousness, and character consistency. An important exception to
this relates to the internal logic of the diegetic world and the plot. Fans tend to set
a higher standard regarding the internal coherence of the fictional universe than
producers do, and there is potential here for considerable tension between the
producers and this section of the audience.
On the Doctor Who Ratings Guide (a website for fans), the “Partners in Crime”
episode featured five reviews on January 11, 2009 (4,000 words total), two of them
favorable and three unfavorable, all of them monologic:
Aside from the new companion, the plot is somewhat blah. The Adipose company
has its new miracle diet pills out on the market in London and about to go
nationwide, but, as we all immediately suspect, there’s something unpleasant
going on behind the scenes. The actual effects of the pills are actually quite
inventive. It’s such a shame that Davies had to ruin the potential surprise and
shock by dropping a painfully obvious hint early in the episode (made all the worse
by the line delivery from the otherwise solid Sarah Lancashire which just screams
“this is a big hint!”). It was interesting to see a villain who could match the Doctor in
terms of technology, though this idea was used in fairly obvious ways. Tennant has
slipped back into the role of the Doctor without missing a beat and he maintains
that wonderful almost manic energy that makes him so engaging and he also forges
a very interesting connection with Catherine Tate that I’ll be very interested in
watching develop. And the scene when they first see each other after a half
an episode of near misses is just delightful. (http://www.pagefillers.com/dwrg/
partnerscrime.htm)
This viewer-writer identifies as a fan in the way he shows his familiarity with
Tennant as the Doctor, as well as with previous Who villains, and in his plans to
watch future episodes of this season. The paragraph is full of positive language,
such as “inventive,” “interesting,” “without missing a beat,” “wonderful, almost
manic energy,” “engaging,” “delightful,” as well as more negative terms, such
as “somewhat blah,” “painfully obvious,” “screams,” all of which focus on plot
management. The viewer-writer is conscious of not just the characters, but also
the actors (cf. his reference to Sara Lancashire’s performance) and the writer,
Russell T. Davies, objecting to the undercutting of shock effects by early hints as
to what might be involved.
As for dialogue, the “painfully obvious” hint that this viewer refers to is the
early, dramatically underlined revelation (in both written and spoken forms) of
the company’s advertising slogan for its new diet aid: “The fat just walks away!”
The writer does not find it necessary to remind readers of the hint’s actual
wording, though some other commentators did quote the line. Because it is
textually foregrounded (the Doctor later repeats it in a private context), and has
the function (at one level) of a slogan, it seems designed to be remembered and
quoted. The slogan meaning is, of course, subsumed in the text by the play across
figurative and literal meanings of the same word sequence. (The version per-
formed by Sarah Lancashire as evil Miss Foster has been audiovisually extracted
from its context by someone and made available online as a free downloadable
mobile phone ringtone.)
As well as commentary on Doctor Who, audiences—fans, specifically—have
produced huge amounts of fan fiction. The writers of successful fan fiction are
also in the business of understanding dialogue—dependent on their intuitions
and sensitivity to patterns of interaction, without reliance on the ability to make
their understanding explicit. There is an element of imitation in this approach,
along with an ability to develop tacit models for how these characters should
behave, sociolinguistically, in the scenarios they create for them. The largest
online collection of fan fiction is hosted at fanfiction.net, and this is where
I looked to see what such writers were doing with dialogue. On this website,
January 21, 2009, a search revealed 13,170 samples of Doctor Who fan fiction (for
comparison purposes, the less well-established science fiction series Heroes had
3,336, and a non–science fiction but long-running series, ER, had 4,628 sam-
ples). The earliest published (i.e., uploaded) samples on Doctor Who dated from
1999, and much of the material is therefore related to the “old” Doctor Who, not
the series as reinvented in 2005. None of the samples attract the MA (Mature
Adults only) grading (explicit language and adult themes), but around 850 were
deemed to be unsuitable for under 16s because of possible strong but nonexplicit
adult themes, reference to violence, and strong coarse language. By contrast,
about 4,500 samples had the lowest grading, deemed suitable for anyone over the
age of 5 (content free of coarse language, violence, and adult themes). I report
these observations to convey the point that this is not, as some might suspect, an
enclave restricted to the “dirty-minded,” exercising lurid fantasies about the sex
lives of fictional characters. At the same time, about 1,000 samples are generical-
ly coded as romance, mainly when the Doctor is imagined in a romantic/sexual
relationship with the companion-of-the-moment. One of the functions of fan
fiction is as an outlet for imaginative directions that the official version of the
Doctor Who story (and the same applies to fan fiction in general) does not want to
take, but (some) fans do.
There are just 25 samples that take their point of departure from the “Partners
in Crime” episode. The majority are inspired by the reappearance of Rose Tyler.
Not all of them offer the reader any dialogue. Several purport to present the
thoughts of one or more of the characters, either the Doctor or more commonly
Rose or Donna. For example, one contributor (whom I will refer to as Contribu-
tor 1, and assume him to be male) describes the thoughts of Rose as she appears
and then (nonrealistically) vanishes at the end of the episode. Contributor 1
reproduces in his account the utterances that Donna spoke to Rose, but does not
invent any new dialogue.
Another fan fiction writer in this collection does invent new dialogue. I will refer
to this person as Contributor 2 and assign female gender for the sake of differentia-
tion from Contributor 1. Contributor 2 rewrites the Donna/Rose encounter so
that (a) the two characters become known to one another in their relations to the
Doctor, and (b) their exchange has consequences for the plot. In this “improved”
ending, the Doctor and Rose are romantically reunited and the Tardis departs with
not one, but two, companions. A key line in this rewrite is the following:
Tell him “Rose Tyler.” If he doesn’t come, I’ll know he’s moved on.
Contributor 2 is setting up a “good” reunion, welcome to both characters and

not unwelcome to Donna, either. She is attempting to do this while sustaining
Rose as a tough character who is robustly prepared for possible disappointment,
and likewise sustaining a frame of melodrama around the romance, true to the
spirit of the broadcast series.
The “Ordinary” Viewer

As suggested earlier in this chapter, there are more opportunities than ever
before for viewers to publish their opinions via the Internet. Although on the
one hand, the act of “going public” separates this group of viewers from those
who feel no need to respond publicly to what they have watched, there is no
doubt that feedback from the consumer has become more culturally significant
than ever before, along with interactivity—both viewed as positive trends to be
encouraged. Viewers who do respond may not, therefore, be truly “ordinary,” but
they are perhaps exemplary. If there is a “best practice” for television consumers,
this is it.
Although the review column is the best genre for critics, and fans can adapt to
most genres as well as create their own in the form of fan fiction, the best genre
for our exemplary viewers is an interactive forum of some sort. So far, I have
examined only monologues and not looked at any of the more interactive spaces
where commentators exchange views about shows. One such space is the “com-
ment” section following certain blogs and online columns by reviewers. Pub-
lished replies to critical evaluations can demonstrate the existence of different
views on the same show, though the engagement among contributors with
reference to one another’s arguments may be very thin. This is partly because
such commentaries are often not generated in the same “conversational” way as
forum threads (of which, more below): each comment is a response to the
original column, though contributors may also mention one another.
A favorable review by Stephen Brook in the Guardian’s Organgrinder blog4
provided a feedback facility that generated 52 comments (under 40 different
nicknames) before the entry was closed to new contributions. Contributors
(other than the original columnist) are writing as interested ordinary viewers,
not as fans or reviewers; however, there is variation in the commentary sugges-
tive of different degrees and kinds of engagement with the series. The ironic,
“displaced” reading (cf. Richardson and Corner 1986), in which writers talk about
why other people (probably, here, of poor taste and discernment) might or might
not like the episode, is one possibility:
Another episode about aliens hiding out on Earth exploiting humans and yet again
the sonic screwdriver solves everything. If the public moans, throw in the Daleks.
Everyone likes them and it gets you column inches in The Sun.
Four series in, the formula still works.
Comments were both general (“I thought it was a great laugh and very
clever”) and specific, with Catherine Tate’s performance being the most common-
ly cited feature attracting attention. The original columnist approved of Tate’s
performance: it was “spirited” and had a “lighter touch” (than her comedy sketch
caricatures and her previous performance as Noble in a Christmas special). The
character itself is found by at least one viewer to be interestingly headstrong
compared with other companions and not romantically interested in the Doctor:
Finally a companion that is in fact an adult and doesn’t have a stupid school girl
crush on The Doctor (Although he is quite sexy). I think she brings a whole new
side to the doctor’s companions in the fact that she will challenge him and stand up
to him as an equal, not become all awe struck every time he looks at her.
There is no explicit reference to dialogue in this description. But as discussed

above, viewers’ interpretations of character and plot derive information from
dialogue while forgetting the specific input(s) that made their inferences possi-
ble. This viewer-writer (I will assume him to be male) gets that Donna is
“headstrong” but does not feel any need to explain how he gets this meaning.
As for character, so also for plot. Another viewer-writer (I will assume her to be
female) in a different thread, discussing this episode, observes: “. . . there was
never a real sense of danger. It was hinted that a million people might die, but it
did not feel possible.”5 This viewer understands how she is meant to use
dialogue information in her interpretation of the plot, but finds herself unable
to trust the dialogue without sufficient support from elsewhere in the production.
As this example shows, when viewers do attend to the artfulness of the work
that has gone into producing specific effects of plot and character management,
the attention is often negative: faith in the fourth wall artifice has broken down.
In this example, the dialogue hint itself is not the problem. The hint is signifi-
cant, and necessary—it is just not enough.
There is disagreement in this thread, though not about dialogue—it is about
Catherine Tate’s performance. Those who did not like her simply assert disagree-
ment without argument: “By the way, Catherine Tate can’t act. She was useless.”
Asserted disagreement develops into debate only over the general point of what
Tate’s ability to produce good sketch comedy caricatures implies for her general
acting ability, not about her performance in this episode.
Although it is common for dialogue to get attention when something has
gone wrong in the production from the viewer’s perspective, offenses against
credibility are not the only “trigger” that draws viewers’ attention to dialogue,
even in a naturalistic production. As I observed previously, it is not inconsistent
with the logic of naturalism for viewers to remember (and repeat, not necessarily
verbatim) lines of dialogue from a drama episode, just as they might remember
and repeat utterances from any other context. They might, for instance, remem-
ber a line of dialogue because of its importance to the plot. Or other kinds of
artifice will become significant: wit/humor, rhetorical or poetic styling, or the-
matic resonance. “Partners in Crime” offers two candidates for “memorable
line”: the advertising slogan “The fat just walks away” (see above) and later,
from Donna, “I’m waving at fat”—a comment revealing the character’s own
sense of the ridiculous, as one of the Adipose “monster children” at the end of
the episode waves goodbye to her and the Doctor on Planet Earth. The humor of
this moment is not lost on the audience, and the line was indeed memorable for
many. It has been quoted many times since, in blogs (e.g., forapples.vox.com); on
social networking sites (e.g., Facebook) and on the websites of media-related
organizations (bbc.co.uk, imdb.com, digitalspy.co.uk). The scene as a whole was

reproduced as a brief YouTube clip, uploaded by a fan in August 2008. The line
then starts to take on a new life, at some remove from its origins. One viewer uses
it as a heading for a blog entry about her latest homemade stuffed toy, in the shape
of an Adipose baby, whereas another uses it as a witty way of talking about her own
weight loss, while acknowledging Donna’s contribution to her phraseology.
A specific line, uttered once in a show, may be memorable for a moment, but
usually a certain amount of repetition is required before lines of dialogue turn
into catchphrases—lines whose memorability/reproducibility has become part of
their meaning and social function.
MEMORABLE DIALOGUE: THE TELEVISION

CATCHPHRASE
One particular kind of collaboration between TV screenwriter and audience that

celebrates dialogue is worthy of note, though hard to do justice to in the present
context. The creation of catchphrases—mainly, of course, from comedy rather
than serious drama—depends on screenwriters, who must ensure that the
phrase in question is repeated sufficiently often to get itself noticed as something
distinct from the less fixed language elsewhere in the production (while avoiding
excessive use that would diminish the impact of the expression). But it also
depends on a disposition in audiences to appreciate the familiarity of the phrase
and to make it into something that they themselves can (re)produce in their own
conversational behavior.
“I don’t believe it” is a banal expression of incredulity that anyone might use in
the appropriate circumstances. But there is also a catchphrase variant of this
expression, which comes from the British situation comedy One Foot in the Grave
(BBC 1990–2000), and is (or was) associated with the character Victor Meldrew in
that series. The catchphrase is characteristically delivered in Victor’s regional
accent (Edinburgh Scottish) and with a particular pitch contour, with strong
emphasis on “believe” and a prolongation of the stressed vowel. Victor and his
wife Margaret are a just-retired couple living in England. When Victor says, “I
don’t believe it,” his incredulity is often a response cry (in the sense of Goffman
1978). He says it when there is no other character to hear what he says. Its focus
is some real or perceived outrage perpetrated against his desire for a comfortable,
untroubled suburban life. Of course, he himself often bears some responsibility
for the outrage.
For a TV viewer to deploy the phrase, with Victor’s delivery, is to evoke, though
not necessarily to identify with, Victor’s sensibility and circumstances. Not
everyone who says “I don’t believe it” is consciously manipulating an intertextual
reference to One Foot in the Grave. The ordinariness of the wording itself resists
such comprehensive appropriation. “I don’t believe it” may or may not be

formulaic in everyday use, but it was meaningful before David Renwick
(the writer of One Foot) put it into the mouth of his character, and continues to
be meaningful without reference to Meldrew. But the Meldrew connection made
available, to certain parts of British society, another layer of meaning above
and beyond its core significance. To understand that meaning was to belong to
the cultural community. One Foot ceased broadcasting in 2000 and, despite
repeats on secondary TV channels (UK TV Gold), has now passed into cultural
history. The community that can unite over a shared “Meldrew” interpretation of
“I don’t believe it” is shrinking and will continue to shrink. The catchphrases
of the future are less likely to achieve the distribution that those of the past were
able to do, as the proliferation of TV channels and, arguably, the drift away from
television as the domestic entertainment medium of first choice continues to
fracture national audiences.
A recent dictionary of TV catchphrases and related expressions (Brookes 2005)
covers a substantial range of material with a British flavor, though with many
American examples (“To boldly go”; “Good thinking, Batman”; “How you doin’?”)
and several of Australian origin (“I wouldn’t give a Castlemaine XXXX.”). Situa-
tion comedy and sketch comedy provide the bulk of the instances, advertising
contributes a sizeable subset, and the rest variously come from straight drama,
sports coverage, and light entertainment, including quiz shows and reality
television. The ordinariness of “I don’t believe it” is not untypical. Others, like
Joey’s chat-up line, “How you doin?” (Friends, NBC 1994–2004), are just as
unremarkable, linguistically. The unity of words and specific broadcast context
constitutes the catchphrase in many cases. “And finally” is a case in point: this is a
catchphrase from news discourse introducing a lighthearted item at the very end
of a bulletin. A catchphrase does not have to be witty or linguistically playful or
poetic, though it sometimes is: “Can we fix it? Yes, we can” (Bob the Builder, BBC
1999) was the catchphrase of the eponymous Bob in a British children’s animated
series. It has a poetic rhythm based on simple monosyllables, and a call-and-
response structure, and became the lyric of a spin-off record. There is no direct
evidence of any relationship between this upbeat assertion of a builder’s confi-
dence and the equally optimistic “Yes, we can!” of successful presidential candi-
date Barack Obama, though there has been online discussion of the similarity.6
Tilove’s article illustrates the important point that when utterances involve
simple words, simple constructions, and basic ideas, they cannot convincingly
be claimed as any single originator’s personal property. Catchphrase variants can
be constructed through strong contextual associations (Obama) and/or with
witty or poetic qualities (Bob the Builder). “And it’s goodbye from him,” as
the sign-off line in a sketch routine spoofing the news (The Two Ronnies, BBC
1971–1987), was witty because the other presenter had previously said, “So it’s
goodbye from me.” It could be argued that the wit evaporated with repetition,
leaving only the comfort of familiarity that it shares with other catchphrases. In
the Unites States, the expression “more cowbell” is a comparable example of
a phrase that has passed into general usage with some attenuation of the humor
that gave rise to it. It references a famous Saturday Night Live sketch from 2000,
where Christopher Walken, playing a fictionalized celebrity music producer, farci-
cally demands to hear “more cowbell” from the band cutting a track in his studio,
circa 1976. It is a joke at the expense of a real song by Blue Öyster Cult (Don’t Fear the
Reaper), which does indeed feature a cowbell, though not as prominently as in
the spoof. As with the British examples, the familiarity of this phrase may now be
more important to its continuing usage than the original joke.
The role of the audience in creating and sustaining catchphrases is enhanced
when the catchphrase comes in the form of a template: partially structured and
fixed, but with a “slot” into which new elements can be inserted as appropriate. A
classic example from the British comedy tradition is the catchphrase associated
with the character “CJ” from the sitcom The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin. CJ
was Perrin’s boss, an overbearing, opinionated, self-centered individual. His
catchphrase began, “I didn’t get where I am today . . .” (the dots represent the rest
of the utterance). These have been collated online by a fan at http://homepages.
nildram.co.uk/~culttv/cj.htm. Here are a few:
I didn’t get where I am today . . .

. . . without knowing a favorable report when I see one.
. . . without recognizing a real winner when I see one.
. . . by selling ice cream tasting of book-ends, pumice stone and West Germany.
. . . by waffling.
. . . without learning how to handle people.
The context would often be where CJ had been warning an underling to follow or
not to follow some course of action, and holding himself up as an example of
the right course. Some of the above considered in isolation come across as
sensible attitudes, but the third one illustrates the kind of absurdity to which
the formula could be turned. The point here is that the template leaves audience
members using this expression to finish it off in ways appropriate for their own
circumstances. Not that this kind of incompleteness is necessary to encourage
audience creativity. Even the more fixed catchphrases can be played around with.
There was a blog (no longer actively maintained) at http://thepime.blogspot.
com/ titled “This Blog Will Self Destruct in Five Seconds.” This is a variant
on a catchphrase that goes back to the American drama series Mission:
Impossible (CBS 1966–1973). Because I did not watch this series, I will quote
from Brookes:
In each episode of the series, the team would receive its mission from the mysteri-
ous “Secretary” in the form of a tape. The tape would always exhort the team to
action with the words “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is . . . ” and then
conclude with “This tape will self-destruct in five seconds,” after which time smoke
would start to emerge from the tape recorder, providing a cue for the opening titles
to begin. (2005: 128)
The original series may have ceased production in 1973, but a new version
was broadcast from 1988 to 1990, and repeats kept this alive until the first
Mission Impossible movie came out in 1996. The sequels, which date from 2000
and 2006, have kept the franchise—and, seemingly, the catchphrase—alive till
the present day.
One final thought regarding the role of the audience in the creation of
catchphrases. I have focused on viewers as private individuals in this discussion,
but there is also a commercial aspect to be considered. Some catchphrases
(cf. the Castlemaine XXXX example, above) originated in the world of marketing,
but commercial organizations can also, in their own discourse, exploit the
resonances of catchphrases originating elsewhere, for instance, in product
names and other branding strategies. The idea of messages “self-destructing”
after a set period of time has been developed recently for SMS (text) messages on
mobile phones (messages disappear from the recipient’s phone 30 seconds after
delivery). The company responsible used the Mission: Impossible link in their
promotions.7
DISCUSSION
This chapter has focused on drama dialogue from the perspective of the audi-
ence. It has shown that dialogue can be used as a point of entry from which to
explore complex configurations of comprehension, appreciation, critique, and
appropriation in viewers’ relations with a particular set of semiotic cultural
objects, while recognizing that the textual genres that viewers use in displaying
those relations are themselves mediations of social identities and social relation-
ships within the viewing public.
When viewers write about TV shows, they sometimes mention the dialogue
and/or display what it is that bits of dialogue have meant for them. This meaning
may be appropriated “naively” by writer-viewers, within the parameters of natu-
ralistic conventions, or the interactional context and genre—blog, review, thread,
and so forth—with its attendant social relations, may help to elicit something
more attentive to underlying authorial and production strategies. Both of these
dispositions are respectful, even when they involve criticism of the production, in
the sense that they relate to the dramatic discourse on its own terms. By contrast,
when viewers remember and use lines such as “I’m waving at fat” for purposes
other than recounting or evaluating the original program, this respect has
begun to dissipate. By the time that lines of drama dialogue have joined other
cultural catchphrases, the narrative context(s) of the original use are of very little
significance, although the indexical link of such expressions back to the program
may be meaningful as the expression of a cultural bond.
The object of this chapter was to explore and map the modes of engagement
that viewers have with dialogue in TV drama: the attention they give to character
speech and what they think it means in context. Viewers of all kinds—critics,
fans, ordinary viewers, wannabe writers—can all be said to use dialogue in two
different but related senses. First, they allow dialogue to influence their compre-
hension/interpretation of the text itself. Such uses do not have to be verbalized—
they are essentially cognitive. But viewers who do discuss TV shows produce texts
of their own that offer clues about their own cognitive processes, as when they
metacommunicatively refer to shows “dropping hints” that they have (dutifully)
noted.
Second, audiences use dialogue in relation to their own social relationships
and social interaction. Talk about TV faces two ways: it faces “back” to the show,
and records aspects of what happened in the text/viewer encounter; and it faces
forward, into the relationships that viewers have with one another, in which the
TV shows are their common ground. These are different kinds of relationships.
The relations between professional reviewers and their readers take place within
a commercial communication matrix—the review is another kind of product for
the consumption of a paying audience (even when advertising mitigates the
sense of direct monetary transaction). In online discussions there is greater
scope for relations to be negotiated, as fans come together to share their appreci-
ation and possibly exercise influence over the shows they enjoy, whereas less
committed viewers at least find others who have seen what they have seen and
heard what they have heard. In all of these cases, dialogue is a resource. Lines
can be cited in evidence of a particular interpretation, they can be criticized as
unsatisfactory in a range of different ways, quoted as tribute to the pleasure they
has provided, and remembered, as catchphrases, in sustaining a sense of com-
munity with others who remember them too.
6
Dialogue as Social Interaction
LANGUAGE IN SOCIAL INTERACTION
One of the functions of language in everyday life is the management of social

relationships in face-to-face interaction. People talk to one another, and as they
do so they adjust their expressions to display their understanding of previous
contributions, to fit in or stand out, to convey deference or dominance, to form
bonds of solidarity or resist and challenge such bonds, within the scope of
contextual constraints, their own repertoires of performance, and their interac-
tional goals in terms of sharing information and cocoordinating action. Sociolin-
guistics has long been interested in language use from this perspective, and has
developed a variety of concepts, theories, and approaches for exploring this
territory. Not all social relationships are constituted through directly interperson-
al face-to-face conduct, so these approaches have their limitations. A perspective
grounded in the ethnography of communication (cf. Hymes 1972) is wide
enough to encompass not only this kind of interaction but also more attenuated
relationships conducted over time and/or at a distance. The relationships be-
tween TV dramatists and their audiences are of this more attenuated kind,
without the opportunities that interpersonal face-to-face encounters provide for
ongoing immediate mutual influence. This chapter does address the dramatist-
audience relationship, but it focuses primarily on how dramatists display the
relations of characters in their imagined direct interactions, drawing on interac-
tional sociolinguistic approaches for this purpose.
Sociolinguistic perspectives on interaction direct attention toward speakers’
calculation of what the relationship needs, what it will bear, and what
they themselves are credibly capable of producing. Calculations regarding the
interactional dynamics of a company board meeting will be very different
from those regarding the dynamics of pillow talk. Not all speakers will have
the cultural capital, not to mention the sociolinguistic performance skills, to
carry off a “chairperson” identity in the former. Speaker strategy (for want of a
better word) is only part of the picture. The other part is hearer response, because
whatever that strategy may be, and however consciously adopted, speakers
105
cannot ultimately dictate what aspects of their utterances hearers may be sensi-
tive to, and orient to, in their responses. The most politely formulated request
for help, if expressed in an obviously foreign accent, is not proof against
racist or xenophobic prejudice on the part of a hearer. Wordings, too, can
have interpersonal significance beyond anything that a speaker can plan for.
A degree of mutual goodwill is therefore necessary for interlocutors who want
to manage these interpretative hazards cooperatively, though such cooperation is
not part of all talk. Some relationships can be obstinately uncooperative, with
speakers using their turns to obstruct and frustrate each other’s communicative
efforts. This should not be taken as a denial of the more fundamental cooperative
basis of talk as such, in the Gricean sense, in which cooperation is a condition of
intelligibility of both helpful and difficult talk.
Represented talk—in other words, dialogue—whether in novels, plays,
films, or TV dramas, is, like its real-world analogue, more or less coded
and calculated for interpersonal effect. Social encounters are not just events
in the realization of story structures, but also moments in the characters’
relationships with one another. Characters can be shown to adjust their
modes of expression depending on whom they are talking to, to be more or
less articulate, more or less equipped to cope with particular interactional
circumstances, and more or less in control of how the interaction unfolds
and of the outcomes that result from it. These displays are crafted, whether by
instinct or by more conscious awareness of what sorts of things are possible
(cf. chapter 4), from the same resources that are generally available to language
users.
In relationship-based productions (such as soap opera) this interpersonal
significance is in the foreground, whereas in action-led work (e.g., thrillers)
it is in the background. Screenwriters have to understand, subconsciously
or otherwise, the kind of interactional work that can be performed
through talk in order to produce dialogue that displays comparable properties.
Actors and directors too must appreciate what can, interpersonally speaking,
be meant when dialogue is realized in performance, and not just what is to
be said.
The primary function of general communicative resources, like the coopera-
tive principle, or turn-taking rules, or metalanguage, is to underwrite the intelli-
gibility of dialogue in drama, and ensure that it is credible, within generic
constraints, as a surrogate for speech in real life. But such resources can also
be exploited to produce dialogue that is creative or playful (function 8 in Sarah
Kozloff’s typology: see chapter 3). They can also contribute to the creation of a
drama’s thematics (function 9 in the same typology). When appropriate, I will
draw attention to examples of this kind too—if only to avoid the assumption that
the rules and conventions of language use are important to drama on TV only
insofar as they relate to its pursuit of realism.
Dialogue as Social Interaction 107
SOCIOLINGUISTIC NAIVETY
When we, as researchers, write about dialogue as social interaction, we tend to

treat the characters as if they were actual people, with communicative intentions
as part of their mental lives, variously expressing “their” thoughts and emotions,
and negotiating “their” social relationships. Other functions of dialogue, such as
anchorage and exposition (see chapter 3), tied more to the real communicative
intentions of the dramatist than to the virtual ones of the characters, fade into the
analytic background.1
There is nothing wrong with this mode of analysis, as long as it is treated as
offering only a partial perspective on the language of drama. When realist and
naturalist writers and directors have nurtured the transparency and easy listen-
ing effects (see chapter 1), the naive stance is congruent with the dramatic
intentions. It can have the unfortunate effect of suggesting that the analyst
has simply accepted the transparency effect at face value, however sophisticated
the sociolinguistic apparatus in its deployment of Gricean pragmatics, conversa-
tion analysis, or politeness theory.
Table 6.1 presents a short and fairly unremarkable extract from Britain’s long-
running soap opera Coronation Street (BBC 1960–present), to illustrate the
strengths and weaknesses of this orientation. I have tabulated the dialogue to
provide parallel indication of shot sequences.
Narrative Context
Jason (Ryan Thomas) and Sarah (Tina O’Brien) are young newlyweds, recovering
from a ceremony that went awry because Sarah’s younger half-brother David
(Jack P. Shepherd) apparently attempted suicide and then her wedding dress was
destroyed. Brother and sister are on bad terms; husband and wife are on
awkward terms. Gail (Helen Worth) is the mother of Sarah and David; Audrey
(Sue Nicholls) is Gail’s mother and thus Sarah’s grandmother. Audrey runs a hair
salon where both Sarah and David work. The five of them are in Gail’s house at
the start of the day. This studio scene is configured to represent an open-plan
living area in the small house.
In narrative terms, the point of the scene is David’s negotiation of his return to
work in the salon, along with some display of the current configuration of
relations between characters: Sarah’s annoyance with Jason and his somewhat
irritated supplication for the return of her goodwill, Audrey and Gail’s concern
for David, and David’s low-key tolerance of this, along with his determination to
be independent. The scene moves through 15 discrete shots, varying in length
from 1 second (some of the close-ups) to 18 seconds (the initial establishing
shot), for a total scene length of around 112 minutes. The longer takes tend not to
/
be static, but allow for some camera movement, tracking along with character
Table 6.1 Domestic Life Dialogue in Coronation Street
Lines Shots
1 J: Well how many times can I say I’m sorry? [pause] All SHOT 1 (Establishing), 18 seconds, turns 1–7. JASON,
right, yes, I was an idiot for leaving the dress in Roy’s. SARAH, AUDREY, GAIL
But someone else took it, not me.
2 S: Yes, so you keep saying.
3 J: Please, babe.
4 S: See you later.
5 G: See you love.
6 A: I’ll be over now sweetheart.
7 J: Well, wait up.
SILENCE
JASON AND SARAH LEAVE
108
8 A: When are you going back in? SHOT 2, 9 seconds, turns 8–11. GAIL AND AUDREY
ONLY
9 G: Oh I don’t want to leave him on his own. Not yet
anyway.
10 A: How is he?
11 G: Well he’s not his usual self.
12 A: Hah, huh, well you say that like it’s a bad thing, that. SHOT 3, 4 seconds, turn 12
D enters off-camera ready for shot 4.
13 G: Hello sweetheart. Want some breakfast? SHOT 4, 4 seconds, turns 13–14. GAIL, AUDREY,
14 D: No. Not really hungry to be honest. DAVID
15 A: Oh, you should have something David. SHOT 5, 1 second, turn 15
16 G: I’ll put some toast on. You hardly ate yesterday. SHOT 6, 7 seconds, turns 16–18
17 A: How are you feeling?
18 D: Well I’m not ill, gran¼
19 A: ¼No, I know¼ SHOT 7, 2 seconds, turns 19–20
20 G: ¼Stop badgering him mam. SHOT 8, 5 seconds, turns 20–22
21 A: No, I just asked how he was.
22 D: Well I’m fine, OK? I’m not going to stick my head in a SHOT 9, 1 second, turn 22
microwave.
PAUSE
23 Uh, I were wondering if, maybe I could come back to SHOT 10, 2 seconds, turn 22
work or something?
SHOT 11, 3 seconds, turn 22
24 G: Oh I’m not sure that’s a good idea. SHOT 12, 9 seconds, turns 23–25
25 D: But I’m all right. There’s nothing wrong with me.
26 A: Actually Gail, you know that might not be such a bad SHOT 13, 5 seconds, turns 25–26.
idea to help get back to normal. I mean, maybe just
109
part-time to begin with, eh? To see how we go, right?

27 D: Yes, that’s fine. Right I’ll go jump in the shower then.
D LEAVES
PAUSE
28 A: Ah. SHOT 14, 4 seconds, turns 26–29
29 G: Hope it’s not too much for him.
30 A: It’s a hair salon G, not a fire station. Hhh. Mind you, I SHOT 15, 8 seconds, turn 29.
don’t relish having to tell S. See you later.
SILENCE
Source: Broadcast November 7, 2007. Episode writing credit not available.
movement. (The preceding and following scenes are shot in different locations
and with different character groupings.) The scene is designed to give the effect
that the audience is being introduced to an interaction that has begun before the
cameras arrived. Various aspects of language use could be examined here,
including accent and dialect, disfluency, number and footing of participants,
turn transition, turn selection, turn sequencing, cooperation, and indirectness.
The following comments relate specifically to politeness and its management in
the extract.
Politeness is often considered to be a part of pragmatics (see Leech 1983,
Verschueren 1999), particularly when pragmatics is related to the study of social
interaction, as well as, or in addition to, its value to the study of linguistic form
and meaning. Both the expression of ideas (Gricean pragmatics) and the man-
agement of social relationships (politeness theory) have to contend with ques-
tions of directness and indirectness in talk.
The most well-known approach to politeness (Brown and Levinson 1978)
proposes viewing conversation as a dangerous activity, in which the faces of
both speaker and hearer are constantly at risk. These risks can be strategically
mitigated, either by positive politeness behavior—compliments and the like—
which enhances the face of the addressee, or by negative politeness, which is
designed to avoid intruding on the addressee’s personal space. Not all talk events
value politeness as a good thing. Sometimes, in emergencies, for instance,
interpersonal niceties take a backseat to the immediate, urgent need to coordi-
nate action. On other occasions, one or more of the speakers is seeking the
satisfaction of confrontation, purposefully seeking to offend, humiliate, and
insult an interlocutor (perhaps in reciprocation for perceived insults from
them). Brown and Levinson have been criticized for building a model of interac-
tion wrongly designed around a normative principle of commitment to harmony
in social relationships (see, e.g., Eelen 2001, Mills 2003)—with the consequence
that too little attention is paid to the analysis of impoliteness—though the
literature on conflict talk and argument is certainly useful here (Grimshaw
1990a; see also chapter 7 in this volume). TV drama dialogue, arguably, goes
too far in the other direction, making conflict, argument, threat, and other kinds
of interpersonal discord more prominent, more overt, and more common than
we experience it as being in corresponding real-life situations.
The world of the soap opera gets more than its fair share of confrontation,
including confrontational talk, and there is some of that here between Jason and
Sarah, albeit mild by soap standards. “Apologizing” can be remedial facework,
recognizing an offense in the form of a prior face-threatening act, taking respon-
sibility for that act, trying to restore the interlocutor’s goodwill and restore the
relationship to the preferred condition of mutual respect. Alternatively, it can
itself be face-threatening, putting pressure on an addressee to accept the apology.
Here, Jason offers a grudging formulation:
Well how many times can I say I’m sorry? [pause] All right, yes, I was an idiot for
leaving the dress in Roy’s. But someone else took it, not me.
Jason gives redress with one hand and takes away with the other. Although he
admits that he was in the wrong, he also implies that Sarah is in the wrong, too,
for not accepting an apology so many times proffered.
Another participant seemingly concerned to get the facework right is David.
Later in the exchange, David has cause to make a request of his elders—he wants
to resume his job in the salon. Regular viewers of the series would readily agree
that the power differential between David and his mother and grandmother is
not usually enough to make this character deferential—but the extensive amount
of hedging in his formulation seems to be a sign of deference here. As Gail says
in turn 11, David “is not his usual self”: but as Audrey suggests in turn 12, this
“other” self may be a nicer one. The conversation with David that follows these
exchanges confirms this commentary, displaying the new David as a “politer,”
more tractable youth than viewers have become accustomed to, by making him
hesitate and hedge his request—“I were wondering . . . .” David’s request to come
back to work is, if not an imposition in the usual sense, at least a request that he
is willing to treat as more than a formality. His attempted suicide is an important
piece of mutual knowledge for the purposes of this encounter and the terms on
which it is managed, because he knows, and the women know, that it gives them
a possible reason for rejecting the request. The politeness helps him to achieve
his goal, and may lead viewers to conclude that the “usual” David, who rarely
shows anything but disrespect for these matriarchs, is strategically standing
behind the “polite” David and animating him, thus manipulating the women
into cooperation. If David here is a doubled being, the polite, deferential persona
being the creation of a less well-intentioned one, this does not rule out the
possibility that the latter, too, can be taken as a persona, that of the adolescent
(from a broken home, and with a chaotic family history) who, powerless in other
ways, “acts out”—in spite of his “real,” better self—so as to impress himself upon
the world. Tension between soap’s melodramatic and its realist impulses are
strongly indicated here, though we are probably at the limit of what can be
claimed about the meanings of dialogue without reference to audience uptake.
Throughout this analysis it has been convenient to adopt a sociolinguistically
naive stance, and refer to what “Jason” does, and what “David” does—what they
say, what they mean, what they think. This stance is possible because of what the
scriptwriters have given us, and what Ryan Thomas and Jack P. Shepherd, the
actors, have themselves made of those lines. The naive idiom is a useful analytic
protocol, one that allows us to make use of theoretical ideas from pragmatics, in
collusion with the fiction. The protocol does not stand in the way of more critical
approaches. It is possible to move from the naiveté of transparency readings, as
above, through to more speculative reflections on the possible interpretative
consequences of particular communication displays, or types of display. TV

drama in general has always had a particular interest in domestic space and
personal relationships. Soap operas like Coronation Street are the epitome of this
domestic focus. The dramatists who write scripts for such productions are
specialists in constructing, from general resources, a certain kind of interactional
behavior that is appropriate to such space. Within its generic frame, the dialogue
required for such encounters can be emotionally intense or comic, confronta-
tional or solidary, sentimental or matter-of-fact. David’s negotiation with his
mother and grandmother is overtly matter-of-fact, though emotionally colored
because of the storyline to which it belongs, including the apparent attempted
suicide, with a “subtext,” for want of a better word, that hinges on his self-
presentation here as contrasted with his usual conduct. The underhand
scheming speaks of melodrama, but the framing conventions are those of
realism, as is (arguably) the social psychology. The relative weight of these two
dynamics will depend on the audience.
DIALOGUE AS COMMUNICATION DISPLAY
The various branches of the sociolinguistic literature, from the ethnography

of communication, through pragmatics and politeness theory, to conversation
analysis and interactional sociolinguistics, are helpful in any attempt to under-
stand and demonstrate the strategies by which particular communication
displays have been dramaturgically managed—misunderstanding episodes, re-
presentations of verbal offensiveness, constructions of characters as ineffective
speakers—not to mention “normal,” untroubled talk exchanges built to fit
the settings established for them and (in the case of TV drama) partially
realized visually. The next sections of this chapter will deal, in turn, with
three different, sociolinguistically grounded ways of approaching this pa-
rticular kind of talk—communication ethnography, pragmatics. and conversa-
tion analysis.
Communication Ethnography and the Dramatization

of Communicative Events
Drama dialogue, as suggested above, involves putting communication on dis-
play. This provides opportunities to explore imaginatively different kinds of
communicative events and scenes. Dramas may be more or less ambitious in
how they exploit these opportunities. The pull toward realism, and toward the
generically familiar, on television are both factors liable to limit the extent of the
ambition, though there will always be a range of possibilities even in quite safe
productions.
Ethnographic perspectives on the uses of speech are sometimes referred to

under the rubric ethnography of speaking. But this label is unsatisfactory in a wider
perspective: speech is not a necessary component in all communicative events,
nor is it always the central component when it is present. Communication using
written language can also be approached ethnographically (Basso 1974). Ethnog-
raphy of communication (Hymes 1972) has thus become the favored term.
The ethnographic perspective is relevant to drama on the outer plane of the
production as well as on the inner, diegetic plane in relation to depicted events
and situations. On the outer plane, when we approach dramatic performances on
stage, screen, or radio as culturally conditioned communication events, issues
such as taboos of representation become salient, including questions of
“bad language” and other taboos related to dialogue. In relation to television,
nothing has been more risky in recent times than the mainstream broadcasting
(in Britain) of a theatrical performance of Jerry Springer: The Opera (BBC 2005).
Swearwords were a noticeable part of the show’s discourse, calculatedly excessive
in tribute to the American TV talk show that it parodied (in which they are
generally bleeped out). The swearing drew attention to the production both before
and after the screening, and the fact that many of the obscenities were sung, not
spoken, did not seem to lessen the offense:
The BBC has been flooded with a record number of protests after deciding to screen
a show with more than 8,000 swear words.
Jerry Springer The Opera includes 3,168 “F” words and 297 “C” words.
The Beeb has had 15,000 complaints about the show, to be screened by BBC2 on
Saturday at 10 P.M. And TV watchdog Ofcom has had a record 4,500 protests—also
the most it has ever received. (Stewart Whittingham, The Sun, January 6, 2005)
On the inner plane, many different types of communicative events can in

principle be dramatized and displayed, both public and private. Audiences have
learned to expect that particular kinds of drama will feature particular kinds of
communicative events. In police dramas, audiences will expect to see several
interviews of witnesses and suspects, with police officers asking questions and
interviewees answering them, or refusing to do so. Optional additional partici-
pants include the witnesses’ lawyers and other police officers.
The staging of an interview or interrogation in a dramatic context is liable to
be very much abbreviated compared with equivalent events in real life, though
audiences may assume some ellipsis in the former. Length is not the only
difference. Accounts of real-world practice include, on the one hand, an instruc-
tional literature for police officers (e.g., Inbau et al 2004; Zulawski and Wick-
lander 2002: very goal-oriented, while fully mindful of legal constraints on
coercion, etc.), and, on the other hand, more critical academic accounts includ-
ing the forensic linguistic research of Roger Shuy (1998). The emphasis in the
latter readily demonstrates important differences between what dramatists need
in their staged interviews and what the criminal justice system needs—for
example, valid confessions, properly obtained. Some of Shuy’s analyses are
about delicacies of phrasing and paralinguistic features that cast doubt on
interpretations of defendant speech offered in the context of a criminal prosecu-
tion. Others are about inconsistent police reports (in the absence of taped
evidence) of what defendants may actually have said. Matters like this are
somewhat resistant to dramatic staging, except when they carry narrative signifi-
cance in their own right. But this is more likely to be the case in a courtroom
drama focused on the outcome of a case, than in a police drama focused on crime
and detection. In constructing a police interview as an event worthy of dramati-
zation, the dialogue and its performance are required to display the significance
of the scene for the drama either in terms of narrative development, as when an
interview produces a surprise confession, or in terms of interpersonal relations,
as when two officers play out a good cop/bad cop routine (see also chapter 6).
In hospital dramas audiences will expect to see sudden emergencies. Patients
who go into cardiac arrest have to be kept alive. This calls for short, functional
utterances, briskly delivered, co-coordinating the actions of the medical team.
The emphasis is on speed and efficiency, with tones of panic present or absent,
depending on the need to make the scene emotional or relatively cool.
Although both the police interview and the hospital emergency are both very
familiar communicative events in their respective genres, they do allow for
variations, according to dramatic requirements. Their length may be expanded
or contracted, measured in turns; they may involve a minimum number of
speaking persons (two in each case) or a larger number; they may have different
outcomes in terms of information revealed or concealed, and bodies saved.
Nonlinguistic choices include the length of the scene (as opposed to the length
or number of speaking turns), its completeness, and its mise-en-scène.
Pragmatics and the Management of Subjectivity

Pragmatics has roots in the philosophy of language, and its point of departure is
the inadequacy of literal meaning as a guide to the meanings of words in context.
Thomas (1995: 22) defines pragmatics as the study of “meaning in interaction.”
As Cameron puts it, “Pragmatics concerns itself with the principles language
users employ to determine the meaning behind words—how we get from what is
said to what is meant” (2001: 48). Something equivalent to these principles will
also be required to get from what is signified nonlinguistically to what such
nonverbal semiotic behavior means in context. That is to say, if there is a gap
between literal meaning and intended or taken meaning in respect of language
use, there is also a gap between what any other semiotic code tells us that a
nonverbal sign (e.g., a wink) means, and the meaning we attribute to any
particular wink as used by a real person in an interactive situation. There is no
one-to-one relationship between any given signifier and a single unambiguous

meaning.
The landmark studies in the development of pragmatics include early work on
the concept of speech acts (Austin 1962, Searle 1969), followed by important
research on the universal principles of utterance interpretation by H. P. Grice
(1975). Austin’s concept of the speech act is the starting point because of its crucial
role in undermining the distinction between saying and doing, speech and action.
This distinction is obviously valid when a contrast is being drawn between saying
“I’m painting a chair” and actually painting a chair. But this kind of comparison is
only part of the overall picture. It overlooks the ways in which speech is, itself, a
kind of behavior (and not just a mode of representation). Considered as behavior,
“I’m painting the chair” is not the action of painting a chair, but it is still an action
of some sort, and whatever it is will depend on who is saying it, to whom, in what
circumstances, and for what effect. It may, for instance, be said by a speaker as a
way of accounting for why he did not answer the phone when it rang.
Grice proposed that all interaction takes place on the basis of an assumed
cooperative principle. “Make your contribution such as is required, at the stage at
which it occurs, by the accepted purpose of direction of the talk exchange in
which you are engaged” (Grice 1975: 45). Cooperation in this sense is not the
same as cooperation in respect of the topic or the substantive business of the talk
exchange. That is to say, the cooperative principle is understood here as the
fundamental basis of all talk, which includes arguments and disagreements just
as much as forms of talk in which speakers collaborate harmoniously. Coopera-
tion for the Griceans is the foundation of intelligibility in talk. Grice went on to
formulate a prescriptively worded set of maxims that spelled out what full
cooperation would normatively look like. These are the well-known maxims of
quantity, quality, relation, and manner. The quantity maxim specifies that speak-
ers should produce as much information as the occasion calls for, no more, no
less. The quality maxim specifies that the information should be true to the best
of the speaker’s knowledge. The relation maxim requires the information to be
relevant, and the manner maxim requires it to be clear. In practice, as Grice
knew, much talk fails to live up to these standards. But that is not the point. The
point is that the maxims constituted a point of reference for a kind of calculus of
communicative intention/interpretation. All coherent communicative behavior
takes the cooperative principle as a given. This is an act of faith on the part
of speakers and hearers in any exchange. Speakers may appear to have parted
company with one or more of the maxims, but that very departure is motivated.
When speakers are blatantly providing less information than they and the
hearers both consider the occasion requires, they draw attention to their depar-
ture from the maxim of quantity, and provoke the hearer into providing some
kind of rationale for this “offense.” The rationale that the hearer comes up with is
the indirect meaning (or “conversational implicature,” in Grice’s terms) of the
utterance. If speaker A asks speaker B, “Is C honest and hardworking?” and

speaker B replies, “C is hardworking,” then, by this logic, A is entitled to assume
that B is not confident in C’s honesty.
The calculus here works just as long as the speaker is obviously, blatantly, at
odds with the maxims. The departure from what is normatively required has to
be noticeable to the hearer or else the hearer will have no reason to generate an
explanatory implicature. He or she will instead take the utterance at face value.
This is particularly relevant in relation to breaches of the maxim of quality. This
is the maxim that enjoins truthfulness: Do not say that which you believe to be
false; do not say that for which you lack adequate evidence (cf. B’s inability to say
“C is honest” in the scenario above). To “break the rules” in this blatant way is
called flouting the maxims, and is communicatively cooperative. Verbal irony, for
example is communicatively cooperative, despite flouting the maxim of quality.
The following example comes at the start of an episode of Law and Order (NBC
1990–present). The exchange takes place between two police officers, called to a
crime scene while the murder victim is still lying there:
1 GREEN: Looks like somebody just knocked off a street dealer.
2 BRISCOE: Yeah, what a shame.
(Season 13, episode 12, “Under God,” written by Marc Guggenheim and Noah
Baylin; Green is played by Jesse L. Martin and Briscoe by Jerry Orbach)
“A shame” is a very mild expression of regret for a death, and the inappropri-
ateness of this mildness may thus constitute a violation of the relation (rele-
vance) maxim. Alternatively, between two characters who share the belief that
drug dealers are a vicious element of humanity who do not deserve to live, “a
shame” is not a mild expression of regret at all but an ironically untrue state-
ment, manifestly breaching the quality maxim and generating the implicature
that this wicked man deserved to die. Nevertheless, their subsequent pursuit of
the criminal case carries for the viewer indications that the speaker is not
professionally committed to the contrary proposition that the victim deserved to
die. In subtle ways like this, Law and Order’s dialogue realizes a disjuncture in
characterization between the personal and professional self.
Another way of breaking the rules is to violate them. This is communicatively
uncooperative. To violate the maxim of quality is to lie: to produce discourse that
will not generate a true implicature but that will, instead, get the hearer to believe
an untruth or at least believe that the speaker believes the untruth. If speaker B
believes that C is not honest, but responds to A’s question by saying, “Yes, C is
honest and hardworking,” B is committed to C’s honesty and A has no reason, in
the absence of any other information sources, to think otherwise.
In relation to naturally occurring speech, one of the concerns about how the
Gricean approach, and others of a similar character such as relevance theory
(Sperber and Wilson 1986), model communication has to do with the impor-
tance attached to states of mind on the part of the speaker or hearer or both. As
Cameron puts it, “Because we cannot read our interlocutor’s minds, but can only
attribute intentions, thoughts, feelings and so on, to them on the basis of what
they say and do, it is problematic to treat linguistic meaning as dependent on the
accurate retrieval of a speaker’s intentions by a hearer” (2001: 71). The study of
lying ought therefore to fall outside the purview of linguistic pragmatics. Lying
and truth telling are indistinguishable from the interpreter’s perspective. How-
ever, the existence of these two possibilities in our culture is congruent with
dominant ideas regarding subjectivity, in which an inner or private self may be
quite different from the self that is projected to other people. The Coronation
Street extract discussed in an earlier section of this chapter demonstrated one way
of dramatizing this kind of construction. Lying is just one of the ways in which
selves, or subjects, may use the resources of language to keep information to
themselves, to the private realm, while still participating in social interaction.
The significance of this for the study of drama dialogue is this: because of the
double discourse of drama, any production that subscribes to the dominant view of
what constitutes subjectivity will itself, via the narrative and/or via the discourse
of other characters, supply its virtual people with whatever private knowledge,
motivations, intentions, and so forth that the story requires them to have, and
will be able to manipulate audience’s access to those private realms—though not
quite as easily as a novelist can. Among other things, this means that whereas it
is true that in “ordinary life” we cannot know whether speaker B is lying or telling
the truth when he says “Yes, C is honest” (though our access to other information
sources may influence our judgments), in the context of a (realist) drama we
certainly can, should it be dramatically relevant for us to know this. This includes
the possibility that there will be paralinguistic and kinesic signs preceding,
following, or contiguous with the false utterance that are for the benefit of the
audience and not for the benefit of the fictional interlocutor. Such signs may or
may not be interpretable as “leakage” on the speaker’s part—signs that are
inadvertently given off, in the manner of poker “tells,” by those speakers, in
which the audience may judge that the interlocutor could have picked them up as
signs of deception, but did not. A character who cannot meet an interlocutor’s
gaze while telling a lie may avoid the danger of doing so by occupying themselves
in some mundane task—doing the washing up, watering the plants, tidying the
room. These behaviors—business, in theatrical parlance—might not be written
into the script but instead be matters for directorial discretion or an actor’s own
judgment on what kind of performance would be appropriate. But truth tellers,
just as much as liars, might have reason to talk and wash the dishes at the same
time. Audiences will need to rely on the designed combinations of narrative
context and nonverbal signs to come to some decisions about who can be trusted
and to what extent.
Turn Taking and Turn Sequencing

Sociologists in the 1970s, frustrated with the logics of mainstream sociological
explanation, sought to develop methods that would take seriously and seek to
account for the orderliness of lived experience, on the premise that this orderli-
ness was not in the first instance imposed from above, but was a practical
accomplishment of social actors in everyday life. The orderliness of conversation,
of talk, was of particular interest because of its ubiquity. Data in the form of
audio recordings was easy to obtain in the era of light, inexpensive tape-recording
equipment, and the properties of interest to such scholars were to be found in
even the smallest fragments of talk exchange (though for certain purposes, large
quantities of similar talk fragments proved very useful). This research was able to
draw attention to many significant (and hitherto unremarked) regularities in the
construction of talk exchanges, making use of such concepts as transition
relevance place (TRP), adjacency pair, and preference organization.2
Viewed in the light of this approach, the 100% hindsight possessed by writers,
directors, and actors of screen dialogue, which is an advantage in terms of
narrative production, is a denial of talk’s very essence as emergent, coconstructed
social order. Any dialogue scene that ends with a character “unexpectedly”
bursting into tears was written, all along, to produce just that ending, and is
directed and performed appropriately. The contrived talk, nevertheless, has to
help foster the illusion of emergence and coconstruction. The crying has to come
across to the audience like a spontaneous and unplanned but plausible, moti-
vated, response to what precedes it. What precedes it will, of course, also have
been written, directed, and performed to make crying plausibly “unexpected” as a
response to what went before.
Audiences have been taught to accept dialogue scenes on these mimetic
terms. The twists and turns of a talk exchange through self and other correction,
insertion, and side sequences, preferred and dispreferred responses, skip con-
nections, and so on may require them only to follow the utterance-by-utterance
progression of the talk on the basis of the same constructional resources that
they themselves use in spontaneous talk.
But these same constructional resources support more than just ability to
comprehend the moves being made in a conversational exchange. They also
help to support more playful and/or aesthetic communicative and interactive
effects. For example, in comedies, one recurrent device involves extended se-
quences of skip connecting, in which each character in effect pursues his or
her own monologue, without reference to the intercut speaking turns of the
other character. This may have been formally creative once, but has become tired
with repetition. It has, however, given rise to variations, such as the following
short sequence from an episode of the successful American sitcom Friends
(NBC 1994–2004).
Monica and Chandler (Courteney Cox Arquette and Matthew Perry), who are
friends with one another in 4 of the show’s 10 seasons, lovers for another 3, and a
married couple in the rest, are in bed together. Monica is upset because Phoebe
indicated that, were she lesbian, she would prefer Rachel as a girlfriend over
Monica. Chandler is upset because he thinks he invented a joke that Ross has
taken credit for and published in a magazine.
1 MONICA : She picked Rachel. I mean, she tried to back out of it, but it was obvious.
She picked Rachel.
2 CHANDLER : He took my joke, he took it.
3 MONICA : It’s wrong. You know what else is wrong? Phoebe picking Rachel.
4 CHANDLER : You know who else picked Rachel? Ross, and you know what else
Ross did? He stole my joke. You know what? I’m going to get a joke journal.
Y’know? And document the date and time of every single one of my jokes.
5 MONICA : That’s a good idea.
6 CHANDLER : Yeah!
7 MONICA : Do you know what’s a bad idea?
8 CHANDLER : Picking Rachel.
9 MONICA : That’s right.
(Season 6, episode 12, “The One with the Joke,” written by Andrew Reich and Ted Cohen)
The start of the conversation in turns 1 and 2 may suggest to the audience that it
can expect a fairly standard (in sitcom) skip-connection routine. There is no
thematic connection between what Monica says and what Chandler says, and
they are not looking at one another as they take turns. But what actually occurs,
from line 3 on, is more formally creative than that—and it also manages, as a
bonus, to remain faithful to the dynamics of the relationship between the two
characters. Each of the participants, in turns 3 and 4, uses that turn both to
indicate (perfunctorily) an interest in the other’s topic, and to shift topics. In turn
2, Chandler complains about Ross’s plagiarism; in turn 3, Monica agrees that
this is wrong. But having thus obtained the floor, she puts it to use in shifting the
topic back to her issue. This pattern is repeated in turn 4, and, in more attenuated
form, for the sake of variation, across turns 5–7. The topic is then rather than
abruptly switched, by playing with semantic patterns to propose a connection
between the two topics. The connection at turn 3 is one of similarity. The joke
theft and Phoebe’s preference are both “wrong” things. The connection at turn 4
has more stages. The first stage treats “picking Rachel” to be the connectable
device introduced by Monica—the given information, in textual terms. “Ross” is
the new information because he, too, “picked Rachel” as a girlfriend. The second
stage draws from this the predicate “Ross did x” and treats that as given
information. “Stole my joke” is then introduced as the new information—these
are both “things done by Ross.” In both transitions, there is a question-and-
answer sequence, with the speaker answering his/her own question. In the third
transition, in which the relationship is one of contrast rather than of similarity,
between “good” and “bad” ideas, Monica does not have to answer her own
question. She gets Chandler to answer it, and this time, although he manages
to perform the collaborative, other-oriented part of the routine, he holds back on
the more self-centered contribution: he does not attempt another topic shift. This
can be seen as a characteristic deferral to Monica: their relationship, which
becomes a romantic/sexual one at the end of series 4, is one in which it is
more usual for Monica to “win” any contests they may have. This is made explicit
later in the series as they prepare for their wedding:
1 MONICA :
We’re going to Las Vegas to see your dad. It’s time you two talked,
and I want to get to know my father-in-law.
2 CHANDLER : Y’know we already went over this and I won!
3 MONICA : No you didn’t. Oh and honey just so you know, now that you’re
marrying me, you don’t get to win anymore.
[...]
1 CHANDLER : So I really never get to win anymore?
2 MONICA : Ah, how much did you ever really win before?
(Season 7, episode 22, “The One with Chandler’s Dad,” written by Brian Buckner
and Sebastian Jones)
Hearings
This subheading relates back to a point made at the start of the chapter:
whatever a speaker’s strategy may be, and however consciously adopted, speakers
cannot ultimately dictate what aspects of their utterances hearers may be sensi-
tive to and orient to in their responses. The discrete subjectivities of speaker
and hearer create at every juncture an uptake gap—and there are limits on
how far participants can prepare themselves for the negotiation of this gap.
Conversation analysis has shown how participants display, in their own contri-
butions, their interpretations, or “hearings,” of what has gone before. Among
the meanings that participants can respond to in this way we must include
errors, unintended humor, and unintended insults. Such meanings, for their
producer, are tangential to the main through line of the talk. They can arguably
be said not to exist unless they are explicitly attended to, and thus heard, in
subsequent contributions.
Questions arise, however, about the influence of unacknowledged meaning
on the conduct of talk. Accent convergence or divergence, for example, seeming-
ly requires no explicit recognition, or even consciousness, of speaker identity, yet
the phenomenon whereby speakers adjust their pronunciation to sound more
like an interlocutor they feel solidarity with, or less like an interlocutor they are at
odds with, is well established.3 A speaker might refrain from drawing attention
to a persistent malapropism in an interlocutor’s speech, and even go so far as to
use the malapropism herself, rather than substitute the correct word and
risk insulting the speaker’s linguistic knowledge. Alongside the influence or
lack of influence of such meanings on the conduct of the talk, there may
also be influence as regards impression formation. A speaker with a large
repertoire of malapropisms is subjectively marked as lacking in education by a
more educated interlocutor, though not by one who is at a similar or lower
educational level.
In the context of multiparty and public talk, scripted or otherwise, unacknowl-
edged meaning cannot be wholly dismissed as unreal. Audiences (I include here
overhearers and eavesdroppers as well as nonspeaking but ratified participants)
may notice and be affected by meanings that speaking participants (choose to)
ignore.
In a multiparty conversation, when one speaker takes the floor from another
in accordance with turn-taking rules, all other speakers are shut out. This
includes any who had attempted or contemplated a contribution of their
own at that point. Lost, in consequence, is the sequential relevance of whatever
such shut-out contributions might have had on the progress of the talk.
The artificiality of scripted, performed dialogue has a lot to do with its lack of
interest in either the shutting out of participants or in conversational roads not
taken. All that is required is that the dialogue and/or its performance does not
subvert the principles that, in real life, produce interactive speech in which
things do go unsaid and unnoticed, and in which participants have routinely
tried and failed to make their voices heard.
Imagine a scene set in a lingerie factory. British readers might like to think of
“Underworld”—a factory in the fictional town of Weatherfield in which the soap
opera Coronation Street is set. One of the factory workers is a cast regular—
“Janice Battersby” (played by Vicky Entwhistle). But scenes in this location call
for other bodies on screen beside hers to represent the workforce. The factory
boss calls out for “someone” to lock up. The plot needs Janice to be that someone.
It does not offend the principles of interaction if Janice now speaks, volunteering
herself for this chore. Yet any member of the workforce could in principle have
offered, and the rules of interaction at this point provide for any or all of the
potential volunteers to indicate their offer through speech or otherwise. Dramat-
ically speaking, of course, no one is interested in the other “possible” volunteers,
not even them.
The proposition that dramatic dialogue should not overtly contravene
the rules for naturally occurring talk-in-interaction is not an absolute one. In
comedic contexts the subversion of these conventions may be the device on
which the humor relies, as in a classic British comedy sketch, parodying
the TV quiz show Mastermind (readers are invited to follow my example
and locate this clip on YouTube using keywords “the two Ronnies” and
“mastermind”).
1 QUIZMASTER ( RONNIE BARKER ): And so to our first contender. Good evening. Your
name please?
2 CONTESTANT SMITHERS ( RONNIE CORBETT ): Good evening.
3 Q: Last time, your chosen subject was answering questions before they were asked.
This time you have chosen to answer the question before last each time, is that
correct?
4 S : Charlie Smithers.
5 Q : And your time starts now. What is paleontology?
6 S : Yes, absolutely correct.
7 Q : What’s the name of the directory which lists members of the peerage.
8 S : A study of old fossils.
9 Q : Correct. Who are Len Murray and Sir Geoffrey Howe?
10 S : Burke’s.
11 Q : Correct. What is the difference between a donkey and an ass?
12 S : One’s a trade union leader, the other is a member of the Cabinet.
13 Q : Correct. Complete the quotation “To be or not to be. . . . ”
14 S : They’re both the same.
(Episode from 1980, writing credit not available)
The question in turn 3, “What’s the name of the directory which lists mem-
bers of the peerage?” has as the correct answer “Burke’s”—which Corbett/
Smithers duly delivers not in turn 4 but in turn 6, as required by the self-imposed
rule of this encounter. Meanwhile, in turn 4, he gives a correct answer to the
question asked in turn 1—“a study of old fossils.” The humor comes from the
unwanted but inescapable relevance of turn 4 to turn 3, on the basis that the
British peers of the realm can indeed be metaphorically viewed as “old fossils.”
Despite the introduction of a new rule of talk, just for this encounter, the
coexistence of the standard conventions is absolutely necessary for the humor
to work.
Meanwhile, within the bounds of normal talk conventions and for dramatic as
well as comedic purposes, characters may be required to do the following:
1. To hear meanings that other characters intend them to hear, directly
or indirectly expressed
2. Not to hear meanings that other characters intend them to hear—to
“miss the point”
3. To hear meanings that other characters do not intend them to
hear—to “read between (or over, or under) the lines”
The third option here can be understood as a matter of unintended conse-
quence—the malapropism that signifies “uneducated,” the Freudian slip that
signifies a guilty thought, the foreign accent that signifies origins. In the follow-
ing exchange, from the series 24 (Fox 2001–present), season 5, episode 1, Wayne
Palmer (D. B. Woodside) and ex-president David Palmer (Dennis Haysbert), who
are brothers, are discussing David’s memoirs. Wayne hears silence from David
when it was his turn to speak (line 1). Not only does Wayne hear this silence as
“distraction” (line 9), he also hears it as part of a pattern of distraction, the latest
instance in a sequence. David’s explanation (line 10) will later be shown to be
a smokescreen. David, seconds before his assassination, was harboring an
explosive political secret that he could not disclose to Wayne.
1 WAYNE :
You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?
2 DAVID :
Yeah, I was listening.
3 WAYNE : No you weren’t.
4 DAVID : You’re right, I’m sorry.
5 WAYNE : Are you OK?
6 DAVID : I could use a break.
7 WAYNE : What’s going on?
8 DAVID : What do you mean?
9 WAYNE : I mean, you’ve been distracted ever since you got to Los Angeles. I don’t
know—it’s like you’re somewhere else.
10 DAVID : Writing my memoirs—maybe it’s put me in a melancholy mood.
(Season 5, episode 1, “7.00–8.00 A.M.,” written by Howard Gordon)
There is a difference between a scenario like this, in which a character is

confronted with an aspect of meaning that he or she did not intend, and one
in which only the audience is shown that a listening character has heard
something unintended from a speaking character’s talk.
In the following exchange from an episode of CSI (CBS 2000–present), our
hero Gil Grissom (William Petersen) seems to “read” the other character, Do-
minic Kretzker (Stephen Lee), as simple-minded (he cares too much about the
correct spelling of his name; he is too sycophantic), or guilty (his knowledge
about bombs is quasi-professional), or both. But Grissom does not treat Kretzker
as a suspect to his face. Instead, he panders to Dominic’s “wannabe” display and
offers him a role as an assistant on the case. Lest there be any doubt, his
comment to Catherine (Marg Helgenberger) after the encounter colloquially
says it all, for the audience’s benefit as well as hers:
1 KRETZKER : Mr. Grissom. Oh, uh . . . hi, I’ve . . . I’ve, um, I’ve seen you on TV before.
I admire your work.
2 GRISSOM : Well, thank you. And your name is?
3 KRETZKER : Uh, Dominic, with an “I-C” rather than with the “I-C-K” . . . uh,
Kretzker. I’m the, uh, Hansen Building Security Detail.
4 GRISSOM : Did somebody from homicide talk to you yet?
5 KRETZKER : Yeah. As a matter of fact, they said that I was going to be talking to you,
because, well, we are . . . you know, we’re both in law enforcement, and . . . [ . . . ]
6 GRISSOM : Well, I mean, realistically, what could you have done?
7 KRETZKER : Well, I know a lot about bombs. You know, pipe, power, powder.
The three “Ps” of mass destruction.
8 GRISSOM : Huh. Dominic . . . with an “I-C,” not “I-C-K” . . .
9 KRETZKER : Yes sir?

10 GRISSOM : Would you be interested in helping me in my investigation?
11 KRETZKER : Are you serious? (he chuckles.) Yeah. Yes, sir. I’d be honored, sir. Oh. But we
can’t tell anybody on the day shift, though because they’re going to get real jealous.
12 GRISSOM : That’s good thinking [ . . . ] Would you excuse me a minute?
13 KRETZKER : Yes.
14 GRISSOM TO OFFICER : Keep an eye on that guy.
15 OFFICER : All right.
16 KRETZKER ( TO HIMSELF ): Oh, yeah!
17 GRISSOM ( TO CATHERINE ): Well, we got a live one out there. I got a cop
baby-sitting him. How you doing?
(Season 1, episode 13, “Boom,” written by Josh Berman, Ann Donahue, and Carol Mendelsohn)
Talk about Talk

As the 24 example above shows, it may be the case that when speakers produce
hearings of previous contributions that orient to unintended aspects of meaning,
they shift from language to metalanguage, from communication to metacommuni-
cation (Jaworski et al. 2004). In this case, Wayne Palmer metalinguistically refers to
the meaning of David Palmer’s silence, for which there was no intended commu-
nicative effect on David’s part. This kind of metalanguage is concerned with the
management and negotiation of meaning in talk and, as Cameron has said, is an
essential communicative resource, without which no kind of recognizably human
interaction would be possible: “Metalinguistic resources are necessary to allow
language to function as the extremely flexible means of communication we know
it to be. Without such resources we would be reduced to the level of Wittgenstein’s
builders, able only to exchange a limited set of predetermined messages (and with
no recourse if the communication happened to fail)” (Cameron 2004: 312). To this
extent, therefore, we should not be surprised to find that human interaction as
displayed in dramatic works would also involve the staging of strategies that involve
metacommunication. The 24 example is a mundane instance of this, scarcely
noticeable as such because of its essentially realist grounding. Someone with
more important things on his mind finds it hard to pay attention to the business
at hand, and an interlocutor notices and comments on this.
But television drama is by no means restricted to the staging of metacommu-
nication of this basic sort. Elsewhere in the repertoire of possibilities it is possible
to find rather more creative and expressive deployment of metalanguage in
dialogue. Notable in this respect is The West Wing (NBC 1999–2007). This series,
as I have argued elsewhere (Richardson 2006), makes use of metacommunica-
tion to a marked degree. Prospective and retrospective discussion of talk perfor-
mances are a staple feature of the show. To an extent this would be expected in a
series with this particular subject matter: the behind-the-scenes world of White
House politics. In real life and in fiction, the publicness of politics is understood
as itself necessarily “staged”—and much political action takes place in the public
domain. But the staging of politics presupposes stagers—agents who take
responsibility for performance, who prepare it before the event and explain it
after the event. Preparation takes place “offstage,” and in The West Wing it is the
speech and behavior in the off-stage realm that is the primary object of dramati-
zation.
The extent and character of the metacommunication (which is metasemiotic
rather than narrowly metalinguistic) in The West Wing, however, goes beyond the
basic requirement of keeping faith with the realities of political life. It seems to
have an additional, expressive function within the dramatic project of the series.
The expressive function, as I read it, has to do with recruiting audiences to a
positive and sympathetic view of the characters in this world—the president and
his immediate aides. Thanks to the humor, and the wit, which underlies much of
this metacommunicative discourse, we come to appreciate that the characters
are smart, but also self-mocking and self-critical as occasion demands. We know
from their actions that they are nobly well-intentioned. The combined character-
istics that they thus display operate to counteract a widespread prejudice that
audiences might be expected to hold—that these people, who are essentially
spin doctors, are thus necessarily engaged in corrupt, deceitful work. In addition,
the metacommunicative commentaries of these characters provide added appeal
for the educated audience that this show seeks to attract.
DISCUSSION
I have suggested in this chapter that sociolinguists start from a position of

strategic naiveté when they use pragmatic and other theories to explain the
interactive conduct of speakers as if they were real people and not simulacra.
I have also tried to justify this approach on the grounds that it works with the
grain of what dramatists and their collaborators are trying to achieve, making
explicit some of the interpretative work that is entailed in understanding
the drama on its own terms. A secondary aspect of this justification is that the
naive approach understands well enough that it is naive, that it is a strategy of
interpretation that can be recast in more sophisticated terms through periodic
reminders that the meanings thus derived have actually been put there by the
dramatists and not by the characters.
As chapter 5 showed, actual viewers (at least those who produce their own
texts on the basis of their viewing experiences) do not limit themselves to naive
interpretations of characters and their interactive behavior. They frequently and
variously address themselves to the construction of the text as a cultural product,
telling each other, for instance, not what “Donna Noble” and “The Doctor” said to
one another, but what Russell T. Davies as a writer and Catherine Tate as an
actress are trying to put across in this respect to the audience. Strategic, analytic
naiveté, developed as a scholarly method, thus runs the risk of seeming to be less
clued in to the nature of dramatic discourse than viewers in general are. Caveats
about the “real” source of the interactional meaning may seem rather gestural in
this context. More important, though, viewers and sociolinguistic scholars alike,
to the extent that they do sidestep one kind of innocence, arguably fall prey
to another: the innocence of attributing meaning to an auteur of some sort when
an important dynamic of critical theory in the last half-century has been to resist
this auteurist model of meaning production through texts.
Seen from this perspective, there is another possible defense of the “original
sin” of reading characters as people and crediting them with the mental states
appropriate to the lines they exchange with one another. Our own everyday
interactional behavior regularly includes encounters in which the consequences
may be serious and/or the utterances are hearably unclear, ambiguous, indeter-
minate, or otherwise difficult. These are circumstances that push us into more
than usually self-conscious work on the interpretation of our exchanges with
other people, including remedial metalanguage: “What are you getting at?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” and so forth. In such cases there will often be
an experience of never really knowing why someone else said what they said, what
they might have meant by it, what degree of intentionality to attribute to it, and
how far to examine it for indirect meanings, both intended and unintended. If it is
important for analysts and critics to appreciate the inconclusiveness/indetermi-
nacy of all textual meaning, then a reading strategy that starts out as naively
character-based may be a more satisfactory route to that appreciation than the
superficially more sophisticated auteurist strategy. To focus on a real person,
whether Shakespeare, Dennis Potter, or Russell T. Davies, is, misguidedly, to
keep alive the hope of conclusive answers. To focus on the simulacra is to have an
easily accessible reminder that “they” could never have intended anything.
What this chapter has also shown is that the conventions by which TV
dramatists produce dialogue that is acceptable on generically conditioned
terms as simulated talk are also capable of producing effects that go beyond
the requirements of credible simulation, or diverge from those requirements.
Even the highly artificial sociolinguistic patterning of the Barker/Corbett Master-
mind sketch is possible only as a conscious and explicit manipulation of the
normal and well-founded principle that question-and-answer is a coconstructed
adjacency pair whose unity can be disrupted only in certain well-governed ways.
The West Wing’s efforts to ensure goodwill toward its spin doctors give thematic
purpose to the extensive displays of metalanguage and metacommunication that
its characters deploy in the course of “business-as-usual” behind the scenes of
American political life.
7
Dialogue, Character, and Social

Cognition
All drama is in the business of creating and sustaining characters. In the realistic
and naturalistic dramatic modes favored by television, audiences expect to read
characters as people, to impute meaning to their behavior and their speech as
they do to the behavior and speech of their real-life acquaintances. Writers,
actors, and directors exert effort toward feeding and satisfying those expecta-
tions, and audiences who collaborate with these efforts are willing to take the
embodied utterances they hear from the screen as signs of underlying identities,
along with attitudes, stances, values, beliefs that may vary with the relationships
and situations that characters are confronted with in the course of the story.
Audiences are able to perform these interpretative tasks thanks to the consider-
able amounts of social knowledge they possess, derived from their prior experi-
ences of real people and other fictional characters. The creativity of this process
is thus very much a question of what dramatists feel able to assume regarding
that social knowledge, and how they choose to engage with this.
READING FOR CHARACTER
The interpretation of characters and the interpretation of people are not identical
processes. Impressions formed when real people are being assessed are norma-
tively treated as meanings given off (Goffman 1959), by-products of their actions,
rather than impressions consciously given by those people. From this normative
and innocent perspective, when we surmise that someone talking to us is, for
instance, distressed, Italian, and suffering from a cold, it is not because he has
told us these things in so many words, or even because he wants us to know them,
but because we assume, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, that he is
not conscious of, or not concerned enough to control, the indexical signs (includ-
ing aspects of speech) that permit these guesses to be made. From a narrowly
communicative perspective, however, they are optional inferences on our part.
127
Goffman showed that all speakers engage in the routine manipulation of

meanings supposedly “given off”—with some risk to face, should the manipula-
tion be detected, and construed in moral terms as a kind of attempted deception.
This possibility of moral judgment arises only if the manipulation is covertly
managed, not if it is explicit, and certainly not if it is framed as play. In a
nonserious framing, it can contribute to the texture of everyday discourse, with
speakers putting on identities to entertain, amuse, and enlighten one another.
Drama, in this perspective, is just the most official and formalized framing
possibility. And the acquiescent viewers of a dramatic performance know that
they should, in this context, pay attention to the indexical signs, that this is a
requirement for successful engagement with the production.
If a stranger on a train asks me if the adjacent seat is free, an expectation is
created, and my subsequent behavior, linguistic and nonlinguistic, will be inter-
preted in the light of that expectation. If I do nothing, it will be a meaningful
nothing in this context. My orientation to the communicative purpose of the
utterance is required, or some account for the absence of such an orientation.
One possible account is that I did not hear the question. My not-hearing is a
meaningful moment in this scenario, albeit one engendered through me, rather
than by me as an agent.
If I do hear the request, I may inwardly react to the speaker as being rude,
polite, or neither, as well as reflect on what his clothes, speech, body language,
and so forth “say” about him. His performance of the question and my perfor-
mance of a response are publicly accountable also in terms of social norms of
politeness and respect. But person perception (the term used in social psychology
for this kind of assessment), which is ubiquitous, and consequential for social
relations as well as the conduct of particular interactions, may go well beyond the
matters that are significant for our respective performances of politeness. Our
assessments of each other as British or foreign, straight or gay, shy or outgoing
do not have the same consequences in generating accountable public perfor-
mance. They take place in the background of the social encounter, possibly below
the threshold of consciousness, with the communicative purpose of the event in
the foreground.
In drama, these assessments become more consequential. They are sub-
sumed by the overarching communicative event. Audiences are supposed to
form character impressions in this context. The writing/performance/produc-
tion is designed to promote particular impressions/inferences, even while trying
to configure them as matters of background meaning, in the relations between
the characters themselves, to accommodate the lateral and projective dimen-
sions/axes of the discourse context (Herman 1995) or the embedded discourse
structure (Short 1996).
Consider the case of the character “Philippa Morecroft ” in Victoria Wood’s
situation comedy of the late 1990s, dinnerladies (BBC 1998–2000). The first
Dialogue, Character, and Social Cognition 129
episode of the series engages the British viewers’ understanding of social class
differences in contemporary Britain. Philippa (played by Celia Imrie) is estab-
lished early in that episode as southern English, lower middle class, and in
a white-collar occupation. She is newly entering the working environment of a
tight-knit group of northern working class women in blue-collar jobs (factory
canteen workers), varying in age from young adult to near retirement, as their
human resources manager—a superior status to theirs. Philippa wants to bond
with these women. She has the advantage of status; they have the advantage of
solidarity. Because the audience is meant to be reading for character when they
watch the show, it ought to pick up on aspects of the talk that are background as
far as the characters themselves are concerned. Philippa’s posh southern accent
is a contributory factor in this context, contrasting as it does with the Manchester
accents of the dinnerladies themselves. Audiences witness how the latter re-
spond to Philippa, and understand that her accent, along with her clothing,
demeanor, social address, and the content/force of her utterances, have influ-
enced them to behave as they do. The northern women are guarded, funny at
her expense, and they react with scorn to some of her suggestions for fun things
to do together after work or during the lunch break: “Why not Scottish country
dancing?”
CHARACTERS, PERSONS, AND VOICES
Characters
Chatman (1978), among others, has put forward the view that characters in
fiction are entities that come off as having a life of their own—a kind of credibili-
ty that goes beyond the functional requirements of the narrative. “Tony Soprano”
does not exist as a real person. “He” does not do anything, does not say anything,
and does not own anything—outside of the scenes that feature him in the show.
Of course, because The Sopranos (HBO 1990–1997) operates within formally
realist conventions, a huge amount of effort is invested in having him come off
as someone who could exist, and this effort is rewarded whenever audiences
discuss the thought processes that might have led “him” to a particular course of
action, write additional scenes for their own satisfaction and that of other fans, or
demand backstories.1 It is not necessary to go so far as sending “him” birthday
presents, or letters asking if “he” feels better after his illness, to be imaginatively
caught up in the reality effect. All that is required is collusion with the artifice—a
slightly more active mental state than mere suspension of disbelief. This accords
with Chatman’s advocacy of an “open theory of character” (1978: 119–126):
“A viable theory of character should preserve openness and treat characters as
autonomous beings, not as mere plot functions. It should argue that character is
reconstructed by the audience from evidence announced or implicit in an

original construction and communicated by the discourse, through whatever
medium” (1978: 119). Chatman was arguing against the purely structural view of
character in fiction (deriving from the work of such scholars as Propp, Greimas,
and Northrop Frye). Chatman believed that we draw on the same resources to
interpret characters as we do to interpret the people we meet in real life:
“The same principle (of inferring character and personality) operates with new
acquaintances; we read between their lines, so to speak; we form hypotheses on
the basis of what we know and see; we try to figure them out, predict
their actions, and so on” (1978: 118). Herman (1995: 45) talks about the fragmen-
tary or “gapped” evidence that drama provides about the nature of the characters
featured in it. Our evidence about the nature of “real people” is likewise frag-
mentary.
Narratives need characters, but there is no requirement that the characters
should be human beings. They can be whatever imagination allows and the
medium affords, though human nature is always the point of reference. Discuss-
ing film characters, Chatman writes the following:
There are animated cartoons in which a completely contentless object is endowed

with characterhood, that is, takes on the meaning “character” because it engages in
a suitably anthropomorphic action (that is, a movement on the screen that is
conceived as an instance of human movement). An example is the film by Chuck
Jones called The Dot and the Line, whose plot runs roughly as follows: a line courts a
dot, but the dot is going around with a squiggle, a sort of hip jokester. Whatever we
think of the dot and the line as geometric familiars, the squiggle is surely without
meaning until it moves. That is, as a drawn object projected on the screen, no one
would identify it as anything but a random assemblage of swirling lines. In context,
however, in its visible movement-relations with the dot and the line, it becomes a
character. (1978: 25)
Television exhibits a full range of character realizations. TV characters

can be full, normal human beings (Coronation Street, ITV 1960–present,
Desperate Housewives, ABC 2004–present), human beings with superpowers
(Heroes, NBC 2006–present), extraterrestrial entities (like the Daleks in
Doctor Who, BBC 1963–present), flesh-and-blood animals (the eponymous Mister
Ed, CBS 1961–1966, was a talking horse), cartoon animals (Tom and Jerry,
CBS 1965–1972), cartoon humans (The Simpsons, Fox 1989–present), graphic
shapes (BUPA commercials on British TV, in which triangles and circles
conduct social lives, various channels, 2007–2008),2 animal or human
puppets (“Sooty” and “Sweep,” respectively, a glove puppet panda bear and a
dog from The Sooty Show, ITV 1968–1992, and string puppets in Thunderbirds,
ITV 1965–1966), or material artifacts (rubber gloves in the sponsor identifica-
tions for House, Fox 2004–present, and on British TV as animated talking
puppets).3
As in the Chuck Jones film, entities in a TV dramatization can come off as

characters, in certain circumstances, just because they have functions in the
narrative. A narrative action of some kind is performed, and the entity
performing it is, by default, a character. The triangles and circles of the BUPA
commercials are characters in this minimal sense. Thanks to the health insur-
ance company, granny (a flat white circle, with a dark gray stylized “hairstyle” on
top) can go to a care home while the rest of the family (a pink circle and a red
triangle) take a much-needed vacation. These characters have no dialogue, but a
voiceover guides our interpretation of their onscreen movements and those of
the camera.
Chatman, following Barthes (1974) speaks of “the quintessence of selfhood,”
which in written fiction attaches to a proper name as something over and above
the unification of specific character traits, and in screen fiction attaches to a
visualized (but not necessarily human) form: “The proper name in this sense is
precisely the identity or quintessence of selfhood property. . . . It may well be
what Aristotle meant by homois. It is a kind of ultimate residence of personality,
not a quality but a locus of qualities, the narrative-noun that is endowed with but
never exhausted by the qualities, the narrative-adjectives” (Chatman 1978: 131).
Persons
The triangles and circles of the BUPA commercials are characters, but they are
not prototypical characters on television.4 Prototypical characters here have bod-
ies as well as functions—they are dramatic persons. Persons may be characters or
they may be extras, actors paid only to populate a scene on camera. The embodi-
ment of character in performance is important because, other things being
equal, the dominant metaphysics of Western cultures predisposes us to impute
subjectivity to all people we encounter in real life, and all “persons” we encounter
on stage, loudspeaker, and screen. Possession of subjectivity is a default assump-
tion for any moving human body and any speaking human voice. Subjectivity
equates here with possession of a mind, capable of thinking, knowing, believing,
judging, and so forth. The converse applies to nonembodied characters.
By default, these lack subjectivity, though as in the BUPA commercials, we
may be brought to construe otherwise as we watch and listen.
A degree of embodiment is present in radio drama, which can present the
body through its voice. Staged drama, as well as the audiovisual kind, can also
present the body visually, whereas audiovisual drama (film and television) can
make use of cinematic codes of shot length, depth of field, take duration, and so
forth to control how its audiences encounter the physical body. Use of the voice is
characteristic across all dramatic modes, though, as in mime and ballet, it is not
essential in those that also have a visual dimension, and speech has been
regarded rather negatively in the world of film: “Basically, the perfect movie
doesn’t have any dialogue. So you should always be striving to make a silent
movie” (Mamet 1991: 72; see also Kozloff 2000: chapter 1).The significance of all
this is the power of the audiovisual conspiracy: first, to endow onscreen char-
acters with subjectivity, and second, to make that subjectivity feel substantive,
particular, real. Only when persons-with-subjectivity start to be differentiated one
from another can we really talk of character in the full sense.
Voices
Embodiment of character is all too easily conceived of as a visual matter, some-
thing about what we see on the screen or on the stage. There is a real danger of
forgetting that embodiment is also aural. In radio drama, and on the soundtrack
of audiovisual drama, bodies are realized as voices. There is considerable debate
in the film literature on the aesthetic merits of synchronization—in other words,
whether and when speakers should be seen and heard at the same time. This is
part of a larger debate about the kind of work that audiences should be expected
to do. Too much synchronization arguably makes life too easy for the audience—
beguiling it into referential readings of the characters and their world, at the
expense of more imaginative/challenging/aesthetically worthy/ideologically
open possibilities (Kozloff 2000: 96–104).5 In defense of synchronization, Kozloff
argues that “watching talk” is rewarding because “it allows viewers to study and
compare so many simultaneous signifiers: the actors’ words, their voices, their
intonations; their facial expressions, the look in their eyes, their body posture,
their gestures, their costuming; the setting and its use of light and art direction”
(2000: 99). Voices, of course, deliver dialogue, and dramatic narratives are
designed to foster the default belief that the point of origin for this dialogue is
the mind of the character speaking it. But the character exists only as a virtual
mind, not a real one, and unless the actor is improvising, dialogue originates
prior to production, usually as written text, and from someone other than the
performer.
Thus there is at this point a mismatch between production protocols
and protocols of interpretation. From a production perspective, writing comes
first and vocality (prosodic and paralinguistic delivery) is added. From an inter-
pretative perspective, vocality and writing (verbality) coexist. Vocal characteristics
(rhythm, pitch, intonation, volume, and voice quality) are not meant to be
experienced as add-ons—though they may be, if performances are poor. They
are experienced as part of the embodiment of character. Actors are chosen to
bring appropriate vocal qualities to the part. A certain natural unity of body and
voice is expected as regards age and gender. Professional skills also equip
performers to adapt: accents can be learned (think of Anna Friel’s American
accent in Pushing Daisies, David Anders’s southern English accent in Heroes);
pitch levels can be adjusted upward or downward; monotonous or excitable
delivery can be deployed to suit the character, the situation, or both. The effects of
voices on audiences can also be affected by the ways in which the set or the
performers are miked for sound. So argues Lury (2007) in relation to the
soundscape of CSI (CBS 2000–present):
The sound of the human voice in the dialogue in CSI is absolutely privileged in
relation to the other sounds in the programme. Thus the voices of the CSI team and
associated detectives are nearly always dry and close-miked. “Realistic” sound
perspective—which would reproduce the sound levels based on how far away the
characters apparently are from the camera—is rarely adhered to. [ . . . ] the fact that
actors’ voices are recorded via the use of radio mikes taped to parts of their anatomy
allows them (except when dramatically necessary) to effectively whisper their
dialogue. This means that the majority of the conversations in CSI are performed
in a low-pitched, breathy and intimate manner—the register of secrets and car-
esses. (2007: 113)
Vocal distinctiveness and vocal expressiveness are generically conditioned on

television. A Marge Simpson voice (as played by Julie Kavner in The Simpsons),
with its unusual combination of “feminine” high pitch and “masculine” rough-
ness is acceptable for a comic/cartoon character, but would sound artificial in
mainstream drama. Sketch comedy, such as that in Little Britain, is well named.
It offers vignettes of social life rather than full narratives, and vocal distinc-
tiveness is part of its kit for indicating character types, many of which are
extreme, comic exaggerations. The exaggerated subjectivities on display allow
for comic exaggeration of voicing, too. David Walliams as a “lady”—“Emily
Howard”—is a case in point. This character is no ordinary transvestite, but one
seeking to construct himself as an Edwardian lady, with the petticoats and
bonnets to prove it. A high-pitched voice is strenuously projected, consistent
with an image of extreme effort in bringing off this caricature in twenty-first
century Britain.6 Situation comedy voices are closer to the naturalistic norm, but
tend to be louder and tenser, and to offer a wider range of expressive variation—
especially those, like dinnerladies (BBC 1998–2000), which are performed before
a live studio audience. The effect of such a production space is to make more
theatrical speech possible.
Voices on television have work to do when there are verbal lines to be spoken.
They may also be called upon to produce nonverbal vocalization—to cry, to shout
and scream, to laugh, to choke and splutter. Only one kind of production makes
really significant use of such vocal sound—the crime reconstruction series
Crimewatch UK (BBC 1984–present).7 It is not always possible to reconstruct
the speech of real-life crime victims after the event, or that of the perpetrators.
Fidelity to the original event is important in this show, and it does not like to
create imaginary dialogue in the absence of records as to what was actually said.
But in the case of violent crime, realism can be salvaged by the inclusion of
some appropriate wordless, or indistinctly worded, screaming and yelling. It is
situation, rather than character, that is best served by such expression: faced with
such a situation, anyone might respond in this way. Not all character perfor-
mance on television favors the naturalistic acting mode, but this has been a
baseline against which other approaches have been assessed—stylized, man-
nered, melodramatic.
CHARACTER AND SCHEMATA
If characters can be like people, then it makes sense to ask whether the discipline
of psychology has anything to offer the study of character in drama. Person
perception theories developed within social psychology have explored how people
form impressions of one another in real life (see Hamilton 2005 for a represen-
tative collection of readings in this area). Those same theories have also been
extended to research on character in drama, notably in the early research of Sonia
Livingstone (1987, 1989, 1990):
Parallels between the representation of television characters and real-life people
allow the extension of person perception theories. For people’s everyday experience
of others is to some extent mirrored in the way that regular soap opera viewers
immerse themselves in a particular social milieu for many years and build up a
complex web of background knowledge, emotional reactions and personal judg-
ments. (Livingstone 1990: 113–114)
Livingstone here singles out soap opera characters especially as justifying the use
of these theories, because of the particular nature of soap as a genre, and
audience relations with that genre. Using multidimensional scaling techniques,
she determined, for instance, that audiences perceived characters in Coronation
Street by distinguishing among those who were more responsible and those who
were more staid. Characters’ gender, though not their social class, was perceptu-
ally salient.
Jonathan Culpeper (2001) has also used insights from psychology in the
exploration of literary character. Coming from a stylistic rather than a media
studies background, it is cognitive psychology just as much as social psychology
that has influenced his approach, and whereas Livingstone is concerned with the
empirical study of variability in audience uptake, Culpeper is more concerned
with general principles of interpretation.
Culpeper (2001) argues that one of the ways we read characters (form im-
pressions of characters in our minds) is by a top-down process involving the
accessing of relevant social schemata.8 The claim is that audiences already know,
for example, what police officers are, how they look, how they sound, and what
they do, so that, given appropriate signs in the text to activate the schema in
question (on television, of course, a police uniform would be enough), audiences
are well equipped to mentally create the character. Preexisting knowledge, not
the text, fills out the details and creates specific expectations regarding the
possible conduct of that character. Audiences will interpret actual conduct
thenceforward in the light of this prior knowledge. One of Culpeper’s examples
was illustrated and discussed earlier, in chapter 2.
The interpretation of real-life people begins in exactly the same way. A passing
body in a police uniform is a police officer—unless and until proven otherwise.
Police officers behave in a certain way—unless and until proven otherwise. In
fiction, characters that are never pushed beyond this initial assessment are flat
characters, or in Culpeper’s terms, “category based character impressions” (Cul-
peper 2001: chapter 2; see also chapter 2 in this volume). But characters need not
remain flat, and for Culpeper that is where textual cues, rather than existing
understandings, come into play. The text will show us that the particular police
officer, whether “Jack Frost,” “Morse,” “Frank Furedi,” “Ed Green,” or any other
is something more than a body instantiating a category. Our impressions of
him will develop and change as we become more familiar with him, witnessing
what he says and how he says it, what he does and how he does it.
Such enlarged characters may also provoke revision of the original schema,
what Guy Cook (1994) calls “schema refreshment”—not just in allowing viewers
to say that x is “not a stock policeman, after all” but “If x is a policeman, and x is
like that, then I was wrong about policemen” (trainspotters, women, Swedes . . . ).
Dramas have been written with the express intention of moving beyond popular
schemata. In everyday language, we might call this challenging stereotypes. Con-
sider this critical reaction to the British drama Queer as Folk (Channel Four 1999),
about gay lifestyle in Manchester:
The point of the TV series, written by Russell T. Davies, was to depict the lives of a
group of gay men in Manchester, and to demonstrate with tremendous energy and
gritty wit that homosexuals are not strange, but are as needy, horny, funny, dumb,
lovable, and anguished as any comparable group of heterosexuals. Except the gay
guys’ stomachs were much flatter. If all these seem obvious facts, jolly good for you,
but they invariably come as news to many people, some of whom were outraged by
“Folk”’s graphic displays of sex. (Entertainment Weekly, Dec. 1, 2000)9
It is instructive to assess this review through the lens of Cook’s approach. Cook
recognizes three different types of schema refreshment (1994: 191)—schema
destruction, schema construction, and schema connection. Queer as Folk, if it has
indeed gone beyond popular understanding and is denying the audience a
simple satisfaction of “understanding” by reading the schema into the bodies,
would fall into the first of these three categories. The audience is asked not to
create a new schema, but to rethink the original one in terms of differences, or
even to move beyond categorical interpretation. For this critic, the series does not
offer audiences a new or revised schema of northern English gay men. Such men
are “as needy, horny, funny, dumb, lovable, and anguished as any comparable
group of heterosexuals.” Something in popular understanding is disrupted, but
what that something might be is extremely vague—“homosexuals are not
strange.” What is put in its place is too diverse and/or too similar to the control
group—heterosexuals—to be considered a revised schema of gay men, except in a
very trivial sense of what can be considered a schema. The critic uses the final
sentence of his review to reconstruct his readership by construing them as
unprejudiced, like himself—“If all these seem obvious facts, jolly good for
you.” Other people, elsewhere in the audience, needed to have their schemas
challenged. But the review suggests those same people were offended by the sex,
even though promiscuous sexuality might well have been part of the original
schema. There is more social “baggage” in this critique than is apparent from
an initial reading.
According to Culpeper there are four groupings of character schemata: four
sets of character categories. Three of these sets are social, and one is textual. The
social groupings are as follows: (1) personal categories—for example, those
based on likes and dislikes; (2) social role categories—for example, kinship
roles and occupations; (3) group membership categories—for example, those
based on race, age, sex, class, and so forth (Culpeper 2001: 75–76). He suggests
that these three sets are organized hierarchically: group membership categories
are at the top of the hierarchy, social role categories are in the middle
(corresponding to the basic level of categorization in prototype theory), and
personal categories are at the bottom. The textual grouping comprises dramatic
role categories (Culpeper 2001: 87)—heroes, villains, heroines, helpers, and the
like—closely tied to genre.
To make this particular version of top-down character interpretation work for
TV drama, some further observations can be made.
First, there is the question of the activation of a relevant schema. Culpeper
is working from literary materials and tends to think in terms of written lan-
guage: on cinema and in television, schemata can be activated visually (and
would often be supported visually even if they are activated verbally). Although
the usual location for a trigger that activates a schema will be intratextual, it
is also worth remembering that TV drama production is embedded within
supporting discourses of reviews, trailers, and press interviews, so that schemata
may be anticipated even before a single second of some show has aired. Genre
expectations will also play a role. This suggests the need for a more contextual-
ized view than Culpeper’s of schema activation for this kind of drama. In
addition, much television drama operates on presumptions of continuity: there
are many more second and subsequent episodes of drama than there are first
episodes, because there is much more series drama than one-off production. In
terms of schema activation, this points to a real, practical tension for writers and
producers in steering between presumptions of familiarity and presumptions of
new acquaintanceship, given that many viewers will not join in the viewing
experience from the start of the pilot episode.
Some standard ways of dealing with this have been developed. One is the
“previously on . . .” recap section, before the opening credits and title sequence,
which brings the audience up to date and prepares them for what is to come,
with brief replays of key moments from earlier episodes. Others are more
customized. Thus the start of series 2 of Brothers and Sisters (ABC 2006–present)
contrives to have Nora, the matriarch (played by Sally Ann Field), create a
webcam message for the benefit of absent son Justin, and to tell the absentee
what has happened to his family over the summer—not coincidentally, the gap
between the first and the second series. These updates function primarily to
keep viewers abreast of the storylines, but they can also be helpful in the (re)
introduction of characters.
Second, it is appropriate to allow for other, nonschematic ways of reading for
character in real life and in representation. Culpeper argues that just as our
understandings of real-life acquaintances become fuller with each subsequent
encounter, so, too, as readers of texts, we can use bottom-up interpretative
strategies, and construct “rounder” characters, piecemeal, from multiple textual
clues—whether or not our first impression of them was schematic. There is no
reason to believe that characters in TV drama cannot, in principle, be found to
be “round” in this sense (or “person-based character impressions” in Culpeper’s
idiom). Culpeper himself believes that characters in at least some TV dramas are
not round:
However, many soaps [such as Neighbours, 7 Network, 1985–present] make almost

exclusive use of flat characters. Yet these soaps are phenomenally successful: view-
ers come back day after day for more. It may be the case that some viewers positively
value the schema-reinforcing nature of flat characters. Furthermore [ . . . ] the focus
for viewers may be on what characters do with their attributes. (Culpeper 2001: 96;
see also chapter 2 in this volume)
Third, there are questions surrounding the origins of schemata in individual

consciousness, and the relations between first- and secondhand experience in
their establishment. In the absence of any relevant firsthand experience, people
may acquire a “police officer” schema that originates in their secondhand ex-
periences as viewers of TV drama and/or other mediations. Specific dramatic role
schemata, such as the schema for “Western hero” (Culpeper 2001: 87), must
obviously originate in textual materials. This is not to deny the discursive or
semiotic nature of schemata, even those that are built exclusively from firsthand
experience.
Finally, there is a question of balancing authority and variability. We must
acknowledge the potential variability of schemata, cross-culturally as well as
across “internal” cultural fault lines (e.g., fault lines of gender, ethnicity, class,
sexuality). In their interpretations of particular texts, critics and analysts will tend
to activate their own schemata, with the same presumptions of legitimacy as
linguists drawing on “native speaker intuitions” of grammaticality. As an analytic
procedure, this is commendable. In television the default address has been to
large and therefore necessarily mixed audiences. This encourages TV to use
schemata that are already rather generally shared—as well as to cultivate sche-
mata on their own account, and distribute these widely through repetition,
possibly producing second-order interpretations of the type “this is how I am
supposed to think.”
Nevertheless, it is problematic automatically to treat schemata as nor-
mative, especially in relation to the heterogeneous audiences of TV drama.
Although it is true, for instance, that some sections of the audience will have
an “oppositional” view of the police, as agents of harassment if not oppression, a
construct of the institution as dutifully upholding law and order is in force
for mainstream production. This does not preclude particularizing individual
police officers as corrupt, inefficient, lazy, and ill-intentioned, as the history
of police drama in the United Kingdom, from Z Cars (ITV 1962–1978)
through Life on Mars (BBC 2006–2007), clearly shows. It does not even preclude
oppositional representations of the police force as such. It does suggest
that writers who seek these effects will have to work harder than those who do
not: that only police representations in which the police are the “good guys”
or are not relevant to the central narrative can get by on schematic repre-
sentations.10
Dialogue has two possible functions for a “schema poetics” (Stockwell 2003)
of character in television drama. When characters first appear, dialogue can be a
source of triggers, activating relevant schemata. Then, as the characters become
familiar, their dialogue (and dialogue about them) will help us to learn how far
their real character diverges from our prior understanding.
An Example: Redeeming the Underclass in Shameless

Shameless (UK Channel 4, 2004–present) is a good series for the purposes of
illustrating how dialogue can contribute to impression formation within a sche-
ma-based approach. This British series, set on a fictional northern England
housing estate, depicts the lives of the Gallagher family and their neighbors.
These characters could be said to represent the contemporary underclass, many
of them unemployed, some unemployable, living on benefits, and comfortable
with fraud and deceit as survival techniques. It plays into schematic understand-
ing of workless lives as wretched, disreputable, or both. Its project has been
understood as one of particularizing the lives of the “work-shy,” redeeming them
for mainstream audiences:
The title of the series is both ironic and apt: apt because the Gallaghers oscillate
wildly between good intentions, indifference and hurtfulness towards loved
ones, but there is little sign of the overweening feelings of self-worthlessness and
self-disgust that characterize real shame; and ironic because accusations of shame-
lessness, for example made by “respectable” neighbors, represent moral condem-
nation that tends (and intends) to render its targets beyond the pale of acceptable
humanity. It reveals far more about the accusers, hinting at their deeper hidden
shame and insecurity concerning their own lowly social status, and furthermore
legitimizes in their eyes the hostile actions and persecution by “the authorities” that
ultimately disrupt or preempt any meaningful sense of their own community. [ . . . ]
Shameless thus invokes several conventional discourses relating to the nature
and potential of working class people, only to then flout and undermine them—and
in the process to question the social and political philosophies and programmes
that, at root, depend on class-based ideologies of moral deficit and ethical inade-
quacy for their normative and pragmatic utility. (Tom Jennings, review of Shameless,
January 18, 2008, at http://libcom.org/library/shameless-paul-abbott-series-1-2-
channel-4-20034-television-review-%E2%80%93-tom-jennings)11
Before engaging specifically with the dialogue, I will spell out what this means in
relation to the patriarch of the family at the center of Shameless. It is possible for
parts of the audience to find “Frank Gallagher” (David Threlfall) appealing,
despite his offenses against middle-class and “respectable” working-class
norms. He is shambolic, uncouth, exploitative, irresponsible—and drunk as
often as sober and seemingly without conscience. This characterization would
make him (and the show generally) an excellent subject for audience research,
teasing out the limits of ethical and interpretative common ground and the
relation between them. How widespread, really, is “Frank Gallagher’s” ap-
peal—and is it based on empathetic identification, or the humor of a perceived
caricature? How do viewers who like, or claim to like, the character, reconcile
themselves to his amorality? Do critical viewers perceive the series itself, or just
the character, as culpably amoral? Does Shameless have the potential to be
schema refreshing, and, if it does, is that because of or in spite of Frank? The
reviewer at libcom interprets Shameless as a left-leaning radical series, politically
valuable because it questions the attitudes that help to perpetuate this kind of
social exclusion. But this interpretation is a vulnerable one in the absence of any
evidence that audiences themselves question those attitudes, and do so as a result
of their responses to the character and the program.
Shameless is a series that plays into Britain’s social class divisions in complex
ways. Nelson (2007) argues that it avoids a straightforward sympathy appeal for
the plight of the disadvantaged through its hybridization of comedy with social
realism. But as he also notes, a reading position based on humor at the expense
of the underclass is an awkward one if, at the same time, the realism makes the
characters something more than comedic caricatures in the tradition of Steptoe
and Son (BBC 1962–1974). The antics of the Gallagher clan also push up against
the limits of normative morality. In one episode discussed by Nelson, motherless
Debbie Gallagher kidnaps a toddler. Rather than explore the sensibility that
might make her do something so outrageous, the story line is played for laughs.
Eventually the child is returned unharmed to its parents. But there is no narrative
moral justice punishing Debbie for her wrongdoing or making her confront it as
such. Nelson believes that the times are not right for didactic moral or political
lessons in drama, and that this text has a worthy openness that can stimulate
thought. But this openness interacts with the sensibilities of real viewers, and
this is difficult in the case of those who might, on economic grounds, identify
with the Gallaghers. The comedy does not necessarily redeem the offensiveness
of suggesting that baby kidnapping is something they would be capable of.
Frank Gallagher is to some extent contrasted with other members of the
community, or at least represented as being at the extreme end of a continuum
of respectability. His children, ranging in age from toddler to young adult, and
his neighbors are mainly presented not just as morally “better” than Frank, but
are also personalized so as to request from a mainstream audience a refreshed
schema of underclass identities. Dialogue is one of the elements that draws
viewers into cognitive processes of schema refreshment. Audiences also get
the help of some monologue as well as dialogue, in the form of the following
voiceover accompanying an introductory shot sequence:
Now, nobody’s saying the Chatsworth Estate is the Garden of Eden. Least, I don’t
think they are. But it’s been a good home to us, to me, Frank Gallagher. And me
kids, who I’m proud of ’cos every single one of them reminds me a little of me. Now
they can all think for themselves—which they’ve me to thank for. Fiona, who’s a big
help, massive help. Lip, who’s a bit of a gobshite, which is why nobody calls him
Philip any more. Ian, lot like his mam—which is handy for the others, ’cause she’s
disappeared into thin air—and good luck to her. Carl—we daren’t let him grow his
hair. One, it stands on end and makes him look like Toyah. Two—nits love him.
Debbie. Sent by God. Total angel. You’ve to check your change, but she’ll go miles
out of her way to do you a favor. Plus Liam, little rock-and-roller. Gonna be a star—
once we’ve got the fits under control. You know, there’s three things are vital to a
half decent community. Space. You need wide open spaces, where everyone goes
mental. And neighborliness, fantastic neighbors. Kev and Veronica. Lend you
anything—well, not anything. But all of them, to a man, know first and foremost,
one of the most vital necessities in this life, is, they know how to throw a party. Whe-
hey! Scatter! (Season 1, episode 1 and subsequent episodes, written by Paul Abbott)
The images that accompany this monologue depict the named characters as they
go about their normal lives (hitting one another, demonstrating how to unwrap a
condom, running away—but also doing household chores and taking care of one
another). Walters (2006) points out that the monologue is written to convey the
good opinion that Gallagher has of himself and the positive relationships he
enjoys with his family—but the imagery presented undercuts this self-presenta-
tion, showing one child hitting Gallagher, and a number of them running away
from him.
Gallagher’s introduction primes viewers to recognize and pay attention to
these key characters subsequently. One of them, Lip (played by Jody Latham)
duly appears in the very first scene. This is the scene I particularly want to
consider in schema theory terms. During the course of the action, Lip arrives
at a house on the estate, is admitted by one woman, Sheila (played by Maggie
O’Neill), sets down to help another, younger one, Karen (played by Rebecca
Atkinson), with her homework, and is disconcerted when Karen crawls under
the table to give him a blow job, but complies on learning that she is not able
to pay him to do her homework.
(Lip knocks on door)
1 LIP : Hiyah. I said I’d help your Karen with her homework.
2 SHEILA : Okay. Take your shoes off.
3 LIP : Fair enough. (Lip starts to remove shoes)
4 SHEILA : I’ll get you a carrier bag.
(Sheila disappears and returns with a plastic bag into which Lip puts his shoes)
A cut at this point elides Lip’s entry into the house and the start of his exchanges
with Karen. Sheila is now in another room, visible in certain shots from the
living room table where Lip and Karen are. Occasionally, the point of view is
reversed, and we look past Sheila to see Lip and Karen.
5 KAREN : She’s got this thing about people bringing soil into the house.
6 LIP : Right.
7 KAREN : She’s not as mad as she seems. Agoraphobia.
8 LIP : Oh, right.
9 KAREN : So how come you know all this?
10 LIP : It’s just something I do.
11 KAREN : What, like a hobby?
12 LIP : No, the plans.
13 KAREN : What, physics?
14 LIP : All sorts. Look. (Lip starts drawing, Karen slides under the table and crawls
towards him whilst he is concentrating on his diagram.) I’ve got a great
one for Newton’s First. Watch. Every body continues in a state of rest or
uniform motion unless acted upon by an external force (Karen’s head
approaches Lip’s crotch).
15 LIP : Karen! Karen!
(Karen’s advances continue)
16 LIP : To be honest I could do with the money.
17 KAREN : What money?
18 LIP : I charge for homework. I thought you knew.
19 KAREN : (Looks up at Lip from under the table) I’m skint.

20 LIP : [pause] OK.
(Blow job action recommences, now with the active participation of both parties)
(Season 2, episode 1 and subsequent episodes, written by Paul Abbott)
The combination of dialogue (its content, rather than its form, in this instance)
and action in this scene establishes by inference the following about the charac-
ter of Lip:
· Lip has sufficient “book smarts” to be relied on to help classmates

with homework (his knowledge of Newton’s First Law of Motion, line 14).
· He is shrewd enough to turn his abilities to financial advantage (lines
16–18).
· He is innocent enough to be surprised by the sexual advances (line 15).
· He is appreciative of the sexual opportunity (line 20).
· The sex is second best to the financial gain he was expecting (line 16).
A category-based take on Lip based on setting, physical appearance, and accent
would see an English, northern, underprivileged, working-class youth—a clus-
ter of group membership categories. This reading has already been partly offset
by Frank Gallagher’s initial introduction, inviting us to consider a more person-
based impression, even before we know what that person-based impression will
contain. Viewers who accept this invitation are rewarded by this scene—Lip’s
character both affirms the category (this is a young man “on the make”—a
“scally” in northern parlance) and challenges it (he is a clever student). This
short example further supports the description of film and TV audiences as
“overhearers” of dialogue (Bubel 2008). If the character inferences I have drawn
here are sound, the “open theory of character” proposed by Chatman would say
that they have been drawn just as they would have been if Lip and Karen were
real people. But audiences would never have this opportunity relative to Lip and
Karen’s supposed real-life analogues. Behavior like this, knowingly performed
in the physical and attentive presence of others, would be even more extraordi-
nary than it is in the depicted scene. Throughout the scene there is in fact
another person (Karen’s mother Sheila) within audiovisual range. Sheila is a
potential onlooker or eavesdropper within the diegetic world, but shown to be
distracted by other activities. Part of the pleasure of the scene comes from its
riskiness, with Lip appearing (in nonverbal performance) more disconcerted
than Karen at the possibility that Sheila, whom he does not know, might
catch them out. Of course, the scene has been written in this way precisely to
push audiences into making inferences like these—to get to know Lip as this
kind of character as quickly as possible, and the narrative action of the scene
(a house call, homework assistance, a sexual encounter) is inseparable from
the dialogue.
Within a referential reading (Liebes and Katz 1990), the inferences about Lip’s
character can be treated as meanings “given off” by Lip about himself, just as his
accent gives off that he was born and raised somewhere in the vicinity of
Manchester. It can also be heard as Paul Abbott, scriptwriter for this series,
implying that Lip is a clever and entrepreneurial but sexually immature working
class youth.
The proposition that schematic or flat character impressions can give way to
textually determined, round character impressions positions the reader/viewer/
listener as someone whose prior beliefs about particular person categories are
not so fixed as to resist “evidence” that a new character may not conform to
these beliefs. After all, the new character is only one individual, possibly atypical.
The audience is also positioned as susceptible to textual cues on the author’s terms.
This account of Lip Gallagher is offered as a character reading that is appro-
priate rather than correct (a term that is too strongly prescriptive), and explicit
about the prior schematic knowledge required to derive it—in other words, that
male youths from the urban underclass in Britain are antisocial and uneducated.
It also clearly formulates the textual cues that allow us to move beyond the
schema in this case. It follows that audiences that do not possess this particular
initial schema will make sense of the scene in other ways. One possibility is the
existence of an audience that does not subscribe to a belief in the antisocial
character of the male urban underclass, but is nevertheless aware of its existence
in the wider society, and of its relevance to the representations in this show. This
is the position taken by Jennings, the reviewer, in the review of Shameless cited
earlier, as it also was in the Entertainment Weekly review of Queer as Folk.
Interpretative positions such as these have sometimes been referred to as dis-
placed readings (Richardson and Corner 1986).
Characters from the Bottom Up

Just as there is a question mark over the universality of any particular schema
that might have interpretative relevance, so, too, there is a question mark over the
audience’s access to the knowledge/reasoning powers/codes appropriate for
noticing the textual cues that allow them to develop elaborated impressions of
characters—as indicated in my earlier discussion of how and when a Liverpool
accent can be a guide to regional origins. The range of possible cues is vast and
possibly limitless. Culpeper (2001: chapter 4) provides a checklist that ranges
over conversational structure, conversational implicature, lexis (Germanic versus
Latinate vocabulary, lexical richness, surge features, social markers, keywords),
syntactic features, accent and dialect, verse and prose, paralinguistic features
(tempo, fluency, pitch range, pitch variation, voice quality), visual features,
kinesic features, appearance features, contextual features—and with a whole
chapter devoted to politeness strategies.
In contemplating this list, two questions come to mind. First, why, in a book
about language and character, are many items on the list about paralinguistic or
nonlinguistic elements, including kinesic and appearance features? Second, in a
TV drama, in which multiple semiotic modes are simultaneously in play, some
involving speech and some not, and in which many different aspects of
speech can potentially act as cues, how do we decide which signs to focus on
and treat as character cues?
In response to the first question, it should be noted that nonlinguistic charac-
ter cues, for instance, the way a character is dressed, exist in their own right, but
they may also exist in the dialogue. Characters themselves can draw attention to
relevant features.
Consider the case of “Philippa,” in dinnerladies, already referred to above.
Philippa is less than fastidious about her clothes. She knows this about herself
but is not much worried about it. Others know it about her, too. It is a signature
feature of this character, to the extent that it can be used to identify her. In one
episode, a decorator, Bert, is asked to identify the person who gave him permis-
sion to paint the canteen.12 He can’t remember the name, and admits to being no
good with faces either. All seems lost. Brenda (Victoria Wood) suggests it may
have been Philippa:
1 BRENDA : Was it Philippa? Quite posh, little glasses?

2 DOLLY: A big blob of soup here (pointing to chest area) probably.
3 BERT: That’s her. Tomato soup, left bust. Soup, I can recognize.
(Season 2, episode 1, “Catering,” written by Victoria Wood)
In a less well written drama, such trademark characteristics would be constantly

in play as a comedic equivalent of the political claptrap13—a signal for laughter at
Philippa’s expense. In fact, throughout the 16 episodes, there are probably no
more than three references to sartorial carelessness of this sort. This low-key use
of character cues is an advantage for a comedy that seeks to create characters that
are more than just single-trait constructions. Furthermore, we never actually see
tomato soup stains, or anything like them. This comedy is very theatrical in its
mise-en-scène, with a virtual “proscenium arch” perspective on the action for
establishing/ensemble shots. The kind of close-up that would be required to
show messy clothing is incompatible with this. The nearest we get, in one
episode, is Philippa going through the motions of trying to remove the remains
of a mayonnaise stain from her blouse. But even here we need the dialogue in
order to understand the meaning of Philippa’s physical actions.
As for the second question, the short answer could be that we focus on
whatever is contextually relevant (as a pragmatic approach, particularly one
influenced by Sperber and Wilson’s relevance theory, would propose).14 Or it
may be that we focus on whatever is textually foregrounded (an answer
influenced by formalist poetics in the tradition of Jakobson, Murakovsky, and

others).15 Or perhaps we focus on whatever we are most interested in (an answer
influenced by multimodal semiotics, after Kress and van Leeuwen,16 and which
would not seek to limit character inferences to those intended by an author or
objectively present in a text). Culpeper (2001: chapter 3), whose general approach
I have adopted and adapted, is drawn toward an explanation in terms of fore-
grounding. He also points out (a) that “any textual cue can yield character
information in a particular context” (2001: 163) and (b) that textual cues are a
matter of function, to which form is an unreliable guide.
These points raise theoretical issues beyond the scope and focus of the
present work, so, rather than pursue them directly, in table 7.1 I will briefly
elaborate on a model for understanding the basic ways that dialogue can contrib-
ute to the impressions we form of characters such as the Gallaghers and Philippa
Morecroft.
There are eight cells in this grid, but only six of them are significant for the
construction of character impressions through dialogue. In the top half of
Table 7.1. Character inferences in Shameless
Say Hint, imply, suggest, indicate
About 1ai 2ai

Benefit self “I charge for homework”: “To be honest, I could do with the
of Lip to Karen about money” ¼ “stop sucking me off” ¼
character himself. “I prefer money to sex.” Lip to/for
Karen about himself.
About 1 a ii 2 a ii
other “She’s not as mad as she “She’s not as mad as she seems” ¼
character seems”: Karen to Lip You, Lip, think Sheila seems mad.
about Sheila.
About 1b i 2bi
self (Monologue) “Every body continues in a state of
“[E]very single one [of my rest or uniform motion unless acted
Benefit kids] reminds me a little upon by an external force” ¼ Lip is
of of me. . . . ” smart (author Abbott to/for
audience audience).
Mancunian accent ¼ Lip is
northern English.
“She’s not as mad as she seems.”
Karen thinks Lip thinks Sheila is
mad.
About 1b ii 2 b ii
other (Monologue) “She’s not as mad as she seems”¼
character “Debbie. Sent by God. (Karen thinks) Lip thinks Sheila is
Total angel.” mad.
the grid (all of the meanings labeled “a”), characterization takes place within the
diegetic world and characters themselves learn, or are invited to learn, about one
another. In the process, audiences also learn about them. What we learn may be
as much about the speaker as about the spoken-about. It is no accident that in
dinnerladies, it is the character Dolly (Thelma Barlow) who refers to Philippa’s
soup-stained blouses. By contrast with Philippa, Dolly is fastidious, with preten-
sions to refinement—she “used to work in the Café Bon-Bon”—a far superior
establishment to the works’ canteen. Messy clothing would stand out for Dolly as
it might not do, or do much less, for others. In the bottom half of the grid (the “b”
meanings), other characters seem not to benefit from the dialogic cues, though
the audience does. Note that statements and hints about other characters would
in principle include the interlocutor—the second person in the speech situation, as
opposed to the first person or speaker, and the third person or spoken-about.
I have quoted again from the Shameless dialogue to illustrate these possibili-
ties, and I have not sought to differentiate among various kinds of information
about characters (habits, beliefs, traits, biographical facts, etc.). “I charge for
homework” is a direct statement by Lip about his business practice for Karen’s
benefit. If she did not know this before, she does now. Karen’s “She’s not as mad
as she seems” is a direct observation about Sheila’s mental disposition to Lip,
seeking to “dial down” the extent of her mother’s craziness. These direct state-
ments have meaningful face value, but they also have implications. “I charge for
homework” constructs Lip as the kind of person who charges classmates for
doing their homework—clever enough to do this reliably, smart enough to make
money from it, and not troubled by any ethical misgivings. The derived mean-
ings belong more in the “b” section of the grid. The fact that Lip is clever and
knowledgeable enough to do her homework is not something Karen is just now
learning. She already knew this when she hired him. It is the audience that is
getting to know the character through these lines.
This suggests that the difference between meanings in the first column and
those in the second column is rather superficial. Both types are of interest for
characterization in ways that either have nothing to do with their propositional
face value (any utterance, conveyed in a Manchester accent, indicates a northern
English identity), or else go beyond propositional content (“I charge for home-
work” = “I am good at schoolwork and make money from this”).
CHARACTER SINCERITY AND PERFORMANCE
In drawing this chapter to a conclusion, I want to offer some observations that

relate to the issue of character sincerity in TV drama, rather than to their
particularity as possessors of traits. Because, as Goffman showed, people in
real life will routinely engage in “impression management,” audiences have
every reason to be disappointed at some level when such impression manage-

ment is missing from the behavior of characters in dramatized narratives—when
characters seem to have only one-dimensional, “sincere” selves to offer, and
especially (as in many TV commercials) when their sincerity is recruited to
superficial causes.
Of course, drama is inconceivable without certain kinds of identity work.
Audiences expect to be shown characters who lie and pretend to one another.
Sometimes it is important that audiences are unaware of the pretence, until the
reveal, when the deceit is finally uncovered. They take characters at face value,
only to discover during the course of the narrative that they are not as they have
seemed to be. Treachery plots (think of the series 24, Fox 2001–present) depend
on credible but insincere and untruthful performances that lead audiences up
the proverbial garden path. In other narratives, audiences are granted the privi-
lege of awareness. The pleasure of watching a formulaic series like Columbo
(NBC and others, 1968–2000), in which there is no “whodunnit” mystery, is very
largely derived from observing murderers construct, for the detective’s benefit,
“innocent” personae, variously antagonistic or cooperative toward him, according
to how they perceive their strategic interest. Columbo (Peter Falk) also manages a
downbeat persona of his own, while encouraging villains in their persona con-
structions, as part of his distinctive approach to crime solving, in which villains
eventually betray themselves.
Theorists who write about the language of drama, and refer especially to the
double articulation of its discourse architecture (communication among charac-
ters embedded as part of communication between author and audience via
characters), usually go on to observe that this architecture can increase in
complexity whenever there is a “play within a play.” The examples in the previous
paragraph show that such complexity is not restricted to such formally contrived
situations, but can occur whenever characters are called upon to manage their
relationships in a more or less self-conscious way. In Columbo episodes, the
“true” character is a villain who controls the “false,” innocent persona, but the
fake is ultimately abandoned and the true is publicly revealed, beyond doubt or
ambiguity.
There is another approach to the layering of characterization in TV drama—
one that concurs with Goffman in regarding identity work as entirely normal
conduct in social life, just another aspect of social interaction. The trend toward
irony and reflexivity in contemporary culture favors representations that incor-
porate such identity work. The pleasure of a series like Friends (NBC 1994–2004)
has a lot to do with its willingness to pursue the humor inherent in this. For
instance, one of the characters, Chandler Bing (Matthew Perry), is concerned
that he comes across to strangers as gay, when he is not. Rachel Green (Jennifer
Aniston) misreads body language in a job interview and inappropriately kisses
the interviewer, worrying subsequently about what he must think of her and how
she can make it right. Ross Geller (David Schwimmer) tries out different possible
nicknames for himself, including “The Rossitron.” Characters will “thoughtless-
ly” say things that have double meanings or stupid ones, and then act out their
awareness of what “just happened.”
For a subtle but convincingly funny, in-character example of identity play,
consider this exchange. Phoebe (Lisa Kudrow) has arranged to go out with Joey
for a meal, but a long-lost lover, David, has returned from Russia and has only
one night when he can be with her. Phoebe has recently harangued Joey when he
stood her up in order to go out on a date, and realizes it would be hypocritical
if she did the same to him. On principle, she is at the point of refusing David’s
invitation when Monica intervenes:
1 MONICA : Phoebe, what are you doing?
2 PHOEBE : Well, I have plans with Joey tonight.
3 MONICA : So? He’ll understand.
4 PHOEBE : No he won’t. And that’s not even the point. Monica, I made a
whole speech about how you do not cancel plans with friends. And now, you
know, what, just because, potentially, the love of my life comes back from Russia for
one night only, I should change my beliefs? I should change my beliefs!
5 (Monica smiles)
6 PHOEBE : No, no. If I don’t have my principles I don’t have anything.
7 MONICA : God, you are so strong!
8 PHOEBE : Or, I could rush through dinner with Joey and I could meet David at nine.
(Friends, season 7, episode 11, “The One with All the Cheesecakes,” written by Shana
Godberg-Meehan)
The key to this is Phoebe’s repetition of “I should change my beliefs.” The first
time it is produced, sincerely, as a rhetorical question to which the answer is
“No.” (However, Phoebe is already formulating the question to prefigure a “Yes”
answer—this is not any old “better offer” but a unique opportunity.) Beliefs are
important, and it is unethical to abandon them for expediency’s sake. But
the second utterance of the same words, with different intonation and body
language, is no longer a question, but an exclamation—the articulation of a
sudden, significant insight into the solution to her problem. The rest of the
exchange sees Phoebe move back to her original position, finally settling on the
compromise that the narrative will subsequently dramatize.
Identity play is not restricted to comic productions on television, as the
example of Dexter (Showtime, 2006–present) shows. Dexter works as a forensic
scientist in the Miami police force—but for dramatic purposes he is categorized
by his extracurricular activity (killing people), not by his day job. The challenge of
making a drama with a serial killer as the central character puts pressure on
consensual values, though these are preserved in part by limiting Dexter to the
killing of other murderers. But the Dexter characterization experiment is not just
a substantive one: it has a formal aspect, too, that connects with this issue of
character sincerity and performance above. A kind of double life identity is

obviously a necessity for this individual, living in what passes for the same
world as ours rather than some fantastic alternate universe in which killing is
morally acceptable.
Introducing himself in voiceover to the audience in the pilot episode, he says,
My name is Dexter. Dexter Morgan. I don’t know what made me the way I am, but
whatever it was left a hollow place inside. People fake a lot of human interactions,
but I feel like I fake them all, and I fake them very well, that’s my burden, I guess.
(Season 1, episode 1, “Dexter,” written by James Manos Jr., from a novel by Jeff Lindsay)
The drama is therefore not just about Dexter’s moral principles and how they
relate to those of the wider society. There is also a character issue, about the
extent of his hollowness, and the unavailability of sincerity as a possible mode of
discourse for him. At the level of textual pleasure, this creates space for oppor-
tunities to display all of the character’s various modes of insincerity, in his work
life and in his relations with others—friends, family, and colleagues.
DISCUSSION
Schema theory, as developed by Culpeper for fictional characters more generally,

offers a valuable perspective on what makes possible the creation of characters
through dialogue. Dialogue can certainly be used to help activate an existing
schema. In the example from One Foot in the Grave, discussed in chapter 2, an
incorrect “police officer” schema was activated, and then replaced to comic effect
by a “doorstep evangelist” schema. Both schemas were appealed to through the
combination of doorstep setting and use of language by the visitors. Dialogue is
also employed in the elaboration of categorical characters into more rounded
ones. This is very necessary, for instance, in hospital series featuring not only a
set of well-known cast regulars, whose traits have some kind of continuity from
episode to episode, but also an endless supply of guest characters depicting the
patients-of-the-week, who for the sake of credibility and entertainment need to be
fleshed out beyond their initial category assignment. Dialogue can also be used in
the challenging of categorical assignments, as we saw with Shameless’s Lip
Gallagher above.
As Chatman proposes, though, the essence of characters goes beyond the use
of language, and not just because characters can be represented in nonlinguistic
ways as well. Character schemata are cognitive constructs, and the interpretation
of TV drama’s characters lies at the intersection of dramatic worlds and the world
as it already exists in the viewer’s mind. One of the lessons to draw from the
foregoing account has to do with the nature of the collaboration between drama-
tists and audiences. It is by no means original to observe that meaning is not
something inherent in a text (even if the concept of text is properly expanded

from its original literary sense to encompass performance and production),
but can only be achieved on the basis of the resources that consumers of texts
bring to the tasks of understanding and interpreting what they have heard and
seen. Sociolinguistic approaches to this (see chapter 6 in this volume) tend to
focus on procedural resources: cognitive approaches like schema theory empha-
size that substantive knowledge also has a part to play. On one side of
the communicative relationship, dramatists relying on schematic knowledge
are making assumptions about the beings—police officers, drug dealers, canteen
workers, working-class youths—who already populate the cognitive worlds of
its target audiences. On the other side, cooperative consumers themselves strive
to supply appropriate schemata and thereby to be, to turn themselves into, the
dramatist’s assumed audience.
Some qualifications are necessary here. Not all consumers are cooperative;
there are no metacommunicative disciplines of interpretation for popular enter-
tainment, and well-intentioned efforts on both sides can misfire—the scope
for misreading, resistant reading, alternate reading and nonreading is extensive.
In addition, the contribution of character schemata to interpretation is only a
starting point.
Generic constraints and the sociocultural conditions of TV production set
limits on what dramatists are able to create by way of new characters, always
feeding off the older ones. The greatest opportunities now are in countries
that are in a position to exploit channel abundance to create niche markets on
subscription channels. It is this situation that has given rise to the character of
Dexter as perhaps the most extreme case of creative characterization.
8
Dialogue and Dramatic Meaning

Life on Mars
This chapter and the next each present a case study of a single series. This
chapter focuses on a British-made show first broadcast on the BBC (Life on Mars,
BBC 2006–2008), and the next focuses on an American series (House, Fox 2004–
present). The fact that one of these series is British and one American is useful
for promoting this book on both sides of the Atlantic, but these series have been
screened in both countries, and a single-season American version of Life on Mars
was broadcast in 2008–2009, with Harvey Keitel as Gene Hunt. As a British
viewer, I can hear many national resonances in the original series that will be less
apparent to viewers in the United States, and I may miss (or misunderstand)
some American references in House. This is nothing new in the transnational
trade. Both series can be seen as examples of the same kind of drama product:
quality drama, a label that will be further discussed below. In each of these two
chapters I will argue that the series use dialogue in interesting, untypical ways.
But the emphasis is different in each case. The present chapter focuses on the
contribution that dialogue makes to the meaning of Life on Mars as a dramatic
work, whereas the next chapter will make a case that the dialogue of House is
micro–sociolinguistically interesting.
There is general agreement that Life on Mars series is good television drama,
and that its merit is, in large part, due to the writing, by Mathew Graham, Tony
Jordan, and Ashley Pharoah. Although the production of dialogue is not a
screenwriter’s only concern, it is necessarily a very major part of it, as discussed
above in chapter 4. I am interested here in where considerations of technique
encounter standards of critical and popular evaluation, so the chapter offers
a brief account of the latter, before embarking upon some textual analysis
accompanied by relevant citation from the various commentaries that the series
provoked. Because this will involve an apparent movement away from sociolin-
guistics and toward media research (though cf. chapter 2 on previous research
at the intersection of these two fields), the discussion at the end of the chapter
will reestablish connections.
151
LIFE ON MARS
Generically speaking, Life on Mars is a crime series in the police procedural

subcategory. Police series are traditionally viewed as being closer to the popular
than the quality end of the drama spectrum. Viewers follow police officers’ crime
discovery, crime solving, and crime management, and experience the world
mainly from the officers’ point of view. But in this series, there is a twist. The
central character, Sam Tyler (played by John Simm) is a man of the twenty-first
century, a detective chief inspector in the Manchester police force. After a
car accident, he finds himself transported back to the Manchester of 1973 as an
adult: a world he would have known in reality only as a 4-year-old child. He is
assimilated (with a credible cover story, about a “transfer from Hyde,” and with
a lesser rank) into the equivalent detective force of that period. There is a mystery
story arc about where he really is and how he got there: “Am I mad, in a coma,
or back in time?” he asks each week, a question that is resolved only at the end
of the second and final season. While he is in 1973 he is subordinate to Detective
Chief Inspector Gene Hunt (played by Philip Glenister), and their relationship
gives the series much of its energy. Other police characters are junior to Tyler,
and one of them, WPC Annie Cartwright (Liz White), is also a confidante and
possible love interest.
The history of police series in the United Kingdom has been well researched.
(For an overview, see Leishman and Mason 2003.) The story of televised police
work (as opposed to sleuthing) starts with Dixon of Dock Green (BBC 1955–1976),
challenged in terms of realism by the 1960s Z Cars (BBC 1962–1978), until that
was itself challenged in the 1970s by The Sweeney (ITV 1975–1978), under the
influence of the American Starsky and Hutch (ABC 1975–1979). Other key series
and miniseries in the United Kingdom (excluding the softer maverick detective
programs of the kind epitomized by Inspector Morse, ITV 1987–2000) would
include Law and Order (BBC 1978), Juliet Bravo (BBC 1980–1985), The Bill
(ITV 1984-present), Prime Suspect (ITV 1991–2003), Between the Lines (BBC
1992–1994), and The Cops (BBC 1998–2000). In the United States an equivalent
list would include Dragnet (NBC 1951–1959); Kojak (CBS 1973–1978), Hill Street
Blues (NBC 1981–1987), Homicide: Life on the Street (NBC 1993–1998), NYPD
Blue (ABC 1993–2005), and others that have been significant in the United States
but less so (or not at all) in the United Kingdom.
In terms of audience appeal considerations, new series in old genres have to
show some element of originality, some variation on the generic formula. New
series in the past have often been successful when they have offered fresh
insights into the nature of police work (which itself has changed over the
years), including insights that might form the basis for social critique. A docu-
mentary as well as an entertainment impulse has informed this trajectory,
although it is a trajectory that may now have run its course, with the rise of the
Dialogue and Dramatic Meaning 153
docusoap format, along with more postmodern tastes in the upscale audience.
Genre refreshment increasingly takes the form of generic hybridization (see
articles in McCabe and Akass 2007) and genre parataxis (see Nelson 2007). Life
on Mars fits this era well as a police drama that introduces an element of fantasy
into its (arguably) realist but “period” diegesis.
The series is able to play with ideas of social change between the 1970s and the
2000s. Attitudes to gender and sexuality, race, and policing itself are especially
significant, and accompanied by more incidental reminders of the past that was
ours, whether we lived through it or not.1 The present time is presumed to be
both better and worse than the past. The 1970s “Wild West” attitudes to law
enforcement have their attraction in terms of success rates and emotional
release—not to mention their embodiment in the entertaining, as well as outra-
geous, Gene Hunt (Philip Glenister). But they are also problematic, so that the
protocols of 2000s policing, such as the use of audiotape recorders in the
interview room, can be presented as a positive advance. In some respects, Tyler’s
knowledge exceeds that of the people who now surround him (for example, he
knows what will happen to some of them in the future). In other respects, he is
the “innocent,” unfamiliar with the custom and practice of the time. He does not
know the wording of the caution administered when suspects are taken into
custody for questioning—though he knows it is significantly different from the
equivalent caution administered in the 2000s.2
1 SAM :
Kim Trent. I’m arresting you on suspicion of armed robbery. You do not
have to say anything, but it may harm your de . . . No, that’s not it, is it.
What is it? Er . . . You have the right to remain silent . . .
2 GENE : You’re nicked!
(Season 2, episode 2, written by Mathew Graham)
The past is also a place Sam can explore for answers to personal questions he has
brought from the future, and specifically, in season 1, the question of what
became of the father that disappeared from his life during his early childhood.
Like much successful TV drama, the series aims for a mixture of the comic and
the dramatic (including the sentimental). The relative proportions of comedic
and serious elements, and the terms of their relationship, vary by genre,
but the idea of such a mixture is not restricted to quality drama. Soap operas
such as Coronation Street (ITV 1960–present), as well as situation comedies such
as Friends (NBC 1994–2004), have certainly recognized the value of such a
combination.
Despite the 1973 setting, the creative team responsible for the series has
explicitly disassociated it from what they call “nostalgia” television. In the United
Kingdom nostalgia television is associated especially with programs like Heart-
beat (ITV 1992–present) and The Royal (ITV 2003–present). Though set in the
past, these are not costume dramas as normally understood (e.g., Pride and
Prejudice BBC 1995, Bleak House BBC 2005) because their diegetic setting is, by
design, within living memory, and there is no literary connection. They
make extensive and rather pronounced use of evocative dress and other para-
phernalia from the past. They use hit records from the past for the nondiegetic
musical sound track but are not too scrupulous about the specificity of dates, so
that tracks are often selected for the narrative appropriateness of the lyrics as well
as for period feel (Nelson 1997). Heartbeat and The Royal shy away from the
realism of contemporary police and hospital series in favor of a family-viewing,
Sunday-night ethos. Series such as these are experienced by viewers who bring
their own twenty-first-century sensibilities to the viewing. This may include
a desire for reassurance that the past was simpler and less troubled.
By contrast, period detail is also important to Life on Mars, but with a grainier,
harder, more downbeat take on the period in question. This is expressed in
qualities of cinematography, designed to represent the 1970s not as a gaudy
continuation of the excessive 1960s, but as a rather drab era of some privation. Its
music is a mixture of specially composed new material and hit songs from the
period. Most important, some very different thematic and comedic possibilities
can be explored when twenty-first-century sensibility is explicitly built into the
narrative premises of the text itself, rather than contributing unofficially to
its character and interpretation.
Quality Drama
The following summarizes the problems involved in the exploration of television
quality, at the risk of oversimplifying these important debates. Researchers have
concerns about the relativity of value perspectives and the power hierarchies
capable of validating some at the expense of others, so that, for instance, masculine
sports still prevail over feminine ones in mainstream television broadcasting.
These difficulties are compounded by questions about the relative contribution
of values brought to texts by audiences and values that are the properties of texts
(bad shows can be redeemed by good audiences; or the badness of shows can
disappear altogether except insofar as audiences themselves criticize or reject
them). Even when specific genres and programs are addressed as texts, it can be
difficult to adjudicate between the respective merits of truth, beauty, and virtue, or
to allocate particular textual features to one or more of these three subcategories
of worth. But some such adjudication is clearly appropriate, given the vast generic
range of television output. Different, though possibly overlapping, standards
must surely apply to journalism on the one hand, and drama on the other.
In relation to TV drama, these issues form part of the backdrop distinguishing
the study of soap opera on the one hand and shows like The Sopranos (HBO
1999–2007) on the other. There has tended to be more audience research in the
former and more textual analysis in the latter, and either approach can lead to a
conclusion that the series under investigation is good. Some drama appears
to reward textual analysis, and it has been argued, especially with reference to
American broadcasting, that more drama of this sort was being made since the
introduction of satellite and cable television and the move into the digital age.
Thompson (1996) was one of the first to write about the distinctiveness of this
kind of programming, but in referring to it as “American quality programming,”
an indeterminacy was perpetuated: was the identification a judgment on the
value of the shows or just a matter of identifying distinct generic characteristics?
(McCabe and Akass 2007).
The characteristics that Thompson proposed are still much cited. They in-
clude the following:
· A large ensemble cast

· A memory
· A new genre formed by mixing old ones
· A tendency to be literary and writer based
· Textual self-consciousness
· Subject matter tending toward the controversial
· Aspiration toward realism
· A quality pedigree
· Attracting an audience with blue-chip demographics
For the purposes of this chapter, I want to remove the criterion dealing with
subject matter—not in order to ignore it or dispute it, but simply to address it
separately from the others. Subject matter is liable to be controversial when it is
of sociocultural relevance, as with issues of policing and society. This is an area in
which the evaluation of drama and the evaluation of nonfictional shows such as
news and current affairs have something in common. The other criteria in
Thompson’s list tend to privilege merits of a broadly aesthetic or formal kind,
but as far as subject matter is concerned, the grounding shifts. Viewers might be
expected to learn something, for good or ill, from a drama’s subject matter, and
this must raise issues of ethics and truth alongside those of its style, construc-
tion, and pedigree. (The demographic criterion seems to be potentially circular
in this company.) I will reserve the term quality for the checklist as a whole, and
use the term value to refer to drama’s relation with its subject matter. Although it
is a British rather than an American production, Life on Mars can be regarded as a
quality series because it satisfied a number of Thompson’s desiderata for such
programming. It is also arguably a valuable series because of its engagement
with social issues, especially those that relate to policing.
Quality and value, as defined here, are no guarantees of success. Success is a
designation that looks at responses to the product and other consequences of
broadcasting it. Life on Mars was an enormously successful show. It was a critical
success with the TV reviewers, a popular success in terms of viewing figures, in
which about a quarter of the British public watched the first-run releases; it
garnered prestigious awards, including BAFTA and Emmy prizes, was broadcast
internationally, gave rise to an American remake and a U.K. spin-off (Ashes to
Ashes, BBC 2008–present), and generated dedicated online discussion and
fan fiction, which this chapter will refer to in trying to understand what viewers
and critics liked and disliked about the show.
Quality Dialogue
Good dialogue has a generally accepted definition. It’s dialogue that is concise,
witty, believable, and revealing of human character and emotion. (Brody 2003: 213)
This quotation has appeared before, in chapter 4. Brody is writing for, and on
behalf of, the professional writing community, and the basis of his characteri-
zation of quality dialogue is an appeal to professional consensus. In the present
chapter I have pursued a different approach, and adopted a definition based on
the functions of dialogue in TV drama. Quality dialogue is multifunctional,
and/or it goes beyond the six basic functions in Kozloff’s (2000) schema for
dialogue in feature films (see also chapter 3 in this volume). In this section,
extracts from the series that can be shown to provide some kind of added value
are analyzed to establish that dialogue is one of the features that warrants the
genre label quality for Life on Mars, along with its high-concept premise and
strong production values. Neither my approach nor Brody’s can claim objectivi-
ty: both require interpretation of the materials they examine. But the functional
approach can certainly strive for some degree of intersubjective plausibility in
its demonstrations that particular functions (e.g., the service of realism and of
characterization) are performed by particular conversational exchanges in the
production.
Kozloff put the storytelling role of movies at the heart of her account, recog-
nizing that the six main functions of dialogue—anchoring of the diegesis and
characters, character revelation, communication of narrative causality, adherence
to the code of realism, enactment of narrative events, and control of viewer
evaluation and emotions—were all, in their different ways, concerned with
servicing the story. She argued that these six functions did not exhaust the
possibilities, and three specific additional functions—opportunities for star
turns, exploiting the resources of language, and thematic/allegorical mes-
sages—were also recognized. Audiences should perceive creativity first when
dialogue has been able to combine functions in unusual or striking ways, and
second when it is allowed to move into these three value-added areas.
Life on Mars has plenty of dialogue that respects its audience’s basic need to
understand where the action takes place, who the characters are, what they are like,
and what activities they are engaged in. If the initial scenes are, by default, in the
present day, then the first major challenge for this particular series is that of moving
Sam back in time. This is not primarily a matter of speech: the production creates a
sequence of narrative moments to manage the transition from a contemporary to a
credible 1970s visual mise-en-scène. But some device is necessary to make the new
context propositionally specific, and the writers choose to do this using dialogue.
They get Gene to tell Sam that it is 1973. The audience, who shares Sam’s reality for
the duration of the series, including its mysteries, learns as Sam learns.
When Gene tells Sam that it is 1973, he does so in a way that combines the obvious
anchorage function of dialogue with the other basic functions of respecting realism
and advancing characterization. This is how the moment is set up, and how the
dialogue progresses. Sam has arrived in the Manchester CID main office immedi-
ately following the car accident that has brought about his transition. He has
found his way to “his” office, but it looks nothing like the office he recently left, and
it is filled with men he does not know and who do not know him. He is confused
and angered by this and becomes noisily confrontational, disturbing Gene in a
private office. Gene then makes his first entrance as master of the domain.
Now Sam can ask his question:
1 SAM : OK. All right. Surprise me. What year is it supposed to be?
This is how Sam asks the time, with emphasis on “supposed.” He asks it in
the persona of a man who knows he has been elaborately set up, who is
accepting, not fighting, his victimhood with as much bravado as he can muster,
and who now wants the truth confirmed. The joke has gone on long enough. He
knows the year is still really 2006. He knows there is a conspiracy to make him
believe otherwise. He is wrong on both counts, but these beliefs currently make
more sense than those he will later entertain.
And here is how he gets his answer:
1 GENE : Word in your shell-like, pal. [Grabs Sam by the lapels of his leather jacket, pulls
him into the office and shoves him against the wall.]
2 SAM : Big mistake.
3 GENE : Yeah? What about this? [Punches Sam in the stomach, grabs the lapels again
keeping Sam pinioned for the rest of the conversation.] They reckon you got
concussion. Well I couldn’t give a tart’s furry cup if your brains are falling out,
don’t ever waltz into my kingdom acting king of the jungle.
4 SAM : Who the hell are you?
5 GENE : Gene Hunt, your DCI. And it’s 1973. Almost dinnertime [shoves Sam
against the wall again]. I’m having hoops.
(Season 1, episode 1)
Although it is not epistemologically unrealistic for Sam to ask this question,

given his context, it might be considered unrealistic for Gene to take it seriously
enough to answer it. Gene is not meant to know, or even suspect, that Sam is a
time traveler. No problem: the dialogue shows the audience that Gene thinks
Sam’s mental powers have been compromised by his road traffic accident: “They
reckon you got concussion.” Period realism is evoked by the unashamed sexism,
as well as the reference to spaghetti hoops (a familiar canned product of the era,
eaten mainly by children, served on toast, like baked beans)—though for at least
one reviewer, such details helped to create a parody of the 1970s, not the real
thing: “It’s as if there’s a voice shouting from the telly: THIS ISN’T NOW, YOU
KNOW, IT’S 1973!”3
Characterization is also well served by this short exchange. It constructs this
first encounter between the drama’s two main characters as a physically and
verbally confrontational one and it displays the new character, Hunt, as the alpha
male who immediately takes charge of the situation and who has the formal
authority as DCI to back up his claim of power. It also gives Hunt an expressive
style that is not just sexist and brutal but also funny.
The skill involved in bringing all of this together could be enough to ensure
recognition of its quality, but we might also want to give some thought to what it
offers that exceeds the requirements of anchorage, realism, and characterization.
Verbal humor, in which dialogue exploits the resources of language, is important
to the show’s character, both in the form of one-liners by Gene Hunt and in the
form of anachronistic jokes that take advantage of the knowledge that Sam
shares with the audience but not with the other characters:
1 GENE :
I think you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to.
2 SAM :
An overweight, over-the-hill, nicotine-stained, borderline-alcoholic
homophobe with a superiority complex and an unhealthy obsession with
male bonding?
3 GENE : You make that sound like a bad thing.
(Season 2, episode 8)
1 SAM : God’s sake, gov. Let’s not resort to this.

2 GENE : Gotta charge him today, Sam. Gotta keep that bloke off the streets
3 SAM : This place is like Guantanamo Bay.
4 GENE : Give over, it’s nothing like Spain.
The comedic strand of meaning in the dialogue is also important in that first
encounter between Sam and Gene. Bharat Nalluri, who directed this episode and
set the visual style for the series as a whole, has said that it was the Gene’s final
line, “I’m ’avin’ ’oops,” that made him want to take the job (DVD commentary).
He did not say why. Here are some observations. The line has an element of
mockery directed at Tyler’s silly question, licensing Hunt to be equally silly in his
response, and to end on a note of bathos. It carries an intertextual reference to The
Sweeney, in which, in a much recycled clip, John Thaw as Jack Regan announces to a
witness/suspect, “We’re the Sweeney, son, and we haven’t had any dinner,” playing
with the idea of suspects as a kind of prey. The intertextual reference is colored by an
overlay of self-mockery—Hunt claims The Sweeney’s “hard” legacy through the
intertextual reference, but then repudiates or undermines it, with the childish
reference to spaghetti hoops. The Sweeney reference is likely to be deliberate,
because it was precisely this series that was the early inspiration for Life on Mars,
writers Ashley Pharoah and Matthew Graham claiming that back in 1998 all they
really wanted to do was remake the original series that they had enjoyed as children
(Take a Look at the Lawman, Part 1, DVD box set extra). There were certainly Sweeney
fans who picked up the allusion, though not always admiringly:
Glennister’s opening line—“It’s nearly dinnertime, and I’m havin’ ’oops!” said in
threatening tone was just too similar to Regan’s famous line (which I’m sure I don’t
need to remind you of here) for comfort. (The Sweeney forum, http://www.thetvlounge.
co.uk, January 10, 2006, retrieved April 17, 2009)
The comic ingredient in this helps to sustain an ironic reading of the script’s
excesses in its depiction of 1970s social interaction. The humor is part of Gene’s
character, but it is also a way of colluding with an audience that knows that this is
ultimately a playful rewriting of the past, not particularly concerned with whether it
references the past of police work itself, or the past of its dramatic representation.
Life on Mars viewers include some who are capable of appreciating the
challenges of scriptwriting from the writers’ perspective—its expositional obliga-
tions, for instance (the following quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are
from the Internet Movie Database, http://www.imdb.com/):
There’s a bit of rushing around to get all this explained in the first episode granted,
but I suspect that’s needed to set the thing up (unlike US shows like LOST that run
to 24 episodes or so, this thing will probably have to fit itself inside 6).
[T]he first episode was not perfect—in particular the opening 10 minutes was
overly crammed with exposition masquerading as dialogue.
I must admit to not being totally taken with White in terms of character or
performance. I suppose she was OK but her character felt a bit too convenient
and maybe just allowed Sam to speak out loud and thus inform the audience what
was going on in his head.
The humor does not hit the spot for everyone:
There’s also rather too many time travel “jokes” (“I need my mobile,” “Mobile
what?” etc.), which grate a bit after a while.
Some of the “haven’t things changed in 33 years” dialogue is a bit forced: Walks
into a pub and orders “Diet Coke,” keeps mentioning his “mobile,” all women are
“crumpet” etc.
However, Gene Hunt’s predilection for one-liners is noted and commented on

with approval, with references to “Sweeney-esque ‘You watch this car or I’ll come
round and stamp on your toys’ dialogue.”
A former senior officer in Manchester is among those who object to a lack of
realism:
It could not be more inaccurate in terms of procedure; the way they talk or the way
they dress. In all the time I was in the CID in the 1970s I never saw a copper in a
leather bomber jacket and I never heard an officer call anyone “guv.” (John Stalker,
former deputy chief constable of Greater Manchester, a junior officer in Manchester
in the 1970s)4
The specific issue of realism in dialogue is here just one aspect of Stalker’s
general concern for period, subsuming characterization, plot, visualization, and
attitudes. For Stalker it is a matter of criticism that the show is so unrealistic, and
coming from him, there is undoubtedly a political sensitivity to that criticism,
but other viewers were quite content to understand it as a show with its anchor
points in the films and TV police series of the era, and not in the actualities:
The period is well established but in fitting with the coma theme it is very much a
seventies that is based on childhood memories. Hence we have cops that are
basically right out of the Sweeney and a world more in tune with similar shows
from the period rather than reality.
The possibility that Tyler’s imagination has constructed this world is a helpful
rationalization of its failures in respect of realism for some of the viewers—as the
previous quotation shows, along with the following:
We the audience don’t yet know whether Hunt and the rest of the team are real or
just all in Sam’s imagination. If it turns out to be the latter, then perhaps Hunt’s
OTT-ness is simply what Sam thinks coppers were like in 1973. (The Sweeney
forum, at http://www.thetvlounge.co.uk)
Valuable Dialogue
One of the three value-added functions recognized in Kozloff’s scheme for the
functional analysis of dialogue in films is the contribution to thematic concerns/
allegorical messages; one of Thompson’s 12 characteristics of quality drama is
controversial subject matter. It is impossible to ignore the question of content in
the evaluation of screen drama, and dialogue plays a role in the delivery of that
content. But, as with any communicative behavior, it is impossible to separate the
what from the how.
It is part of the duty of public service broadcasting to offer programming that
is beneficial for audiences in ways that go beyond “mere” entertainment. Main-
stream public service broadcasters like the BBC have to manage the risk that
such programming could be a turnoff for their viewers; they also want to sell on
some of their wares to commercial channels. Television dramatists may either be
looking to broadcasting as a platform for their ideas, in the manner of someone
like Dennis Potter, or else they may see themselves as being primarily entertai-
ners. The latter will be just as concerned as the publisher to keep viewers happy,
whereas the former will often be drawn to drama as a mode of discourse that
opens up issues for reflection and debate, and thus seek to avoid anything
obviously didactic. There may also be niche rather than mass markets for
thought-provoking material, as America has discovered with its HBO (Home
Box Office) channel. When the BBC’s version of Life on Mars was screened in
the United States, it was on another niche cable channel (BBC America), albeit
one that carries commercial advertising (unlike HBO, and unlike the BBC in the
United Kingdom).
Whatever the original intentions of the Life on Mars writers, the character
configurations they devised gave them scope to depict different philosophies of
policing without finally or unambiguously endorsing either one as better. At the
same time, these thematic concerns were never allowed to overrule the enter-
tainment dimensions of characterization, plot, nostalgia, and humor. Nelson
(2007) praises the series, in terms that indicate the importance of its thematics
for him. Following a brief discussion of how the narrative handles one particular
issue of police ethics, Nelson summarizes:
Life on Mars is a “quality popular drama” in that it is police series with a twist, but an
original twist which opens up potential for it to be much more than a mere
reworking of the ingredients in a formula. It offers the pleasures of the genre in
resolving cases within the episodes but throwing out a serial hook in Tyler’s quest to
“get home. [ . . . ]”
The ensemble is strong, with particularly powerful performances from Simm
and Glenister, and the reconstruction of the 1970s is convincing. But Life on Mars is
more than nostalgic “heritage” drama. In providing undoubted generic pleasures
it has the potential also to be thought provoking and to invite complex seeing.
(2007: 179)
Nelson approves of the show’s originality in respect of the generic formula; he

approves of the performances, and the realism; he approves that it has a story arc
as well as episode-specific story lines—but the real key to his commendation is in
the last line. A good show is thought provoking: Life on Mars has the potential to
be so. It cannot force viewers to think, but the configuration of its ingredients
ought to encourage this.
How does dialogue contribute here? There are three main ways: through
personalization of issues with (arguably) merit and sympathy on both sides,
through identification with one character’s critical view of another, and
through speeches in which a writer-to-audience address seems to coexist with a
character-to-character address. I will discuss each of these and also, when possible,
refer to relevant commentaries by viewers of the series indicating the possibili-

ties of uptake in respect of these devices.
“I Know Only One Way to Police”: Issues Personalized

Many critics and commentators have observed that the series allows for the
display of two very different views of policing. Gene Hunt gets to articulate one
of those views and Sam Tyler the other. Gene is the sheriff, doing whatever it takes
to protect good citizens from lawlessness; Sam appreciates that the police force is
part of society and the officers’ own behavior is rightly a matter of public concern.
When they argue, viewers have an opportunity to take sides. For example, in one
episode, Gene wants to plant evidence on someone he knows to be a criminal,
whereas Sam wants to avoid such unethical behavior. He also doubts its efficacy:
1 SAM : In “Hyde,” we don’t traditionally keep acid and knocked-off bling in our
offices just so we can get home early.
2 GENE : So you wouldn’t have pulled him in?
3 SAM : Not without evidence!
4 GENE : What, even if you knew people out there were in danger?
5 SAM : People are always in danger, guv.
(Season 1, episode 2, written by Matthew Graham)
Narrative outcomes can then suggest that one was right and the other wrong.
In this case, Sam gets the suspect released for lack of evidence, and someone
does indeed get hurt. Gene was right. But eventually they get their man, with
sound evidence. Sam was right. Over a long(ish) series, the rights and wrongs
can be balanced out, compromises can be engineered, and Gene can learn from
Sam and vice versa:
1 GENE :
See, I told you. I’ll do you a deal. I’ll listen to your little tape machine now
and again, OK? So long as you, just sometimes, listen to this [indicating
his own head, to symbolize the value of instinct as well as technique]. OK?
2 [Sam, shaken, nods assent].
1 SAM : Look, you know when I said I wasn’t wrong? Well, I was. But, I was right about
this not being the IRA. I was right to follow my instincts. Just like you always
say, “Go with your gut feeling.” Just taking your lead.
2 GENE : So I’m right?
3 SAM : We both are.
4 GENE : Right.
5 SAM : Right.
6 GENE : Just as long as I’m more right than you.

Nelson and others are disposed to recognize “complex seeing” in these

arrangements. It could also be seen as fence sitting, as a way of dialing down
the social critique and allowing entertainment values to prevail. Television can
also be criticized for being insufficiently opinionated in its own right. Balance can
be a cop-out. My own research in cyberspace suggests that entertainment-driven
responses (i.e., those oriented to the characters and plot) greatly outnumber
those that were informed by critical engagement with issues of policing.
Internal Criticism
Gene and his 1973 colleagues are shown to be unashamedly sexist and racist. But
the story lines (and its depictions of black and female characters) do not collude
with the unreconstructed attitudes. Dialogue, which supplies the non-PC character-
izations, also displays Sam’s reactions to their outrageous comments—and Sam
is one of us:
1 GENE :
Now. Yesterday’s shooting. The dealers are all so scared we’re more likely
to get Helen Keller to talk. The Paki in a coma’s about as lively as Liberace’s dick
when he’s looking at a naked woman, all in all this investigation’s going at the
speed of a spastic in a magnet factory.
[Sam drops the radio he is holding].
2 GENE : What?
3 SAM : Think you might have missed out the Jews.
(Season 2, episode 6, written by Mathew Graham and Ashley Pharaoh)
The writer Matthew Graham commented as follows:

We just had a feeling it wouldn’t turn out to be a vile piece of offensive drama
but might end up being quite cool and fun, and probably the only way to do that it is
to take someone with our sensibilities and plonk them right in the middle of it,
so that any time Gene Hunt says, “All right luv, go and make us a cup of tea and
[bring] a Garibaldi biscuit,” someone can roll their eyes. Somehow that lets us off
the hook.5
The internal criticism can come from the performance as well as the words (as
when Sam drops the radio), and, once the premises of the show and its char-
acters are established, it may be enough that twenty-first-century Sam exists as
part of the diegesis to activate a critical response from the audience, without any
action or any speech on his part. His mere presence keeps the 1970s value
framework safely distanced. On the other hand, it is a familiar problem in
such cases that audiences who are sufficiently drawn to a bad character may
affiliate with his or her attitudes despite the internal criticism. In 2009, as Gene
appeared once more on British TV screens in the second season of Ashes to Ashes,
there was some commentary along those lines:
In Ashes to Ashes, which is set in the early 1980s, Gene enjoys some equally sparky
clashes with another right-on modern-day colleague, DI Alex Drake (Keeley
Hawes). She has been sent back to 1982 from today and is constantly horrified by
Gene’s casual sexism. This is, after all, a bloke who, in 1973, declared in his
characteristic, I’m-never-wrong tone: “As long as I’ve got a hole in my arse, there’ll
never be a female prime minister.” He’s the man political correctness forgot.
And yet, in spite of attitudes that would barely pass muster in the Stone Age,
Gene is a hugely loved character. So why has this Neanderthal proved so ridiculous-
ly popular? “Gene is so well loved because he’s gruff and difficult to please,” says
Hawes, 33. “He’s the opposite of a New Man. People really like that. It’s such a
breath of fresh air. Someone who exhibits those old-fashioned ways in this PC era is
very attractive. What more could you want?”6
The reception issues here would hinge not only on trying to establish just how
widespread the favorable response to Gene really is, but also whether that
popularity is in spite of or because of the attitudes. Hawes speaks on behalf of
heterosexual female viewers when she points toward Hunt’s charms; he also has
subversive role model/folk hero charms for males. These subjective attractions
may be so strong that they exceed the power of the diegesis (including dialogue
cues) safely to contain them. Alternatively, the attitudes Hunt is allowed to
articulate and possess as his own can also be read as separable, in principle,
from that character, to the extent that they provide support for an existing
critique of the politically correct present day.
Writer to Audience
Once upon a time in TV police drama there were shows that told their audiences,
in direct address, what the thematic concerns of their stories were, and what
views to adopt. George Dixon (Dixon of Dock Green) stood facing the camera at
the start and end of every episode and said something along the lines of the
following:
Well . . . that was the only bad copper I ever met. They say you get a bad apple in
every barrel, the police have to build on trust and the papers will print a page about
one bad policeman and never mention the thousands who do their job properly . . . .
When we find a bad one we’re down on him like a ton of bricks. Well, I’d better be
on my way. (Cited in Sydney-Smith 2002: 114)
The paternalist content of Dixon’s discourse, his complacent attitude, his

confidence in the absolute dividing line between “good” and “bad” policemen,
and the authoritative speaking position the character is given belong to yet
another world—not the Britain of 1973 and certainly not the first decade of the
twenty-first century. As early as 1962 (in Z Cars), the main police characters
included a wife beater and a gambler, though it took rather longer before
institution-level issues attracted the attention of dramatists.
Because the audiences of 2006 no longer trusted the police as they might have
(or could be treated as doing) in the 1950s and 1960s, police characters cannot be
allowed to address the audience in this straightforward fashion. But perhaps they
can still make credible points about the state of society in their conversations with
other characters? In one episode of Life on Mars there is a murder to solve: the
victim is a supporter of the football team Manchester United, and suspicion falls
on fans of the local rivals, Manchester City. Sociologically speaking, the issue in
this episode is “football hooliganism in Britain: its origins and consequences.” It
turns out that the killer is another Manchester United football fan. He has killed a
fellow supporter, not in anger but to turn rivalry into war, by inciting the United
fans to blame the City fans for the death. The police pursuit of the real villain
eventually leads to a “confession” scene between the Sam and the killer, Pete.
1 PETE :
A good punch-up’s all part of the game. It’s about pride. Pride in your team,
being the best.
2 SAM : No it isn’t. [pause] This is how it starts. [pause] And then it escalates. It gets on the
telly. And in the press. And then other fans from other clubs start trying to out-do
each other. And then it becomes about hate. And then it’s nothing to do with
football any more. It’s about gangs. And scumbags like you, roaming the country,
seeing who can cause the most trouble. And then we over-react. And we have to
put up perimeter fences. And we treat the fans like animals. Forty, fifty thousand
people, herded into pens.
[pause]
And then how long before something happens? Eh? How long before something
terrible happens and we are dragging bodies out?
(Season 1, episode 5, written by Tony Jordan)
Blame is being meted out by Sam. He condemns supporters like Pete for instigat-
ing “punch-ups” and trying to justify this. He also criticizes the police. They
overreacted in their approaches to crowd control and crowd violence.
The endpoint of the story, as Sam and the audience know, is the real-life tragedy
that occurred at Hillsborough Stadium, when these same crowd control methods,
poorly applied, did in fact produce the effect that Pete can hear only as prediction.7
The situation is highly charged, and this is an issue on which Sam feels strongly,
himself in mourning for a happier, safer era of football spectatorship that he
remembers from his childhood. Is it enough, though, to rescue this exchange
from a charge of didacticism? Dialogue here mediates thematic discourse through
character situated within particular narrative circumstance. Dixon of Dock Green, by
contrast, mediated comparable discourse retrospectively as regards the narrative,
and in such a way as to elevate the character, Dixon, to unambiguous “spokesman”
status. It is less easy—though not impossible—to read Sam in this scene as the
spokesman for Life on Mars, not only because Sam and Pete’s conversation takes
place behind the fourth wall, but also because of other flaws in the “Sam Tyler”
character which undercut his heroic role in this drama.
On the other hand, the writers have gone to some trouble to get this discourse on
the record. They have constructed Pete as a character who is willing to explain what
he has done and why, though not in a position rationally to challenge Sam’s analysis.
At the same time, the scene itself has been contrived as one in which Sam and Pete
are alone together for long enough for Sam to say what needs to be said. Dialogue is
liable to come across as heavy handed if characters themselves reach beyond the
circumstances of their own lives, to make general points about society, particularly,
as here, if they seem to do so as the mouthpiece for the dramatist’s own views.
Was this speech successful? What did it mean to its viewers? Among all the
ideas and pleasures offered by this episode, did they even notice it? Did they
object to the homiletic address? My findings indicate that mostly they did not
find this particular element significant enough to warrant a comment, but the
few who did were appreciative. My suspicion that it might be found unjustifiably
didactic was not borne out. I could find no negative references to the speech
online, only the following positive ones:
The police raided a secluded gang fight on the day of the match and Sam caught the
killer—the local he’d befriended while working undercover in the bar.
For me, this was where the nerve hit; when Sam remonstrated with the killer
over the motives for soccer hooliganism, he reminded everyone in the audience
who ever attended a U.K. soccer match in the 1970s of where it all started—and
where it all ended—with the police pulling bodies from the terracing when the
measures designed to segregate rival fans went too far. (Martin Conaghan on TV
Squad, http://www.tvsquad.com/2006/02/06/life-on-mars-part-five-soccer-hooliganism/,
posted February 6, 2006, retrieved April 16, 2009)
There was an outstanding scene in episode five, when the murder of a Manchester
United fan seems to point to an upswing in football hooliganism, and Sam
knowing what is to come has a fantastic speech about how minor disturbances
may be “part of the fun” to the lads, but that escalation is just around the corner.
(Susan Hated Literature, http://www.susanhatedliterature.net/2006/02/27/life-
on-mars-season-1/, blog entry for February 27, 2006, retrieved April 16, 2009)
I loved that speech, it was so well done. He is an excellent actor. (Forum comment
on Television without Pity, http://forums.televisionwithoutpity.com/index.php?
showtopic=3134475&st=30, posted February 8, 2006)
The heart of the story, however, was a poignant message—a tad heavily delivered—
about football hooliganism. “A good punch-up is all part of the game,” said the
killer, Pete (Anthony Flanagan). Sam, coming from the future where he had
witnessed Hillsborough, talked of the escalation of violence that simply breeds
more violence, resulting in fans being herded into pens, and then: “How long
before something terrible happens and we are dragging bodies out?” (Mail on
Sunday TV reviews, Jaci Stephen, The Mourning After, February 12, 2006, page 75.)
I really enjoyed LOM last night too, with the car chase at the start and thought the
storyline had a moral message hidden inside too, with Sam’s Reganesque lecture
(except without the Reganesque 70’s dialogue) to the football violence ring leader.
(The Sweeney forum, at http://www.thetvlounge.com, posted Febrary 7, 2006,
retrieved April 17, 2009)
The football violence speech was a great piece of writing and everybody over 20
should have known exactly what he was referring to, speaking of which I will
never forget the story of the couple who lost both their teenage daughters. You
don’t need to be a lover of the “beautiful game” to be moved by such events.
(The Sweeney forum, at http://www.thetvlounge.com, posted February 8, 2006,
retrieved April 17, 2009)
The writers here are broadly in sympathy with Tyler’s sentiments. They like the
speech because they agree with it. Its dramatic effectiveness would almost
certainly have been weaker if Sam had been saying something that these viewers
personally disagreed with. Conaghan, the writer of the first extract above, seems
to appreciate that it is intended as part of a discourse that is beyond character. It
is not possible to say whether the other commentators also hear it that way.
DISCUSSION
This chapter has ventured further away from the sociolinguistics of dialogue
than most others in this book. In particular, it has had nothing to say about the
micromanagement of characters’ speech exchanges in relation to turn taking,
inferences and implicatures, adjacency pairs, overlapping speech, hesitation
phenomena, or misunderstanding. These are all interesting areas for explora-
tion, and the second of my two case studies will return to this general territory.
The influence of sociolinguistics here is broadly that of the ethnography of
communication (see chapter 6 in this volume, especially the section “Communi-
cation Ethnography and the Dramatization of Communicative Events”). When
any TV drama is broadcast, it opens up a social interaction between dramatist
and audience. This, rather than the character-to-character exchanges (though
subsuming them), is the primary object of study. Dialogue, along with narrative
structure, and all of the nonverbal aspects of performance and production, is a
resource for achieving higher level dramatic objectives. In this perspective, the
micro-sociolinguistics of character-to-character speech is communicatively rele-
vant, (for example, it contributes to characterization), but this is only one factor
among many others. The content of the talk has to be considered, as well as its
styling—as I have attempted in the section “Valuable Dialogue” above.
The specific sources I have drawn on in this chapter come from film studies
(Kozloff) and from the media studies literature on contemporary TV drama
(Nelson), and not from the sociolinguistics of talk, or even from the cognate
field of stylistics. Yet I have attempted throughout to add to a primarily textual
approach, by taking seriously the suggestion in stylistics of drama’s double
articulation. (See the discussion in chapter 3, with reference to the work of Short
and Bubel in particular). In construing TV drama as social interaction between
dramatist and audience, it was necessary to look at both sides of that interaction.
This is why the foregoing account quotes as much from the reviews and viewer
commentary on the series as it does from the text itself.
Life on Mars, the series, has content as well as form. It relates to subjects that
viewers should care about, as members of society, policing, political correctness,
football hooliganism. The sociolinguistics of talk, as such, does not usually
concern itself with the subject matter (see Cameron 1997 for a critique of this
limitation). But anyone interested in debates about policing and other social
issues, who also believes that the how and the what of expression and represen-
tation are closely connected, will want to understand how different kinds of
interactions operate in their varying cultural conditions. Some things that can
be said about these important subjects under the aegis of television drama might
be harder to say in other communicative modes and contexts. Drama is fictional,
so is not beholden to particular histories in its narratives. This allows the play of
imagination, even, as in Life on Mars, at the expense of epistemological realism.
It personalizes the issues and draws up possible lines of identification and
repulsion across its range of characters. Television drama on these subjects—
even in the era of niche marketing—can be addressed to very large audiences (six
to seven million for episodes of Life on Mars, counting only the first-run British
broadcasts, not repeats, DVD sales, international sales, or downloads). All of this
seems to me congruent with Hymesian principles of communication ethnogra-
phy—to which I would want to add a more developed awareness of the economic
and industrial factors that shape the contexts of communicative practice.
Notwithstanding these theoretical points, the primary interest of this chapter
is not theoretical, but in what it contributes to discussion of contemporary
television drama in general and Life on Mars in particular, using dialogue as a
point of entry into this area. The approach I have adopted requires some caution
in matters of textual interpretation; otherwise it risks making unwarranted
presumptions about the audience’s contribution to the interaction. That contri-
bution certainly requires more systematic enquiry, going beyond the opportunis-
tic use of online commentaries adopted here. Nevertheless, the reviews and
comments were extensive enough to point to some important lines for further
research, in which dialogue would still be important, along with other textual
and contextual factors. These inquiries would need to focus especially on (a) the
relative significance of the quality and the value (in my terms) elements in
audiences’ appreciation of the series and (b) the question of how to read Gene
Hunt, and, beyond this, the implications to be drawn from the cultural currency
of an apparently likable character with some particular unlikable attitudes.
9
House and Snark
The previous chapter focused on the social interaction between dramatist and
audience. In doing so, it discussed screen dialogue from a functional perspective,
largely playing down the micromanagement of talk exchanges, but playing up
the content of the talk. This chapter reverses the priorities. Its particular focus is
on strategies of impoliteness in the American medical series House (Fox 2004–
present). It makes a case that these strategies are interesting from an interac-
tional sociolinguistic perspective. They demonstrate ways of being impolite that
have not so far been addressed by the available theoretical accounts, and, more
generally, add to the sheer complication of trying to theorize impoliteness.
It need not be regarded as a problem that the instances of impoliteness dis-
cussed here are drawn not from real life but from pre-scripted materials performed
by actors. If the interactional moments make sense, if they come across in the ways
I shall describe, it is because they rely on general principles of interpretation,
not principles of interpretation that are exclusive to expressive culture and crafted
texts. Theories of impoliteness and conflict talk need to be elaborate enough to
cope with the kinds of material found in this TV show. Research is still coming
to terms with its complexity (see Bousfield 2008; Bousfield and Loucher 2008).
Although the primary focus is on impoliteness, the chapter has a secondary
interest in the project of the series as drama, and the function of the impoliteness
in this particular text as a contribution to series branding. The writers and
producers intend this characteristic as one of its selling points: in the DVD
collection for season 1, there is a bonus feature of “House-isms”—a selection
of one-liners extracted from context for the discrete pleasure that they afford
collectively, separated from their narrative context.
As one viewer put it,
I managed to get my hand on a screener of the pilot episode and watched it

yesterday. And I loved it. Which came as a total surprise since I don’t like shows
about Doctors and CSI bores me half to death. And this show is a bit a mix of both.
But: it has a non-PC main character. It has Hugh Laurie and it has the snark. Lots
and lots of snark. (posted July 1, 2004, on Television without Pity, http://www.
forums.televisionwithoutpity.com/, retrieved April 20, 2009)
169
Snark and snarky have become popular terms in cyberspace, though they
seem to vary in meaning. For some they suggest criticism that is condescending
and mean-spirited (Denby 2009), and snark certainly need not be witty and
entertaining—though the kind that House engages in often is so, and this viewer
is certainly responding to the pleasure of snark. To contextualize the examples
and to enable the wider discussion, it is useful to begin with a general account of
the show itself.
HOUSE
House is a medical drama series set in a large New Jersey teaching hospital, the
fictional “Princeton–Plainsboro.” It has a set of six principal characters, and
Gregory House (Hugh Laurie) is the central one. The other characters (in the
first three seasons, though with changes in the fourth and fifth) are the three
junior doctors who work for him, Alison Cameron, a white American (Jennifer
Morrison), Eric Foreman, an African American (Omar Epps), Robert Chase, a
white Australian (Jesse Spencer), House’s boss, the hospital administrator Lisa
Cuddy (Lisa Edelstein), and his friend and colleague James Wilson (Robert Sean
Leonard), who is head of oncology in the hospital. I will follow the usage of the
characters among themselves, and refer to main characters by their surnames
only, unless there is reason to do otherwise.
House is a series that has run for more than one season. In the
United States it is one of the flagship series of the Fox network. In the United
Kingdom its first-run broadcasts are on Five, the newest of the terrestrial (ana-
logue) channels, free-to-air on all services and platforms. According to the
Internet Movie Database, http://www.imdb.com, it is distributed worldwide
to countries including, at least, France, Canada, Australia, Bulgaria, Czech
Republic, Hungary, Slovakia, Singapore, Poland, Romania, Scandinavia, Spain,
Japan, Germany, and Estonia. IMDb also credits the series with 22 industry
awards, including one People’s Choice, two Golden Globes, and two Emmys,
along with countless nominations.
Although medical drama is a staple of the British and American television
drama diet, this show represents a departure from recent convention in certain
respects (Hallam 2009). It certainly represents a departure from the pattern
followed by such shows as Chicago Hope (CBS 1994–2000) and, especially, ER
(NBC 1994–2009). This pattern has been very well explored by Jason Jacobs
(2003), who focuses on depictions of the hospital workplace, drawing attention
to its fascination with the damaged human body, as well as aspects of the
workplace as a bureaucratically governed environment that frustrates personal
and professional relationships as much as it encourages them.
House and Snark 171
A key difference between ER et al. and House, for the purposes of this chapter, is
that the former are constructed as ensemble pieces, focusing on the life of the ward or
department and the social interactions of the characters. House represents a return
to the hero-based format of, for instance, Dr. Kildare in the series of that name (CBS
1961–1966). However, the attractive, caring Kildare has been replaced by an alto-
gether more abrasive variant of the hero-doctor.
A significant aspect of House is its approach to narrative. It has been described
as a medical mystery series, inasmuch as the weekly episode plots center on
single patients who present with unusual symptoms that do not easily fit with
known conditions. A typical episode opens with scenes presenting the prehos-
pitalization health emergency of the “patient of the week.” It moves through
sequences in which possibilities are explored, brings the patient to a new crisis
(often when the wrong condition has been treated, so that the “remedy” has
made the patient worse), and concludes when the correct diagnosis is discovered,
the therapy begun, and the patient set on the road to recovery. To this extent the
series has as much in common with CSI (CBS 2000–present) as it does with ER.
The comparison with CSI is further reinforced, visually, in the similar-but-
different use that each makes of the cinematographic technique “endoscopic
gaze”—of which more below.
The intensity of the single-patient drama is broken up by including within
episodes one or more clinic scenes. The device that makes this possible is the idea
that House, besides being a specialist diagnostician with patients of his own, also
works on a rotation in the hospital drop-in clinic, where patients might appear
with any condition from the mildest sore throat to advanced cancer. These scenes
serve several functions, according to context. Sometimes it is light relief, some-
times there are thematic resonances, and occasionally a patient will migrate from
the clinic to the ward. The series also has some story and character arcs (devel-
opments occurring over more than one episode).
Contemporary TV audiences expect their hospital dramas to be medically
realistic, and House certainly displays a satisfactory quota of bodily excretions
from usual and unusual places, not to mention fits, seizures, and screaming
agonies. The series deals with extreme medicine—outrageous therapies for
often extraordinary conditions. It is only proper that this should call for some
correspondingly excessive imagery of medical procedures, though no doubt it
“pulls its punches” to some extent in recognition that this is meant for a
television and not a cinema audience. A key visual trope is the suspenseful
moment when the patient’s body glides into the womb-like confines of an
MRI machine. House also makes use of the endoscopic gaze (van Dijck 2001)—
moving image sequences that appear to come from within a human body, first
popularized in the visualization of forensic detective work in the series CSI.
CONFLICT AND IMPOLITENESS IN TALK:

THEORETICAL ISSUES
An interdisciplinary collection on conflict talk of the early 1990s (Grimshaw

1990a) paved the way for subsequent work under this general heading. The
following very selective survey of the now extensive literature pays particular
attention to work involving either mass media texts (e.g., interaction in docu-
soaps or on talk radio) or in drama. It is interesting to find a considerable
number of such publications, suggesting perhaps not only practical difficulties
in obtaining appropriate data from primary interaction contexts, but also, as
Culpeper et al. (1998, 2005) suggests, the importance of conflict as a source of
dramatic and entertainment value.
Conflict talk in TV drama has been scripted by screenwriters, directed by
producers, and performed by actors. It is thus highly contrived in comparison
with what occurs in less prearranged material. The contrivance in the case of this
series is in the service of not just one but two of the functions of dialogue in
audiovisual drama identified by Kozloff (2000). It is, most obviously, in the
service of characterization, but in terms of Kozloff’s scheme it also comes
under the heading “exploiting the resources of language”—here, for the sake of
the pleasure that the wit of indirect face attacks provides in the context of a
dramatic entertainment.
One of the contributions to the Grimshaw collection (Tannen 1990) looked at
conflict in literary texts, and thus explored represented rather than naturally
occurring conflict talk. Tannen’s article, focused in part on Harold Pinter’s play
Betrayal, used the written text, not a performance of that text, as its data.
However, Tannen wrote about the functions of pauses and silences in this
play. As is well known, Pinter was very specific in his indications of such
between-turn nonlinguistic expression, and all faithful performances would be
expected to respect his specifications. Tannen’s argument here is that the pauses
in this play are inserted as markers of unspoken tension in the relationship
(a love triangle), whereas silences, intended as longer than pauses, are inserted to
mark the climactic moments of these tensions.
Not speaking can, of course, be conflictual in different ways. It can indicate a
kind of silencing—a speaker who has been cowed into silence, who can
say nothing because all alternatives are equally destructive/impossible. It can
also indicate a more active kind of refusal—a gesture of noncooperation in
the talk and/or in the project constituted or represented by the talk.
When conflict is not pre-scripted, it may nevertheless be formulaic, especially
when participants orient to an overarching institutional context. The conflict,
displayed in certain kinds of talk radio shows, for instance, has been studied
from this conversation-analytic perspective (Hutchby 1996). The raison d’être of
the genre is the displaying of personal opinions about public issues and the
House and Snark 173
challenging of those opinions by the host. Hutchby shows how hosts introduce
callers, how callers display a personal opinion on some topic of public interest,
and how hosts retrospectively construct that position as arguable by challenging
it (cf. Maynard 1985). Callers are, from that point onward, structurally on
the defensive, unless they find a way to take the initiative and push the host
into clarifying his own position. If the host is left to specify his position more
spontaneously, he may, when he does so, move directly without a pause into a
termination of the call, ending the caller’s access to the airwaves.
The performance of conflict requires attention to talk as interaction, not to
isolated utterances. In Tannen’s material, pauses and silences are responses
to what has gone before, and in turn they influence what comes next. In
Hutchby’s material, it is the host’s opposing of an opinion that constitutes a
caller’s prior utterance as an arguable, in conversation-analytic terms—just as
happens in nonbroadcast argument sequences.
The concept of conflict in discourse has also fed into the related research field,
the study of impoliteness (Bousfield 2008; Bousfield and Loucher 2008), in which
attention to discourse sequencing has been less evident until recently. Impolite-
ness relates to the intentional expression of hostility in talk, and this does not
necessarily occur as part of the study of argument. Insults, for instance, “You
moron,” “You’re being an idiot,” and so forth, are overtly hostile in intent, but can
be issued outside of argumentative contexts, or they can constitute banter (see
below). The converse is also true. Arguments, even when understood as dialogic
and emergent, rather than as monologic and crafted to establish a point, can be
conducted in emotionally cool, interactively cooperative, and thus nonhostile
ways.
Early work on impoliteness (see Culpeper 1996) addressed a theoretical and
empirical problem inherited from the pioneering work of Brown and Levinson
(1978). Brown and Levinson’s politeness theory introduced a model for the
classification of different types of politeness. Central to their model was the
idea of face, meaning a sense of identity and self-respect common to all normal
humans, though with differences as to what constituted any specific identity.
This concept, introduced to the social sciences by Erving Goffman (1967) was
elaborated by Brown and Levinson into two facets: negative face (the desire not
to be imposed upon) and positive face (the desire to be valued for who and what
you are).1 Face-threatening acts, behaviors that risked damage to the face of self
or other in this sense, could be managed in different ways as follows: FTA stands
for “face-threatening act.” Numbers indicate each superstrategy and mark it
for degree of politeness, with 1 indicating the least face-threatening option and
5 indicating the most.
As others have pointed out, this model accounts for impoliteness only as the
absence of politeness. It further suggests perhaps that the basic orientation of all
talk is toward politeness in the sense of interpersonal supportiveness and social
5. Without
redress, baldly
4. Negative
On record
politeness
Do the FTA With redress
Politeness 3. Positive
2. Off record
strategies politeness
1. Don’t do the
FTA
Figure 9.1 Politeness options
harmony.2 Culpeper is one of several writers who have sought to develop a

complementary account of impoliteness in discourse (cf. Craig, Tracy, and Spisak
1986, Tracy 1990). His approach is a valuable one for my purposes, because
“Gregory House” can in part be understood as a virtuoso player of the discourse
instruments of impoliteness.
Culpeper’s “anatomy of impoliteness” in its original guise looked as follows.
The impoliteness superstrategies as presented here seem to mirror the polite-
ness superstrategies of the Brown and Levinson model:
Instead of enhancing or supporting face, impoliteness superstrategies are a means
of attacking face:
1. Bald on record impoliteness—the FTA is performed in a direct, clear, unam-
biguous and concise way in circumstances where face is not irrelevant or
minimized.
2. Positive impoliteness—the use of strategies designed to damage the addres-
see’s positive face wants.
3. Negative impoliteness—the use of strategies designed to damage the speaker’s
negative face wants.
4. Sarcasm or mock politeness—the FTA is performed with the use of politeness
strategies that are obviously insincere, and thus remain surface realizations
[...]
5. Withhold politeness—the absence of politeness work where it would be
expected. (Culpeper 1996: 356)
Superstrategies 2 and 3 lead to various output strategies. Positive politeness output

strategies include “ignore, snub the other” and “use inappropriate identity
markers.” Negative politeness output strategies include “frighten” and “conde-
scend, scorn, or ridicule.”
This general model has been revised and developed in later work (Culpeper
1998, 2005, Culpeper et al. 2002, Bousfield 2007a, 2007b). Culpeper et al. (2002:
1576) conclude that the five superstrategy model should not be viewed as a
mirror image of the politeness model—that no hierarchy of politeness could
House and Snark 175
be attributed to the superstrategies. Another conclusion takes the form of

a suggestion that, in actual usage, mixtures of superstrategies are more
common than singular occurrence. Culpeper concludes that intentionality,
although important, is not enough. He offers a definition of impoliteness, one
that encompasses the perspective of the hearer as well as that of the speaker:
Impoliteness comes about when: (1) the speaker communicates face-attack inten-
tionally, or (2) the hearer perceives and/or constructs behavior as intentionally face-
attacking, or a combination of (1) and (2). (Culpeper 2005: 38)
This in itself suggests that the behavior that follows the supposedly impolite
act must be analytically attended to in assessing the import of that prior act, in
the absence of any other information regarding the hearer’s state of mind.
This is consistent with the work developed in Culpeper et al. (2002), and pursued
by Bousfield (2007a) and others, that explores the sequencing of conversational
moves in the conduct of impolite exchanges, with reference to the options
available to speakers at different stages of such episodes. It is also suggested
by the definition that although a speaker may not have intended to be im-
polite, impoliteness has occurred if a hearer believes that he or she did
so intend when using the offending form. Intentionality, real or attributed, is
key, in a way that is consistent with pragmatic approaches to talk, but inconsis-
tent with theoretical positions that reject claims by analysts to be able to
“see inside” the black box of someone’s head. One line of defense in favor of
intentionality claims is that inferring intention and motive is exactly what
ordinary language users do:
. . . the availability of ethnographic context and of an optimally complete behavior
record permits analysts to make such inferences and attributions which are “for-
most-practical-purposes” (paraphrasing Garfinkel) no less plausible than those of
actual participants. This claim is subject to qualification but the disambiguation
process is that which we ourselves employ in interaction—where, it must be
conceded, we sometimes err. (Grimshaw 1990b: 281)
Culpeper’s data for the 2005 paper comprised exchanges from the “exploitative”
quiz show The Weakest Link (BBC 2000–present), and he recognizes
the importance of this mediated environment as part of the ethnographic con-
text. Specifically, part of the paper discusses whether this context provides
voyeuristic pleasure (note the visual metaphor) and neutralizes or sanctions
the impoliteness:
If we also take on board the fact that Anne Robinson’s persona is a fiction then
genuine impoliteness should not occur. However [ . . . ] evidence that the targets of
the impoliteness take it as genuine is present in the form of their counter-strategies
and non-verbal reactions. If the hearer “takes” a behavior as intentional face-attack,
then that counts as impoliteness according to my definition. (2005: 69)
Culpeper argues that the insulted WL contestants do take offense, and that
this can be accounted for by reference to findings in social psychology that
behavior tends to be more salient than situational factors—it “engulfs the field”
in Heider’s (1958) terms. This must be true for some contestants—those whose
response is one of embarrassment and whose communicative “presence”
diminishes as a result of the attack. There is another possibility—that some of
the targets are themselves performing “offense taken” for the benefit of the
television audience—that, like the host Anne Robinson, they, too, are capable
of presenting a constructed persona in this context. There are also issues to
consider about the circumstances in which a character-to-character insult on
television might also be a show-to-audience insult. This can happen in cases in
which members of the audience are in a position to identify with one of the
characters via attribution of category membership. An insult to one fat person is
potentially an insult to all, and fat audience members could take offense—but so,
too, could skinny audience members on behalf of their fat fellow citizens. Weight
is safe territory for The Weakest Link, but race is unsafe, and Welsh nationality
(following a notorious, arguably real insult by Robinson to the Welsh on a
different program, on account of which she had to undertake remedial work in
the real world)3 has become an area of “play” for the show (in the articulation
sense as well as the pleasure sense). Mediation changes things for impoliteness
theory in more complex ways than have yet been examined. At the same time, it
provides an important arena for examining the interface between micro and
macro social variables: the conduct of insults as a form of interpersonal behavior
on the one hand and their content on the other.
Another advancement in Culpeper’s (2005) work from the 1996 account is
that it introduces a distinction between sarcasm and off-record impoliteness. In
2005 the concept of sarcasm is explicitly restricted to superficial politeness, of the
kind illustrated by Leech’s original 1983 example, “DO help yourself” (falling
tone on “self”) can be sarcastic in the right context. This formulation has
a straightforward, nonsarcastic, overtly polite use, by a host to a guest: someone
who is, as English middle-class manners require, civilly refraining from eating
and drinking until permission is granted to begin the feast. The sarcastic use
plays with this polite use: it is addressed by a host to the guest who could not wait.
Sarcasm, thus understood, is not an impoliteness strategy or superstrategy at
all but a metastrategy and thus outside the basic framework (Culpeper 2005: 42).
Off-record impoliteness takes its place in the model. An off-record insult does not
have to display politeness: sarcasm does. “The FTA is performed by means of
an implicature but in such a way that one attributable intention clearly outweighs
any other” (Culpeper 2005: 44).
Speakers do not have to make a face-threatening act explicit if they want to be
impolite. They can implicate it, by flouting a Gricean maxim. In Culpeper’s own
example this is managed by having a character ask a question to which he knows
House and Snark 177
the answer (i.e., it is a rhetorical question) and in which the answer is insulting to
the other character: “What are you—dying of some wasting disease?” The point
of the distinction between strategies and metastrategies may be more important
for the theoretical apparatus than for explicating actual examples. I will return
to this later in discussing an example of indirect impoliteness/sarcasm on the
part of Doctor House.
Culpeper follows Leech (1983) in recognizing that, if speakers can insult one
another through mock politeness, they can also do the reverse—enhance face by
seeming to be insulting. Banter can thus be defined as mock impoliteness. The
expression of impolite beliefs becomes banter if the beliefs in question are
blatantly in violation of Grice’s quality maxim, in other words, blatantly
untrue: “In order to show solidarity with h, say something which is (i) obviously
untrue, and (ii) obviously impolite to h [and this will give rise to an interpretation
such that] what s says is impolite to h and is clearly untrue. Therefore what
s means is polite to h and true” (Leech 1983: 144).
The principle whereby banter in this sense can be seen as positively polite
rests on the logic that only people on close terms can afford to take risks in their
interpersonal strategies—therefore, in taking such a risk, someone shows that
they are, or would like to be, on intimate terms. Intimations of intimacy are a
form of positive politeness. The banter principle covers, among other things,
ritual insults, as studied by Labov (1972). However, it is not easy to find
examples of banter in House that meet the requirement that the beliefs expressed
should be obviously, blatantly false. This is consistent with the construction
of the House character as someone who has intimacy issues, to use the contem-
porary folk-psychology idiom. I will return to this point in due course.
Recent research on impoliteness in interaction draws its data from a variety of
domains, including online communication (Graham 2007), parliamentary dis-
course (Harris 2001), and secondary texts in the form of court reports (Kryk-
Kastovsky 2006). Publicly accessible sources (i.e., mass media texts) have often
been used (e.g., in Culpeper et al. 2003, Culpeper 2005, Bousfield 2007a, 2007b).
Impoliteness theory has also been applied to drama dialogue (Tannen 1990,
Culpeper 1996, 1998, Rudanko 2005). What is missing in this range is research
in which the data take the form of represented talk (as in drama dialogue) and are
mediated (as in broadcasting). Gregory House is neither Timon of Athens nor
Gordon Ramsay of Boiling Point (London Weekend Television 1998) and other
reality TV programs, though there may be traces of both in his makeup.
THE RUDENESS OF DOCTORS
Whether or not real-life doctors are habitually rude to patients (and/or to junior
doctors and nursing staff) or interpreted as rude by those they interact with, it is
undoubtedly true that fictional doctors (especially those deployed for comic
purposes) are often rude, to the point that this could be seen as a stereotype in
its own right. Because stereotype is such a pejorative term, however, I will refer
instead to the rude doctor schema (cf. chapter 7 in this volume), while recognizing
that even schematic rude doctors have some individuality. British film/TV char-
acters consistent with this general schema include James Robertson Justice as
Sir Lancelot Spratt in the Doctor film series of the 1950s and 1960s (e.g., Doctor in
the House, 1954), Martin Clunes as Martin Ellingham (Doc Martin, ITV 2004–
present), and Keith Allen as Tony Whitman (Bodies, BBC 2004–2005). This is in
contrast to the Dr. Kildare/Dr. Finlay type—in hospitals or in the community,
the doctors who combine professional skills with the great bedside manner
(Dr. Kildare, NBC 1961–1966, Dr Finlay’s Casebook, BBC 1962–1971).
Among the rude doctors, Ellingham, for instance, is styled as someone who is
lacking in normal social skills. He ruins his own “first kiss” with the local
schoolteacher by pointing out to her, in her own best health interests, and in
the series’ cliffhanger, that she has bad breath. With patients, Ellingham’s
rudeness can be often be a display of impatience with the demands of patients,
in which viewers can hear and see that he has some justification:
Context. Overweight mother wants a prescription of Ritalin or similar for her

similarly proportioned daughter. Doctor thinks a better therapy for the child
would be an improved diet.
1 ELLINGHAM : I have patients to see. This consultation’s over.

2 MOTHER : But you haven’t told me what’s wrong with her yet.
3 ELLINGHAM : She’s very annoying.
[...]
4 MOTHER : I have not come here to talk about my cooking.
5 ELLINGHAM : No, you have come here to ask me to sedate your child so that
you can pretend she’s a good little girl.
6 MOTHER : She is a good little girl.
7 ELLINGHAM : There’s nothing “little” about her.
The peremptory closing of the consultation in line 1 is blatantly impolite in

Culpeper’s terms, as is his description of the patient as “annoying” (line 3), his
formulation of the mother’s intentions (line 5), and his comment on the child’s
size (line 7—the wordplay perhaps giving him some personal satisfaction, too).
Line 3 can be seen as the most overtly impolite if we base this judgment on literal
meaning, but it is line 5 that involves the most wounding insults—the adult’s
motherhood and her integrity are impugned, damaging her positive face wants
to be seen as a good mother.
Similar kinds of examples can be found in House. But the form, purpose, and
range of the impolite behavior in this drama seem to take Gregory House beyond
the reach of the schematic rude doctor. In the case of House, the rudeness is
House and Snark 179
presented as part of a deliberate self-fashioning on his part, a manifestation of

contemporary culture’s interest in ironic and other “insincere” modes of speech.
In relation to form, for instance, a case can be made for an interactional
impoliteness resource not hitherto discussed in the sociolinguistic literature—
fake banter. In relation to purpose, the point will be that, as in the Santa Claus
example, House takes pleasure in the insults he disburses at other people’s
expense and does not need them to share the joke with him.
Fake Banter
Banter, as discussed by Leech and endorsed by Culpeper, already involves second-
order presentation of self—the interpersonal significance of an obvious first-order
sense is discounted by the context, and a different, opposite, interpersonal
significance is rationally calculated: For Leech (see above) it is when utterances
are obviously untrue and obviously impolite that they can function as demon-
strations of solidarity. Banter asks hearers not to take the impoliteness at face
value, just as sarcasm asks them not to take the politeness at face value. In House
there is an extraordinary amount of material indicating the possibility of another
metastrategy—fake banter, a form of speech that could, like real banter, be asking
a hearer to discount the impoliteness and hear it instead as solidarity or intimacy,
but which, on the other hand, and unlike real banter, bases itself on beliefs that
are not obviously untrue, but about which there is some doubt or some problem.
There may be—and in House there certainly are—additional doubts about the
speaker’s appeal to relations of intimacy with the targets of his fake banter.
Banter in Leech’s sense would seem to be more appropriate for personal
relationships than for workplace relationships. In real-life workplaces, profes-
sionalism puts certain normative constraints on expressions of intimacy/solidar-
ity, although professional colleagues and coworkers do, of course, enter
into personal relationships, whether officially prohibited, frowned upon, or
permitted—normative rules may not be respected in practice. This has been
the standard territory of medical drama, not to mention the basis of many real-
life friendships, love affairs, and marriages. De facto workplace power relations
also interfere with the possibilities for genuine intimacy. House is not the kind of
character to let the demands of professionalism alone stand in the way of
anything he intended to do. On the other hand, he positively enjoys the official
power he has over Chase, Foreman, and Cameron, as well as the hold he
exercises over his boss by virtue of being the hospital’s best (though most
exasperating) doctor. House gets to produce considerable quantities of “banter-
like” dialogue, but there is (a) no possibility of appealing to a justification of
intimacy between him and his interlocutor and (b) provocative content.
House occasionally purports to tease Foreman, a black doctor, by attributing
specific characteristics to him on the basis of his racial identity. Foreman is
imagined as having lived in a “bad,” drug-infested neighborhood, to be familiar

with recreational drug use and the kind of crime popularly associated with such
areas, as in the following examples from the first and second seasons:
Context: House and the junior doctors are discussing the possibility that their latest
patient has taken an overdose of something to make him high:
1 HOUSE :
Copy machine toner. Same punch as GHB. A little pricier, way more
dangerous. On the other hand, it is legal. [To Foreman] I want you to go to his house
and find his stash. Betcha know all the good hiding spots.
2 FOREMAN : Actually, I never did drugs. [Leaves]
(Season 1, episode 8, “Poison,” written by Matt Witten)
Context: Cuddy, Foreman, and House are discussing a destitute patient—they need
to find out more about her, before they can make progress with her treatment.
1 CUDDY: Fine. But nothing more until you find out who she is.
2 FOREMAN : How are we supposed to—?
3 HOUSE : Hey! He knows more homeless people than any of us. Go check out the ’hood,
dawg.
(Foreman expresses exasperation nonverbally, but does not speak.)
(Season 1, episode 10, “Histories,” written by Joel Anderson Thompson)
Context: House and the junior doctors are discussing the symptoms of a patient on
death row.
1 FOREMAN :
The guy’s probably a heroin addict, which explains the tachycardia,
which caused the pulmonary edema.
2 CHASE : How does an inmate on Death Row get his hands on heroin?
3 FOREMAN : Are you serious?
4 HOUSE: The man knows prisons. When we’ve got a yachting question, we’ll come to you.
(Season 2, episode 1, “Acceptance,” written by Russel Friend and Garrett Lerner)
Note that the last of these also teases Chase on the grounds of his family
wealth and the kinds of recreational activity stereotypically associated with that.
Because Foreman did once serve time as a juvenile for breaking-and-entering (a
biographical fact that has actually secured him his position on the staff, as
evidence of his street smarts, valued by House), the image House deploys is not
wholly inappropriate. Hence the jokes do not fit Leech’s definition of banter,
which specifies that the impolite propositions need to be obviously untrue.
As indirect face attack, “I see you as a (former) homeless, drug-using prison
habitué” is hearable as something that House enjoys saying (implying) to the less
powerful, younger man, bracketing off as irrelevant both its truth (is/was Fore-
man ever really like that? Is that what black people in general are like?) and/or its
sincerity (does House really believe that this is what Foreman is like or what black
House and Snark 181
people in general are like?)—challenging Foreman not to do likewise. If Foreman

does not bracket off these issues (as in the first of the exchanges above), then he has
fallen into the strategic trap that House has laid for him. If he does, then he has
allowed the taunt to pass as banter, even though it has failed to fulfill the strict
criteria.4 The face attack here therefore lies not in the content so much as in the
challenge it represents—to bite back or shrug it off. Given the social relations of
senior to junior here, such challenges can be regarded as House’s power plays. The
fact that these attacks relate specifically to race, in the American context, may also
give them the status of face attacks directed at the attitudes of the liberal audience.
House is presenting a non-PC persona: audiences do not have to take that seriously,
any more than Foreman does, but they do have to hear it, as part of how he chooses
to present himself. Based on what they have heard, they have to evaluate the
character, or the show, or both: “But I do think Foreman needed to call House on
his racist-sounding remarks at some point. They are rather bad, even though I don’t
believe House is really racist. He’s too smart for that. He just demeans everyone”
(posted September 28, 2005, on Television without Pity, http://www.forums.
televisionwithoutpity.com/, retrieved April 21, 2009).
Impoliteness as Self-Gratification
If House’s rudeness is partly in his use of the fake banter strategy, then another
aspect is the personal pleasure he takes from being smarter than the people he
insults. A three-line extract will serve as my illustration here, though I want to
stage the presentation of this example and examine its first two lines before
considering the meaning and significance of the third. Theoretically speaking,
the initial issue is whether this should be classified as the use of a strategy of
indirect impoliteness or a metastrategy of sarcasm, or as something indetermi-
nate, between these two categories of impoliteness. Beyond this, a larger force
field of indeterminacies makes this a recalcitrant example, hard to bring within
the constructs of the theoretical apparatus.
Context: House enters the examination room in the clinic where he routinely treats
walk-in patients. He perceives his latest patient, in full Santa Claus costume. House
ostentatiously sniffs the air, and then takes the first speaking turn:
1 HOUSE : Let me guess. Inflammatory bowel?

2 SANTA CLAUS : Wow, yeah. Is it that bad?
(Season 1, episode 5, “Damned If You Do,” written by Sara B. Cooper)
Regular viewers of the show come to appreciate that House, as an essentially

melancholic individual, survives emotionally by having fun at the expense of
other people, including patients. This example is a minor, short-lived, and
inconsequential instance of the trait, tucked away in an incidental scene of no
relevance to the episode story line or any story arc. At best, this very unsatisfac-
tory Santa Claus has thematic relevance in an episode presenting a downbeat
view of Christmas, resonant with House’s own Eeyore-like gloom—as well
as displaying “House-as-normal,” away from the more high-pressure environ-
ment of his own department in which patients are suffering from life-or-death
diseases.
House indirectly conveys his belief that the patient is the cause of a bad smell
in the room. Culpeper (1996: 351) claims that acts that draw attention to the fact
that the target is engaged in some antisocial activity are inherently impolite,
irrespective of context—arguing that such inherent impoliteness is the exception
rather than the rule and that most impoliteness is context dependent. Causing a
bad smell is certainly antisocial, though not deliberate on the part of the patient
who is engaged in remedying the fault by attending the clinic. House is not
afraid of offending Santa Claus by drawing attention to the smell: indeed, he
does this kind of thing so often that audiences hear it as something that gives
him pleasure (as mild compensation for essential misery). He draws attention
to the smell indirectly: the more overt meaning of the act is a diagnosis of
the patient’s medical condition. Is he also sarcastic here? In Culpeper’s terms,
a sarcastic interpretation is appropriate if this utterance is overtly polite but
rude by implicature. If it has any claim to politeness, that would rest on its
function as a diagnosis of a medical condition, in a setting in which diagnosis is
one of the requirements of the doctor.
The intention to convey the impolite belief certainly outweighs any other
significance for the patient, whose response orients to House’s presentation of
the smell as a particularly noticeable one, as well as acknowledging the accuracy
of the diagnosis. Of course House is less than polite here in other ways, too. He
withholds any kind of greeting, and he offers a diagnosis prior to any talk with
the patient about his symptoms and medical history. Both of these could be
regarded as snubs to positive face. The absence of a greeting treats the patient as
someone who does not merit even this very basic courtesy. The instant diagnosis
treats him as someone whose own verbal information is of no value. House
denies the patient an opportunity to produce any talk of his own until after the
diagnosis has been made.
On the other hand, it is not impossible to hear “Let me guess. Inflammatory
bowel” as House producing the second act of this exchange. He constructs the
patient as having already performed its first act, in making the consulting room
smell bad. As a response to that prior act, the move into instant diagnosis has a
remedial, rather than a face-threatening, character, because it treats the patient’s
smell as a medical, not an interpersonal, fact. It might be expected that the
interpretation of artificial examples of impoliteness, such as those found in
drama, would be simpler, more straightforward, and more determinate than
House and Snark 183
those found in the messiness of everyday encounters. But this example has its
own complexity, and it is not unusual in that respect.
Here now is the expanded version of the extract with its third line restored:
1 HOUSE : (Sniff) Let me guess. Inflammatory bowel.
2 SANTA CLAUS : Wow, yeah. Is it that bad?
3 HOUSE : Yes. It’s also written on your chart.
(Season 1, episode 4, “Damned If You Do,” written by Sara B Cooper)
The chart that House refers to here is a piece of paper inside the patient’s file
of notes, recording previous symptoms and diagnoses. It appears now that the
doctor has only pretended to be an instant diagnostician, though he very quickly
owns up to the pretense. The chart is the true source of his information. The
patient has not read the chart and does not know that House has read it. Only
in these circumstances could the temporary deception work. House saw an
opportunity for some fun at the patient’s expense and took it. But the quick
admission offers partial mitigation for the joke’s bad form. Although House
enjoys the moment, his character is not utterly exploitative. The off-record
impoliteness strategy does not compromise medical treatment, and is subse-
quently redressed.5
At the risk of extending speculation about communicative intentionality well
beyond what these imaginative constructs “House” and “Santa Claus” can really
carry, I want to develop the account even further, in line with the research
discussed earlier in this chapter. The purpose of the following discussion will
be to press home the point that with a framework like Culpeper’s, which allows
for a hearer’s interpretation to become decisive in the classifying of behavior as
impolite, along with speaker intentions, the levels of indeterminacy increase to an
almost unmanageable extent.
The original interpretation, and my starting point, was that House
here insults the patient for causing a bad smell in the room. He does this by
offering, as the direct meaning, a diagnosis of the patient’s underlying condi-
tion—inflammatory bowel disease. Offering a diagnosis is not at all a rude thing
to do in a clinical context—quite the opposite. It is exactly what a doctor is
supposed to do, and is therefore polite (or perhaps just politic, in Watts’s 2003
terms).6 On that interpretation, it is just the timing of the diagnosis that is
impolite, and not even that if we read it as the second rather than the first
move in the exchange. Possibly, House is hedging his bets. He does intend to
insult the patient with the bad smell (indirect) meaning. But he also intends to fall
back on the diagnosis (direct) meaning if the patient should have the wit and will
to challenge his impoliteness, perhaps by countering the attack offensively:
“Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?” (cf. Culpeper et al. 2002,
Bousfield 2007a, on responses to impolite acts). The interests of truth telling (i.e.,
the accuracy of House’s diagnosis) are arguably more important than politeness
in a clinical context, if the circumstances are serious. But that does not really
apply here either: Santa Claus is manifestly not seriously ill, judging from his
posture, demeanor, and mode of engagement with the doctor; and it is treatment,
not a diagnosis, that he needs—he already has the latter.
Alternatively, the insulting, bad smell meaning, despite being readily re-
trieved by the patient, is not an impolite implicature but has a different theoretical
status here. An implicature is meant to be recognized by a hearer as being
intended by the speaker. Santa Claus takes the insult, recognizing its basis in
the (now) mutually manifest truth of the bad smell and the explanation of this.
But acceptance was never his only option. According to Culpeper et al. (2002) and
Bousfield (2007a), the other main alternatives would have been a nonresponse, a
counteroffensive, or a defensive countering move. Nonresponse could take the
form of silence, but it could also mean refusing to acknowledge the face attack
content, and responding to the direct meaning instead: “My last doctor said the
problem was in my stomach, not my guts.” A response of this last kind would
have let the bad smell meaning pass unchallenged, unrecognized, unofficial,
whatever House’s intentions may have been. Culpeper et al. (2002) suggest that
such responses (i.e., ones that ignore obvious but indirect face attacks)
can themselves be offensive as well as defensive, because they so blatantly refuse
to recognize a meaning that the speaker clearly intended (offensive here has the
sense of “provoking,” in other words, “going on the offensive,” as in a battle or
sport contest, rather than that of “insulting,” “causing distress,” though the two
meanings are connected).
However, in the case I have been examining, the offensiveness of the patient’s
response is not inherent in its wording, and would have to be brought out in
performance through kinesic, prosodic, and paralinguistic expression if that
were the directorial decision (actually the actor embodies his line rather deferen-
tially). It seems to me that in not orienting to the bad smell meaning, in refusing
to be thus baited, the indirect meaning arguably gets demoted from implicature
to something more like a presupposition, in pragmatic terms.
House and the patient possess only virtual communicative intentions. Our
familiarity with one character (House) and our lack of familiarity with the other
(the patient) should lead us, as regular viewers, to interpretations that are most
congruent with what we already know in this situation. Although this is an early
episode, it is sufficiently far into the season for us to believe him more than
capable of gratuitous, face-threatening acts to patients. Whatever the theoretical
status of the bad smell meaning, House has successfully brought it into their
mutual universe of discourse. Truthfulness is well served by doing so, though
politeness is not. For House, truth, along with speed and accuracy of diagnosis,
with remedy the ultimate goal, are more important considerations than
House and Snark 185
politeness here. There is also pleasure to be gained from the indirect manner in
which House does acknowledge the smell and oblige his patient to do likewise.
The indirect approach is witty, even if the wit is lost on the victim and only the
offense is registered.
In the same scene House goes on to recommend that the Santa Claus patient
smoke two cigarettes each day as a remedy for his condition. But tobacco in this
world (as in our own) has become identified as the cause of disease to such an
extent that any notion of it having therapeutic properties has become publicly
unspeakable. House thereby adds to his performance of personal affront with an
affront to the professional face of the institution, and colleagues will later
take him to task for this. Beyond the confines of House’s world, another level
of face attack is in play—an attack on the face of the liberal audience whose
taboo this is.
DISCUSSION
As indicated at the start of the chapter, its purpose was (by contrast with the
previous chapter) to highlight the forms and functions of impoliteness in rela-
tion to the theoretical literature on this subject, and not to focus on the contribu-
tion of dialogue, impolite or otherwise, to the meaning and value of the show as
drama. This is, of course, a matter of emphasis in both cases. The previous
chapter did not entirely ignore the interactional details (though it did not
theorize them, and it discussed content as well as form); the present chapter
has not ignored the dramatic context within which the interactions take place.
I do want to say just a little more about this context here.
The characteristics of snark in House have two functions in relation to the
dramatic project: building and sustaining the character of House in his social
relationships with colleagues and patients (the characterization function) and
entertaining the audience (by exploiting the resources of language). To avoid any
misunderstanding, I would want to add here that House is not limited to snark-
like discourse in his conversation and is morally more complex than my discus-
sion above is likely to have suggested. He is not a flat or schematic character, and
the long-form dramatic structure also allows for story arcs in which he is able to
change and develop. As for showcasing language play of this particular form, to
appreciate this as something separate from the characterization could be seen as
indicative of something related to the “aesthetic disposition” in Bourdieu’s terms
(1980, 1984)—enjoyment of something in formal terms, without requiring
the referentiality of narrative. Compared to the previous chapter, this one
has had much less to say about the audience’s responses to the drama, but
forum discussions do indicate that use of language is something that parts of
the audience notice and appreciate. I have not explored the possibility that
language-as-snark is a turnoff for other parts of the potential audience, but that
seems to me quite a strong possibility: however witty it may be, it gives rein to a
decidedly unpleasant dimension of human social relations.
Culpeper’s research on impoliteness was as important for this chapter as his
research on characterization in fiction was for chapter 7. His efforts to construct a
theory of impoliteness that is appropriately sensitive to interactional dynamics
and context are very insightful. The advice to focus on how hearers respond to
impolite utterances, especially when those responses are effective determinants
of whether the utterances do or do not have impolite significance, is a useful one,
as is the question of whether impoliteness can be neutralized by being displayed
as part of entertainment discourse. Apart from my suggestion that snark might
take the form of the hitherto untheorized fake banter, the value of the present
chapter to the ongoing study of impoliteness may lie in its attempt to reflect on
the management of impoliteness across the two kinds of interpersonal relations
that TV drama articulates: the one between the dramatist and the audience, and
those among the characters. Impoliteness theory, even when it examines materi-
als from mediated discourse, tends to overlook the role of insults that, in target-
ing socially salient aspects of character or identity such as weight or race, can also
be heard as insulting to audience members who share those aspects and not just
to the specific character in the show. Under conditions of shared viewing,
audiences may respond not (just) as individuals but as part of a collectivity that
includes others in the targeted categories who deserve respect. Audiences may
demonstrate responses to racism, sexism, and so forth when they are exposed
to talk that raises these possibilities, while varying in how they negotiate per-
ceived offenses.
10
Conclusion
DRAMATIZATION
Raymond Williams, who was always interested in television, titled his inaugural
lecture at Cambridge Drama in a Dramatised Society (Williams 1975). He
was struck by the sheer quantity of dramatized material that people routinely
encountered in the television age, and the deep normality of those encounters.
Erving Goffman (1959) had a different perspective, but one in which the phrase
dramatized society makes equally good sense. Dramatic expression is without
question very much a part of everyday life, whether we take that to mean that we
watch and listen to so much “official” drama, under such domesticated condi-
tions, or to refer to the unofficial performativity of our own conduct for different
audiences in different times and places. This insight has been around for a long
time (since the 1950s, in Goffman’s case), and it has not become outdated. It is
still the case that dramatization contributes in many ways to social experience,
in ways that sociolinguists (among others) have been keen to understand and
explore. This interest is relevant, for instance, to the work on stylization (Ramp-
ton 1995) and other social aspects of metalanguage (Jaworski et al. 2004). It
is also relevant to work on the creativities of language users (see, e.g., Carter
2004, 2007, Swann 2006). The usefully ambiguous word play serves as a marker
for an area in which creativity (as playfulness, formal experimentation) and
bracketed performance (just a play, not the real thing) come together.
Drama, as normally understood, combines the affordances of fictional narra-
tive with those of directed and produced performance, though the officially
sanctioned forms of drama, on television and elsewhere, are only the prototypical
instances—much exists beyond this repertoire, and there are fuzzy boundaries
between different genres and modes of fiction, different genres and modes of
storytelling, and different genres and modes of performance. Specialist branches
of academic study have developed around the various manifestations of each. It
has been one of the challenges of this book to use dialogue as a means of trying to
crystallize, or at least juxtapose, some of the more important approaches, albeit
187
in a way that necessarily says something about my own intellectual formation

and interests. The fictional narrative component points a direction that opens up
questions around storytelling in specific sociocultural contexts, whereas the per-
formance component indicates the importance of particularized human bodies
and voices in sensible form.
All of this makes it important to approach the study of dialogue in TV
drama so that it is congruent with trends away from narrow conceptions of
language as a primary focus. Three important aspects of this congruence can be
identified here. First, there is an acceptance that more general structures of
meaning (stories, schemata) that language shares with other modes of represen-
tation and expression (comic book, ballet, opera) should be recognized. This is
important, for example, in cognitive approaches such as those of Culpeper
(2001). Second, it acknowledges that contemporary representation/expression
is largely multimodal (Kress and van Leeuwen 2001). If I have not given much
attention in this book to the delivery or the audiovisual staging of the dialogue
lines, it is not from lack of interest in what these contribute to the overall
production. There are different reasons for the neglect. One has to do with the
division of labor in the production of TV drama such that within the professional
community, writing is recognized as a specialized contribution and the writing of
dialogue is understood primarily, though not exclusively, as the wording of that
dialogue (see chapter 4, “What TV Screenwriters Know about Dialogue”). Actors
and directors bring other things. Another consideration was that for much of
the time (for instance, in chapter 8, “Dialogue and Dramatic Meaning: Life on
Mars”), the focus was on the functions rather than the forms of dialogue, where
it might have detracted from the analysis to give much attention to questions
of delivery.
The third component here, which I will return to below, has to do with the
ethnographic turn in questions of textual meaning—focusing on the commu-
nicative relationships that give rise to particular texts as part of a process.
Drama, it is understood, has a double articulation of communicative relation-
ships (Herman 1995, Short 1998, Bubel 2008). At the outer level there is a
relationship between dramatist(s) and audience(s); within that are the dis-
played relationships between characters. A lot can be learned from using the
latter to make inferences about the former. But there is value too in develop-
ing modes of research that consider the real-world dramatists and their real-
world audiences, producing and consuming texts in historically specific social
and cultural conditions. This need has been accommodated by including
in this book a chapter that looks in particular at the writing of dialogue in
TV drama and another that looks at responses to dialogue on the part of the
audience.
With these three considerations in mind, I now focus more specifically on
drama made for broadcast television.
Conclusion 189
TELEVISION DRAMA
Though dramatic performances of the official, produced kind exist in a variety of

modes—street theatre, theater proper, cinema, radio, and television—it is those
produced as screen fictions for film and television that get the widest exposure
and contribute the most to whatever there is of common culture. I am obliged to
fudge the issue of whose culture this might be (see Nelson 2007 for recent,
relevant discussion here). At the risk of oversimplification, and from a British
perspective, television drama as a mode contributes to the national culture,
under varying degrees of American influence (cf. chapter 8 in this volume),
and, as a channel for U.S. drama, it provides British viewers with an outside,
spectator’s perspective on some aspects of American culture (cf. chapter 9,
“House and Snark”). Hollywood feature films, whether on TV or in the cinema,
help cultivate an Americanized/international level of culture. Spectatorship on
any other countries is marginal in the United Kingdom: the subscription services
that accommodate minorities and expatriates are not accessed by consumers
outside those groups. American viewers have less opportunity to be spectators on
British culture via exported drama programming, though from Monty Python
through to the new Doctor Who, there has always been some traffic in this
direction. The reversioning of British shows as American ones is another signifi-
cant trend (The Office, Life on Mars).
The value of television drama’s contribution to culture is a separate matter.
Both popular (Bignell and Lacey 2005) and high-end (Nelson 2007) or quality
(McCabe and Akass 2007a) drama have their defenders, and it is not possible
to do justice in a paragraph to the play of intellectual forces that have structured
research in this area. Feminism has certainly made an important contribution
(for instance, in the evaluation of soap opera genres), as has an overarching
debate about cultural value more generally, with Adorno’s attack on popular
culture as a seminal text. Within the industry in recent years the economic,
technological, and social conditions have been good for high-end drama in
particular, and Nelson (2007) is among those who have welcomed this trend:
[T]he argument is that, led by key subscription channels making expensive—and at

times “edgy”—drama for selected target audiences, contemporary TV drama has
both license and aspirations. In some quarters it aspires to the production values of
cinema and is liberated from the LOP [least offensive programming] industrial
context and regulatory constraints to be creative in drama production. Where HBO
Premium and Fox television have led, the American networks—and, in a slightly
different context, the UK terrestrial channels—are bound in a competitive global
marketplace to follow. (Nelson 2007: 161)
Quality in relation to TV drama is of course a contested term—possibly a genre

label, possibly something more (see also Thompson 1996, Hammond and
Mazdon 2005, McCabe and Akass 2007a, and chapter 8 in this volume). It is
worth underlining the fact that Nelson is offering a positive evaluation of media
texts (of a certain kind) in his book, and being clear about the terms of the
evaluation. In some areas of media-related research it is much more common to
find negative evaluations. Critical discourse analysis (CDA) is a case in point.
CDA, in studying media texts with a specific interest in the reproduction of
ideologies, has tended to focus on written genres more than television, and,
within television, on news and current affairs more than drama; it has not
developed an empirical audience research strand (see Jones 2007 for an elabo-
rated critique). In drama, the play of imagination offers greater freedoms
for both dramatists and their audiences. It is desirable on these grounds alone
to remain open to the possibility of good media texts, in dramatic form, as well as
bad ones—and ones in which any value is subject to contestation. This would, of
course, include particular kinds of television advertisements (cf. Cook 1992).
The specific evaluative term I will want to return to in this quotation is not
quality but creativity—one possible yardstick for the determination of value. I will
make use of this concept as a bridge between the linguistic and the televisual
aspects of the study. Before that, I will position dialogue within the matrix so far
developed.
DIALOGUE IN TELEVISION DRAMA
At one level, dialogue in TV drama is just one element within a much more
complex compositional mix, and not necessarily the most important component
in the dramatic whole. At another level, it acts as a focus for thinking about
dramatization and social relationships, along the lines indicated above. It also
provides a context for further interrogation of the creativity concept in ways that
provide a bridge between media interest in the quality of drama output, on the
one hand, and applied linguistic interest in the uses of language, on the other.
Dialogue and Social Relationships

The primary social relationship is between dramatist and audience: those among
the characters are secondary and, by design, supportive of that primary interac-
tion. This is one way of thinking about drama’s double articulation as character-
ized by Herman (1995) and others. Obviously the term dramatist here is
intentionally ambiguous. In this area, design and production duties are
very much shared across different contributors to a developmental process,
though the publisher (broadcaster) must take final responsibility for what
is transmitted. In respect of dialogue, dramatist here often really does mean
Conclusion 191
writer—not producer, not director, not actor, not publisher. At other times it is
shorthand for authorial contributions, irrespective of type or origin. This empha-
sis on writers is not meant as an unquestioning endorsement of the position that
writers are the primary authors of TV drama, or that they make a greater
contribution to TV drama than they do to film (though this is the case in
certain respects and for certain kinds of TV drama). It is simply because the
focus is on dialogue, the area in which the writers’ contribution is the most
necessary. This point is relevant even in relation to productions in which
the quality resides more in visual characteristics than verbal ones (certain kinds
of thrillers, for instance).
Dramatist to Audience
To contribute dialogue to a TV drama is to engage in an activity of public
storytelling. Dramatists seek the attention of the audience for their stories, and
they do so by controlling the behavior and actions (including the verbal behavior)
of their characters. That verbal behavior must service the narrative, as it does
in feature films (Kozloff 2000). It may go beyond this purely functional role. In
Kozloff’s framework, the scope for linguistic creativity was restricted to one
specific value-added function: “exploiting the resources of language.” Obviously
when drama is concerned, linguistic playfulness is not the only way in which
dramatists can seek to be creative in the sense of original, different. A new high
concept is a more obvious way to attract attention (Heroes, Lost).
The dramatist-audience relationship is contextualized by the socioeconomic
conditions of production. Those conditions include considerations of national
versus international marketing, and dialogue is relevant to these considerations.
Chapter 7 (“Dialogue, Character, and Social Cognition”) uses schema theory to
account for the construction of characters in various TV productions. Most of the
shows referred to in this chapter are British ones, and serve to demonstrate that
writers of shows for primarily British distribution can rely on its audience’s
access to schemata with a distinctively “British” content. The British version of
Life on Mars, with its allusions to power cuts, the Open University, the BBC2 test
card, and other very homely points of reference, was broadcast in the United
States, but on a subscription channel with a British brand identity (BBC Ameri-
ca). For mainstream television, a specifically American remake was offered (Life
on Mars, ABC 2008). Not all recent U.S. shows have been easy for non-American
audiences. The Wire (HBO 2002–present), when broadcast in the United King-
dom on mainstream television rather than on a subscription service, came with
advice to viewers to watch the show with its written subtitles, on the grounds that
this would make it easier to follow the dialogue. This sentiment is echoed by
reviewers of the DVD release:
Who’d have thought that a TV show about cops and gangs would be so subtle,
3-dimensional, funny, moving and intelligent? Everybody who wants to understand
drugs, crime or America should watch it!
[...]
[Y]es, the DVDs of all three seasons have subtitles, and you will probably need
them, unless you are a Baltimore drug dealer. (posted March 27, 2007, on the
Amazon.co.uk website, retrieved April 23, 2009)
The linguistic aspects of this comprehension of vocabulary are a matter of

register, dictated in part by the show’s focus on the Baltimore drug scene, with
which, as the review hints, even Americans need help. The Wall Street Journal
published a jargon guide on December 29, 2007.1 Realism in respect of this
world has come at some cost in respect of conditions of reception overseas—but
also with a surrounding “difficult is good” discourse that may have enhanced its
brand. It would be interesting to explore the conversion of The Wire into a series
for non-Anglophone countries where dialogue is routinely dubbed (Hungary
and Germany have apparently both screened the series).2
Character to Character
It is in studying the character-to-character social relationships that the tool kit of
sociolinguistics comes into its own, whether derived from pragmatics, interac-
tional sociolinguistics, conversational analysis or some eclectic combination of
these (this was the topic of chapter 6, “Dialogue as Social Interaction”). However
limited their speaking parts are, and even when they are realized on screen
as animals, glove puppets, and graphic shapes, these characters are imagina-
tive exemplars of us—people in the real world—projected into ordinary and
extraordinary circumstances. That they can talk at all is one of the signs of
their existence, but their particularity comes partly from specific interactional
characteristics of the dialogue, as well as from what other characters (variously
trustworthy in this respect) say about them. The recognitions, and the lines
of affiliation and disaffiliation that any drama’s design requires, depend on
the dramatist’s ability to deploy appropriate dialogue and the actors’ abilities to
embody the language as meaningful, contextually generated utterances to which
audiences have access only as eavesdroppers.
The dramatic functions of dialogic exchanges are mostly more important than
surface verisimilitude in relation to naturally occurring speech in equivalent
situations. Screenwriters appreciate that the minutiae of real-life models have
to be sacrificed for the sake of the storytelling. The comparability of real and
scripted interactions is at the deeper level of the constructional principles that
make speech intelligible. Its intelligibility includes its presuppositions, implica-
tures, hints, misdirections, and other properties that are signs of an inner,
Conclusion 193
mental life for characters as people, like us. Assumed possession of such an inner
life complements the backstories of characters’ previous experience that drama-
tists may construct. It helps when characters, also like us, have voices we can
hear and faces we can see.
On the other hand, screenwriters can, if they want to, make some of
the minutiae of naturally occurring speech—overlapping utterances, filled and
unfilled pauses, self-corrections, silences, and so forth—really count in the
storytelling (cf. Tannen 1980) in ways that have an oblique relationship to their
use in everyday talk. In the latter, they are ubiquitous, constructionally signifi-
cant and, at the least, available as resources for person inferences as well as for
inferences in respect of communicative purpose. In the former, the inferences
they facilitate are textual design features, engineered to contribute to the audi-
ence’s understanding of purpose and character as part of the higher order
semiotics of narrative. Of course, participants in everyday talk can also seek to
control such expressive resources as part of their own self-fashioning performa-
tivity. However, in the absence of an overarching, authored story, only some of
what is manifest to others will be under the individual’s strategic control. The
through line of a scripted conversation is determined in advance by a dramatist; in
spontaneous talk, it is contingent and emergent. Person inferences are regarded
as optional in everyday talk, but are part of the business of their dramatic
analogues, as chapter 7 sought to explore.
Language, Creativity, and the Mass Media

Carter’s (2004) publication was the first in what has become a series of contribu-
tions to research on everyday linguistic creativity (see Maybin and Swann 2006,
and the special 2007 issue of Applied Linguistics, 28[4]). Carter was specifically
concerned to locate, describe, and contextualize creativity in the absence of any
traditionally literary/aesthetic ambition and, furthermore, to focus on spoken
interaction, not written materials. This included, for instance, attention to the
creation of new words by the extension of old, familiar morphological patterns,
specifically the use of -y and -ish as suffixes (bluey, cubey, teatimeish, seventeen-
ish). Mandala (2007a) is also interested in the -y usage as it is expressively
displayed in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A decision is made to identify as creative
(and therefore good) usages that in other contexts (written language in a context
governed by schooled norms) would be deemed incorrect (and therefore bad),
thus providing a practical demonstration of the point that evaluations can be
contextually variable. As with language, so with television drama. Upstairs,
Downstairs (ITV 1971–1975) was received as a kind of period soap opera in the
United Kingdom, but marketed as “Masterpiece Theatre” when it was first
broadcast in the United States.
When I originally decided to write a book about TV drama dialogue, one of the
reasons was the thought that this particular form of language use might be even
more likely than Carter’s everyday language to escape critical attention. It would
not be judged good or bad, creative or familiar, because it would never be thought
interesting enough, socially or aesthetically, to be worth examining. The redemp-
tive inspiration of Carter’s project is not his interest in everyday language use per
se, because this is common ground in sociolinguistics and applied linguistics. It
is specifically the discovery and characterization of creativity in everyday lan-
guage, in which creativity is construed as a good thing, that Carter is concerned
with. Conversely, because the literary language of plays, poems, and prose fiction
is intended to be special, artful, and valuable, no special pleading is necessary to
justify studying that. What was necessary, as Burton (1980) first realized, was a
justification for using approaches derived from what was then called discourse
analysis, in other words, the study of naturally occurring spoken interaction in
linguistic terms. The specific creative merits of particular, contemporary, dra-
matic works became more apparent when approached in this way.
But where in this is there a space to position the study of dialogue in
television? Most TV drama productions would lack the literary qualities that
justified studying Pinter plays; yet they would never offer language that was
ordinary enough for traditional sociolinguistic purposes and would always be
inauthentic in relation to real speech. As scripted material, dialogue is also the
poor relation in the media talk literature, which prefers to focus on unscripted
interactions (interviews, reality show exchanges, call-in discussions on the radio;
see chapter 3, “What Is TV dialogue Like?”).
The one obvious way into an appropriately critical perspective on this was via
the discourse of the industry itself (cf. Brody’s definition of good television
dialogue cited in two of the foregoing chapters). The industrial view is useful,
and establishes that writers do have guidelines within which to work, as well as a
professional working environment structured to manage the quality control of
written inputs. However, the danger with this as the only frame of reference is
one of conformity to a set of entertainment values that should also, when
appropriate, be interrogated and challenged. In chapter 8 there is a provisional
attempt to address this problem via a distinction between quality and value,
aligning quality to formal properties of drama texts, including formal properties
of dialogue, and aligning value to the management of content—where, also,
dialogue has a part to play.
On the formal side, a possibility exists that dramatic dialogue, approached in
the right way, might provide access to patterns of language behavior not (yet)
discovered or fully explored in naturally occurring spontaneous interaction—
might, indeed, be manifesting its creativity by expressively displaying those
patterns. The fake banter exchanges in House (see chapter 9) are an instance of
Conclusion 195
this. On the substantive side, dialogue is also a resource for the display of
attitudes and opinions across characters offering different alignment possibili-
ties for the viewing audience: this was explored in relation to Life on Mars in
chapter 8. The new genre hybridities that Shameless, House, and Life on Mars all
demonstrate are adaptations that accommodate variations in the viewing public
by providing different pleasures for different audience segments, and openness
around culturally sensitive or politically controversial topics. But the pleasures of
these dramas include the display through dialogue of manifestly uncivil forms of
behavior. Traditional television had only a limited license to challenge culturally
accepted norms. These new hybrids and the technical-economic system that
supports them have found ways to resist the restrictions. This invites discussion
of why these forms of incivility should have proved such a profitable way of using
creative resources.
Creativity, as used thus far, is framed within a traditional discourse of individ-
ual imagination, while reaching out to include institutionalized forms of cultural
production. But as Schlesinger (2007) observes, the concept of creativity has also
become a highly significant, market-oriented one in policy discourses about
national economic renewal, not just restricted to the role of the creative industries
(including the mass media) as agents of that renewal but, in intention, reaching
deeply into social and cultural life at home and, especially, at work. “A concerted
effort is underway to shape a wide range of working practices by invoking
creativity and innovation. These attributes are supposed to make our societies
and economies grow in a fiercely competitive world” (Schlesinger 2007: 377). The
expression “knowledge economy” has become very familiar in recent years, and a
Google search on April 29, 2009, produced over 1 million hits for this phrase. But
a much less familiar combination, “imagination economy,” produced around
700 hits. The policy discourse that Schlesinger describes can be regarded criti-
cally, as the co-opting of the space of the imagination into utilitarianism and the
power relations of the work environment. Or it could be envisaged more posi-
tively as a source of opportunities: the new discourse may anticipate changes in
the world of work itself, offering more a satisfactory accommodation with our
imaginative selves than has previously been possible. In relation to the present
research, consider that although the production of fan fiction inspired by TV
drama (see chapter 5, “What Audiences Know about Dialogue”) is currently
economically marginal and mostly undertaken for personal satisfaction, not
money, there may be ways to marketize the creativity it represents. It is impor-
tant to think about the interests at stake in such potential marketization.
Whatever view we take on these large, structural questions, there is still value
in the kind of ethnographic research offered in this book, investigating how the
imaginations of cultural producers and consumers actually operate, and to what
effect, in the world as it currently exists. On the basis of such research, we may be
better prepared either to criticize and resist, or to welcome, top-down initiatives

from the private and public sectors.
The Ethnographic Turn

Language creativity research is now set to embark down a road previously
trodden in media research, and with a similar redemptive impulse:
A clear requirement now is to embrace not simply the producer but the receiver of
creative processes and to shift the analytical attention towards greater assessment
and appraisal of creative outputs, with the aim of gaining enriched understanding
of processes of reception on the part of different socially positioned readers or
viewers of or participants in creative performances. (Carter 2007: 600)
The article from which this quotation is taken appeared in a special issue of
Applied Linguistics, “Language Creativity in Everyday Contexts.” There is nothing
in this perspective that excludes the reception of television shows. Watching and
listening to television is an everyday context, as Raymond Williams recognized,
even if writing and producing television still remains a specialist one, in which
considerable financial investment is at stake.
Carter points out that a shift in attention from producers to receivers “would
parallel the shift in literary criticism since the 1960s from author centered
accounts and studies to arguments for more empirical reader response studies
in which definitions of literature were seen to be in the reader as much as if not
more so than in the author” (2007: 600). The sense of déjà vu for literary critics is
stronger still for anyone who has worked in or near the media studies field. The
audience had never been neglected in media research (e.g., in effects research
and the “uses and gratifications” tradition), but the specific “audience turn,”
which corresponds to what Carter is concerned with here, related to the repro-
duction of meaning through textual production and consumption. It is often
traced back to Stuart Hall’s 1973 encoding/decoding paper (Hall 1980). Unlike in
literary criticism, the audience turn in media studies led to specific strands of
empirical research, starting with the work of David Morley (1980). Such research
still continues, though much has changed since the early days, both in terms of
theoretical concerns (the question of ideology is much less central) and changes
in the modes of mediated communication (including the development and
growth of the Internet).
The arguments for this shift were so convincing that advocacy for text-based
research now often agrees that such research should be more conscious of its
vulnerability (Creeber 2006). Variability of reception for mass media texts and
productions is not disputed theoretically (though there is still scope to finesse,
conceptually, the contours of this reception—for instance, in respect of how
cognitive and affective responses might be articulated) and is supported
Conclusion 197
empirically. Nor is there any longer a need to argue that reception is active, not
passive. What can be acknowledged is that the activeness of audiences needs
something on which to work, and that the characteristics of that something make
a contribution to their cultural experience and social understanding—even if
empirical audience research is then necessary to determine the exact nature of
that contribution.
It is also important to acknowledge the polysemy of the word active. It is active,
in one sense, as an audience member to supply an interpretative schema that fills
out and makes sense of perfunctory details in a text. The schema is in the brain of
the consumer, not in the text. Cognitive work on the part of the latter is required
to bring the schema to bear on the text. But the result of this activity is, thus far, in
conformity with what the text itself has appeared to require. So basic is this
aspect of the textual encounter that one might want to call it comprehension, not
interpretation. At the other end of the scale, there is no disputing the activeness of
audience members whose affiliation to a particular TV series is sufficiently
strong that it motivates them to create additional and alternative story lines
and scenes (including dialogue), borrowing and appropriating, for their own
purposes, the characters developed for the official version of the series (see
chapter 5) in the production of fan fiction. Sociolinguists reading this book
should also be interested to note the return, at this point, from multimodal
textuality to the monomodal form of (written) language. Economic and legal
considerations may rule out anything more ambitious, notwithstanding the
opportunities that relatively inexpensive recording devices and YouTube provide
for democratizing audiovisual creativity. Nevertheless, it is worth drawing atten-
tion to the affordances of old-fashioned writing, with publication enabled by
twenty-first-century technology, for the liberation of the imagination—along
with the fact that it is products of the mass communication industry that have
activated that imagination.
Between the two poles of active comprehension and active textual production
is the work of active textual criticism—voices that say to the dramatist “You could
do better.” Thanks to the Internet, confidence and opportunity to say that publicly
is more widespread than it has ever been, providing a basis for future interac-
tions among dramatists, reviewers, fans, and other viewers about the merits of
TV drama—and an arena for future research.
Appendix
List of Television Shows
This list comprises an index of shows and series referred to in the book, offering dates
and company credits, with brief indications of show content. Readers seeking further
information are referred to the Internet Movie Database, http://www.imdb.com,
which I have relied on extensively here. Specific episode screenwriters are not
identified in this table but can be found in the chapter in which their material is
cited. “Creator, not known” is used when the details on the Internet Movie Database
are unclear as to what particular individual(s) should take principal creative credit.
24
2001–present. Creators, Robert Cochran and Joel Surnow. Production company
and broadcaster, Fox/Imagine Entertainment. American thriller series starring
Kiefer Sutherland as Jack Bauer, based on the idea that each of 24 episodes
represents an hour of time in the fictional world and that the time is continuous
from episode to episode. Chapters 3 and 6.
All My Children
1970–present. Creator, Agnes Nixon. Production company and broadcaster, ABC.
American daytime soap. “Erica Kane” (Susan Lucci) is its best-known character.
Chapter 2.
Ally McBeal
1997–2002. Creator, David E. Kelley. Production company and broadcaster, 20th
Century Fox and David E. Kelly/Fox. American dramedy. Calista Flockhart played
the eponymous central character. Chapter 2.
The Amazing Mrs. Pritchard

2006. Creator, Sally Wainwright. Production company and broadcaster, Kudos/
BBC. A 6-episode British political drama starring Jane Horrocks as Ros
198
Appendix 199
Pritchard, a supermarket manager who launches a political party, becomes the

leader of the British government, and wrestles with the dilemmas of high office.
Chapter 3.
America’s Most Wanted

1988–present. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, 20th
Century Fox/Fox. True-crime dramatizations—the nearest U.S. equivalent to
Crimewatch in the United Kingdom, both attempting to recruit the audience
into crime solving. Chapters 3 and 7.
The Archers
1950–present. Creator, Godfrey Baseley. Production company and broadcaster, BBC/
BBC Light Programme/Home Service/Radio 4. British radio soap opera, with
daily episodes on weekdays. A cornerstone of British media history. Chapter 4.
Armchair Theatre
1956–1974. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, ABC
Weekend and Thames Television/ITV. Influential British anthology drama
series, especially under Sydney Newman. Chapter 3.
Ashes to Ashes
2008–present. Creators, Mathew Graham and Ashley Pharaoh. Production company
and broadcaster, Kudos and BBC Wales/BBC. British crime drama on fantasy
premises. Central characters Alex Drake (Keely Hawes) and Gene Hunt (Philip
Glenister). A follow-up to Life on Mars, set mostly in the 1980s. Chapters 4 and 8.
An Audience with Dame Edna Everage

1980. Creator, Barry Humphries. Production company and broadcaster, London
Weekend Television/ITV. British-made comedy series with Australian Barry
Humphries as “celebrity” Dame Edna performing to an invited audience. Chapter 3.
Battlestar Galactica
2003–present. Creator, Ronald D. Moore. Production company and broadcaster,
British Sky Broadcasting and NBC/Sky One and Sci-Fi Channel. Science fiction
series with American ensemble cast. A reworked version of an older series with
the same name. Chapter 4.
200 Appendix
Between the Lines

1992–1994. Creator, J. C. Wilsher. Production company and broadcaster, BBC.
British crime drama, focusing on police corruption, starring Neil Pearson as
Detective Superintendent Tony Clark. Chapter 8.
The Bill
1984–present. Creator, Geoff McQueen. Production company and broadcaster,
Thames/ITV. British continuing police series (soap) set in a borough of London.
“The Old Bill” is a traditional expression referring to the police. Chapter 8.
Bleak House
2005. Creator, Andrew Davies. Production company and broadcaster, BBC and
WGBH/BBC. A 14-episode adaptation of Charles Dickens’s novel, starring Anna
Maxwell Martin as Esther Summerson and Gillian Anderson as Lady Dedlock.
Chapter 8.
Bob the Builder

1999. Creator, Keith Chapman. Production company and broadcaster, HIT enter-
tainment/BBC. British animated series for children. Chapter 5.
Bodies
2004–2006. Creator, Jed Mercurio. Production company and broadcaster, Hat
Trick Productions/BBC. Chapter 9.
Boys from the Blackstuff

1982. Creator, Alan Bleasdale. Production company and broadcaster, BBC. Mini-
series about the experiences of five unemployed tarmac layers (the “blackstuff”)
on Merseyside, screened at a low point in the country’s economic fortunes and
during Margaret Thatcher’s premiership. Chapter 4.
Brothers and Sisters

2006–present. Creator, Jon Robin Baitz. Production company and broadcaster,
Ken Olin/ABC. American ensemble drama with, among others, Sally Field,
Calista Flockhart, Rob Lowe, and Rachel Griffiths. Chapter 7.
Appendix 201
Buffy the Vampire Slayer

1997–2003. Creator, Joss Wheedon. Production company and broadcaster, 20th
Century Fox/WB Network and UPN. Influential American science fiction series
starring Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers. Chapter 2 and 4.
Casualty
1986–present. Creators, Jeremy Brock and Paul Unwin. Production company
and broadcaster, BBC. Long-running British ensemble medical drama series set
in an emergency ward. Chapter 9.
Charlie Jade
2005–present. Creators, Chris Roland and Robert Wertheimer. Production com-
pany and broadcaster, Jonsworth Productions, The Imaginarium, 4142276,
CinéGroupe. Canadian/South African coproduction set mainly in South Africa.
Chapter 4.
Chicago Hope
1994–2000. Creator, David E. Kelley. Production company and broadcaster, 20th
Century Fox Television; David E. Kelley Productions/CBS. American ensemble
medical drama series. Chapter 9.
Columbo
1971–2008. Creator, Richard Levinson. Production company and broadcaster,
Universal TV/NBC. Until 2003, Peter Falk played the role of Lieutenant Columbo
in this inverted detective story format in which each episode reveals the crime
and its perpetrator before the detection work. Chapter 7.
The Cops
1998–2000. Creator, Anita J. Pandolfo. Jimmy Gardner. Robert Jones. Production
company and broadcaster, BBC. British crime series. Chapter 8.
Coronation Street
1960–present. Creator, Tony Warren. Production company and broadcaster,
Granada Television/ITV. British urban soap opera set in the northwest of
England. Chapters 4, 6, 7, and 8.
202 Appendix
Crimewatch UK
1984–present. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, BBC.
True crime dramatizations and reportage: the nearest British equivalent to
America’s Most Wanted, both attempting to recruit the audience into crime
solving. Chapters 3 and 7.
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation

2000–present. Creator, Ann Donahue, Carol Mendelsohn, and Anthony E Zuiker.
Production company and broadcaster, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS Pro-
ductions, Alliance Atlantis Communications, Arc Entertainment/CBS. Ameri-
can forensic crime series starring William Petersen as Gil Grissom and set in Las
Vegas. Chapters 1, 6, 7, and 9.
CSI Miami
2002–present. Creators, Ann Donahue, Carol Mendelsohn, and Anthony E
Zuiker. Production company and broadcaster, CBS Productions, Jerry Bruckhei-
mer Television, Touchstone Television, Alliance Atlantis Communications, The
American Travelers/CBS. Spin-off from CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, but with a
different setting and a different cast. Chapters 4 and 9.
CSI New York

2004–present. Creator, Ann Donahue, Carol Mendelsohn, and Anthony E Zuiker.
Production company and broadcaster, Alliance Atlantis Communications, Alliance
Atlantis Motion Picture Production, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS Productions,
Alliance Atlantis Productions, Clayton Entertainment/CBS. Spin-off from CSI:
Crime Scene Investigation, but with a different setting and a different cast. Chapter 9.
Dallas
1978–1991. Creator, David Jacobs. Production company and broadcaster, Lorimar
Television/CBS. The lives and loves of a wealthy Texas family in the oil industry.
This series was extremely successful internationally. Chapter 7.
The Dame Edna Experience

1987–1989. Creator, Barry Humphries. Production company and broadcaster,
London Weekend Television/ITV. Comedy/entertainment: celebrity interviews
conducted by Barry Humphries in his “Dame Edna” persona. Chapter 3.
Appendix 203
Days of Our Lives

1965–present. Creator, Allan Chase, Ted Corday, and Irna Phillips. Production
company and broadcaster, Corday Productions, Cutter Productions, David E.
Kelley Productions, Sony Pictures Television, Columbia Pictures Television,
Columbia TriStar Television, National Broadcasting Company, Screen Gems/
NBC. American daytime soap. Chapter 4.
Dead Ringers
2002–present. Creators, Simon Blackwell and Rupert Russell. Production
company and broadcaster, BBC. Impressionists performing sketches. Chapter 3.
The Deal
2003. Creators, Stephen Frears and Peter Morgan. Production company
and broadcaster, Granada Television/ITV. Dramatic reconstruction of the
relationship between Tony Blair and Gordon Brown up to and including the point
at which Blair took on the leadership of the Labour Party. Chapter 1.
Desperate Housewives
2004–present. Creator, Marc Cherry. Production company and broadcaster,
Cherry Alley productions, Touchstone Television, ABC Studios, Cherry Produc-
tions/ABC. American dramedy working through melodramatic and mundane
story lines about the lives of various women living on fictional Wisteria Lane.
Chapters 1, 3, and 7.
Dexter
2006–present. Creator, Michael Cuesta. Production company and broadcaster,
John Goldwyn/Showtime Networks. Thriller. Chapter 7.
Diagnosis Murder
1993–2001. Creator, Joyce Burditt. Production company and broadcaster, Dean
Hargrove Productions, Fred Silverman Company, Viacom Productions. Ameri-
can crime series showcasing Dick van Dyke as a hospital doctor with a sideline in
detection. Chapter 4.
Dinnerladies
1998–2000. Creator, Victoria Wood. Production company and broadcaster,
BBC. British situation comedy about the relations among a group of women in a
factory staff canteen. Written by stand-up comedian Victoria Wood. Chapter 7.
204 Appendix
Dixon of Dock Green

1955–1976. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, BBC.
Classic early British police series. Chapters 7 and 8.
Doc Martin
2004–present. Creator, Mark Crowdy, Craig Ferguson, and Dominic Minghella.
Production company and broadcaster, Buffalo Pictures, Homerun Productions/
ITV. British dramedy about the life of a general practitioner in a rural Cornish
community. Chapter 9.
Doctor Who
1963–1989 and 2005–present. Creator, Russell T. Davies. Production company
and broadcaster, BBC Wales/BBC. British science fiction series. Cancelled in
1989 but revived to huge acclaim in 2005. Chapters 4, 5, 7, and 8.
Doctor Who Confidential

2005–present. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, BBC
Wales/BBC. Behind-the-scenes exploration of the making of Doctor Who.
Chapter 8.
Dr. Finlay’s Casebook

1962–1971. Creator, A. J. Cronin. Production company and broadcaster, BBC.
British medical drama set in a rural Scottish community. Chapter 9.
Dr. Kildare
1961–1966. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, Arena
Productions/NBC. Classic American medical series with a hero-doctor.
Chapter 9.
Dragnet
1951–1959. Creators, Dan Aykroyd, Alan Zweibel, and Tom Mankiewicz. Pro-
duction company and broadcaster, Mark VII Ltd./NBC. Classic American crime
series. Chapter 8.
Appendix 205
Eastenders
British evening soap opera set in the East End of London—in competition with
the “northern” Coronation Street. Chapters 3, 4, and 7.
ER
1994–2009. Creator, Michael Crichton. Production company and broadcaster,
Constant C Productions, John Wells Productions, Amblin Entertainment,
Warner Bros. Television, Amblin Television, Hands Down Entertainment/
NBC. Groundbreaking American medical drama set in Chicago. George Clooney
was a star of the early seasons. Chapter 5.
The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin

1976–1979. Creator, John Howard Davies. Production company and broadcaster,
BBC. British situation comedy set in an office, with “misfit” staff. A remake with
Martin Clunes was launched in 2009. Chapter 5.
Fawlty Towers
1975–1979. Creators, John Cleese and Connie Booth. Production company and
broadcaster, BBC. British situation comedy set in a small seaside hotel. John
Cleese and Prunella Scales played the proprietors. Chapter 2.
Fighting for Gemma

1993. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, Granada Televi-
sion/ITV. Documentary about a young girl’s health problems and the possible
link to the local nuclear power plant. Chapter 2.
Frasier
1993–2004. Creator, David Angell, Peter Casey, and David Lee. Production com-
pany and broadcaster, Grub Street Productions, Paramount Network Television
Productions, Paramount Television/NBC. American situation comedy about a
psychologist with a job as a radio talk show host. Starring Kelsey Grammer as
Frasier Crane. Chapter 2.
206 Appendix
Friends
1994–2004. Creators, David Crane and Marta Kauffman. Production company and
broadcaster, Warner Bros. Television, Bright-Kauffman-Crane Productions/NBC.
American situation comedy about a group of friends aged 20-something (rising to
early 30s over the length of the series) living in Manhattan. Chapters 5, 6, 7, and 8.
GBH
1991. Creator, Alan Bleasdale. Production company and broadcaster, GBH Films/
Channel 4. British comedy drama series about local politics, starring Robert Lindsay
as a local politician, initially blustering but ultimately neurotic. Chapter 4.
God on Trial
2008. Creator, Frank Cottrell Boyce. Production company and broadcaster, BBC
Scotland/BBC. Single TV play by Frank Cottrell Boyce about a group of Jewish
prisoners in a death camp putting God on trial for breach of his covenant with
them. Chapter 4.
The Golden Girls

1985–1992. Creator, Susan Harris. Production company and broadcaster, Touch-
stone Television/NBC. American situation comedy about a group of older
women living in Florida. Chapter 2.
Guiding Light
1952–2009 (from 1937 on radio). Creator, Irna Phillips. Production company and
broadcaster, Procter & Gamble Productions/CBS. Longest running soap opera,
cancelled in 2009, but with the company pursuing options that would keep it on
air. Chapter 3.
Heartbeat
1992–present. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, Yorkshire
Television/ITV. British dramedy about a rural Yorkshire community in the 1960s/
1970s (albeit vaguely), with particular emphasis on the local police. Chapter 8.
Heroes
2006–present. Creator, Tim Kring. Production company and broadcaster, NBC
Universal Television, Tailwind Productions, UMS/Sci-Fi Channel. American
Appendix 207
science fiction series in which a wide range of ordinary people discover their
varied superpowers and try to put them to good use in apocalyptic storylines.
Chapters 1, 3, 7, and 8.
Heroes and Villains: Spartacus

2004. Creators, Colin Heber-Percy and Lyall B. Watson. Production company and
broadcaster, BBC. Dramatization of the life of rebel Roman slave Spartacus.
Chapter 1.
Hill Street Blues

1981–1987. Creators, Steven Bochco and Michael Kozoll. Production company
and broadcaster, MTM Enterprises/NBC. Groundbreaking American police
series set in a hard urban environment. Chapter 8.
Holby City
British ensemble series set in the medical wards of a regional hospital. Made out
to be the same as the hospital in Casualty. Chapters 2 and 9.
Home and Away

1988–present. Creator, Alan Bateman. Production company and broadcaster, 7
Network. Australian soap opera set in a seaside town. Also broadcast in the
United Kingdom over many years in a teatime slot for a school-age audience
and lead-in to the early news. Chapter 8.
Homicide: Life on the Street

1993–1999. Creator, Paul Attanasio. Production company and broadcaster, Baltimore
Pictures, Fatima Productions, MCEG/Sterling Entertainment, NBC Studios, Reeves
Entertainment Group, Thames Television/NBC. Classic American crime series.
Chapter 8.
House
2004–present. Creator, David Shore. Production company and broadcaster, Heel
& Toe Films, NBC Universal Television, Bad Hat Harry Productions, Shore
Z Productions, Moratim Produktions/Fox. American medical drama with a
cantankerous doctor-hero who is an excellent diagnostician of extraordinary
cases despite his unfortunate personality. Chapters 1, 7, 8, and 9.
208 Appendix
House of Cards
1990. Creators, Andrew Davies and Michael Dobbs. Production company and
broadcaster, BBC. British political series with a conspiratorial plot about the will
to power. Two follow-up series were made. Chapter 3.
Inspector Morse
1987–2000. Creator, Colin Dexter. Production company and broadcaster, Carlton
UK Productions/ITV. British crime series set in Oxford with John Thaw as the
eponymous detective. Chapter 8.
Jackanory
1965–2003? Creators, Alfred Bestall, Mary Tourtel, and Joy Whitby. Production
company and broadcaster, BBC. Children’s series involving the reading aloud of
stories from books. Chapter 1.
The Jerry Springer Show

1991–present. Creator, production company, and broadcaster, Multimedia Enter-
tainment, NBC Universal Television, Universal TV/NBC. Talk show, hosted by
Jerry Springer, that frequently leads to confrontation among the guests who are
noncelebrities with difficult domestic issues. Chapter 3.
Jerry Springer: The Opera

2005. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, Avalon Produc-
tions/BBC. A staged operatic treatment of the world of Jerry Springer, filmed and
broadcast in Britain. Chapters 3 and 6.
Judge John Deed

2001–present. Creator, G. F. Newman. Production company and broad-
caster, BBC. Courtroom series featuring a maverick judge with love interest.
Chapter 1.
Juliet Bravo
1980–1985. Creator, Ian Kennedy Martin. Production company and broadcaster,
BBC. A British series set in a small northern English town with a female chief
constable. Chapter 8.
Appendix 209
Kath and Kim

2002–present. Creators, Gina Riley and Jane Turner. Production company and
broadcaster, Riley Turner Productions/ABC. An Australian domestic situation
comedy set in suburbia. Chapter 8.
Kojak
1973–1978. Creator, Abby Mann. Production company and broadcaster, Univer-
sal TV/CBS. American crime series centered on a particular detective played by
Telly Savalas. Chapter 8.
Law and Order

1990–present. Creator, Dick Wolf. Production company and broadcaster, Studios
USA Television, NBC Universal Television, Universal Network Television/NBC.
American crime series in which a court case follows from a criminal investiga-
tion. Chapters 6 and 8.
League of Gentlemen
1999–2002. Creator, Mark Gatis. Production company and broadcaster, BBC.
A British situation comedy with a cast of grotesque characters set in a small
provincial town close to the countryside. Chapter 3.
Life on Mars
2006–2007. Creator, Mathew Graham, Tony Jordan, and Ashley Pharaoh. Pro-
duction company and broadcaster, Kudos Film and Television/BBC. A British
crime series in which the hero is transported from 2006 back to 1973 and has to
deal with the very different social mores of the earlier time. Chapter 1.
Little Britain
2003–present. Creators, Matt Lucas and David Walliams. Production company
and broadcaster, BBC. A British sketch show featuring various caricature crea-
tions. Chapters 2 and 7.
Look in on London: Streetcleaners

1956. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, Associated
Rediffusion/ITV. A social documentary about life in Britain from the 1950s.
Chapter 2.
210 Appendix
Lost
2004–present. Creators, J. J. Abrams, Jeffrey Lieber, and Damon Lindelof. Pro-
duction company and broadcaster, ABC, Touchstone Television, Bad Robot/ABC.
Survivors of a plane crash have mysterious experiences on a deserted island.
Chapters 3 and 10.
Mad Men
2007–present. Creator, Matthew Weiner. Production company and broadcaster,
American movie classics, AMC. A drama about the life of successful advertising
executives on Madison Avenue in the early 1960s. Chapter 4.
Mastermind
British quiz show at the more serious end of the intellectual spectrum. Chapter 6.
Mission: Impossible
1966–1973. Creator, Bruce Geller. Production company and broadcaster, Desilu
productions, Paramount Television/CBS. American crime series. Chapter 5.
Mister Ed
1961–1966. Creator, Walter Brooks. Production company and broadcaster, CBS,
Filmways Pictures, The Mister Ed Company/CBS. American situation comedy
with a talking horse. Chapter 7.
Monty Python’s Flying Circus

1969–1974. Creators, Graham Chapman, Eric Idle, Terry Jones, Michael Palin,
Terry Gilliam, and John Cleese. Production company and broadcaster, BBC.
British experimental sketch comedy series. Chapter 2.
The Mrs. Merton Show

1994–1998. Creators, Caroline Aherne, Dave Gorman, and Henry Normal. Pro-
duction company and broadcaster, Granada Television/ITV. Celebrity talk show
in which the guests are interviewed by Caroline Aherne in her middle-aged Mrs.
Merton persona. Chapter 3.
Appendix 211
Neighbours
1985–present. Creator, Reg Watson. Production company and broadcaster,
Grundy Television Australia/Network 10. Australian soap opera popular with
teenagers and children in the United Kingdom as well as Australia. Chapters 2,
7, and 8.
NYPD Blue
1993–2005. Creators, Steven Bochco and David Milch. Production company
and broadcaster, 20th Century Fox Television/Fox. American police series.
Chapter 8.
The Office
2001–2003. Creators, Ricky Gervais and Steven Merchant. Production company
and broadcaster, BBC. British mockumentary situation comedy set in the offices
of a paper supply company. Chapter 8.
The Office: An American Workplace

2005–present. Creators, Greg Daniels, Ricky Gervais, and Stephen Merchant.
Production company and broadcaster, Reveille Productions/NBC. American
version of The Office. Chapters 8 and 10.
One Foot in the Grave

1990–2000. Creator, David Renwick. Production company and broadcaster, BBC.
British situation comedy about a retired couple in suburbia. Chapters 2 and 5.
Outnumbered
2007–present. Creators, Andy Hamilton and Guy Jenkin. Production company
and broadcaster, Hat Trick Productions/BBC. Part-improvised British situation
comedy about life in a family with small children. Chapter 3.
Pennies from Heaven

1978. Creator, Dennis Potter. Production company and broadcaster, BBC. Drama
about the fantasy life and the real life of a man selling sheet music for a living in
the 1930s, constructed as a musical with the characters periodically miming to
American popular songs of the period. Chapter 3.
212 Appendix
Perfect Strangers
2001. Creator, Stephen Poliakoff. Production company and broadcaster, TalkBack
Productions/BBC. Drama about a family reunion, occasioning the telling of
poignant stories with photographic memorabilia. Chapter 8.
Play for Today

British anthology drama series. Chapter 3.
Pride and Prejudice

1995. Creator, Andrew Davies. Production company and broadcaster, BBC. Classic
adaptation of the Jane Austen novel. Chapters 3 and 8.
Prime Suspect
1991 (sequels until 2006). Creator, Lynda La Plante. Production company and
broadcaster, Granada Television/ITV. British crime drama series with a senior
female officer and significant social themes as well as a strong story line. Chapter 8.
Pushing Daisies
2007–present. Creator, Bryan Fuller. Production company and broadcaster,
Jinks/Cohen Company, Living Dead Guy Productions, Warner Bros. TV/ABC.
American fantasy drama. Chapters 3 and 7.
Queer as Folk
1999. Creator, Russell T. Davies. Production company and broadcaster, Red
Production Company/Channel 4. British drama about the lives of young gay
males in Manchester. Chapter 7.
Ramsay’s Boiling Point

1998. Creator, James Allen. Production company and broadcaster, London Week-
end/ITV. Reality show about the life of a professional celebrity chef. Chapter 9.
Rome
2005. Creators, Bruno Heller, William J. MacDonald, and John Milius. Production
company and broadcaster HD Vision Studio/HBO. Historical series. Chapter 1.
Appendix 213
The Royal
2003–present. Creator, Ken Horn. Production company and broadcaster,
Yorkshire Television/ITV. British hospital series, spin-off from Heartbeat and
set in the same generic 1960s/1970s imagined world. Chapter 8.
The Royle Family

1998–present. Creators, Caroline Aherne and Craig Cash. Production company and
broadcaster, Granada Television/BBC. British situation comedy about the lives of a
northern working-class family, focusing on their living room and kitchen interac-
tions to the exclusion of nearly everything else. Chapters 3 and 4.
Saturday Night Live

1975–present. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, NBC
Studios/NBC. American variety series with performing guests (e.g., musicians)
as well as a permanent cast who provide comedy material. Chapter 4.
Scenes from a Marriage

1973. Creator, Ingmar Bergman. Production company and broadcaster, Cine-
matograph AB. Ingmar Bergman’s reflections on marital relations. Chapter 2.
Secrets and Lies

1996. Creator, Mike Leigh. Production company and broadcaster, Channel 4
Films. Mike Leigh’s reflections on family life. Chapter 2.
Sergeant Bilko/The Phil Silvers Show

1955–1959. Creator, Nat Hiken. Production company and broadcaster, CBS/CBS.
Situation comedy about military life for disaffected conscripts. Chapter 2.
Shameless
2004–present. Creator, Paul Abbott. Production company and broadcaster,
Company Pictures/Channel 4. Comedy drama about Northern working class
life in England. Chapter 7.
214 Appendix
The Simpsons
1989–present. Creator, Matt Groening. Production company and broadcaster,
20th Century Fox Television/Fox. Very significant American animated series
with Homer Simpson as its most famous character. Many celebrities have been
featured during the course of the series. Chapter 7.
Soldiering On. See Talking Heads.
The Sooty Show

1968–1992. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, Thames
Television/ITV. The antics of a set of glove puppets. Chapter 7.
The Sopranos
1999–2007. Creator, David Chase. Production company and broadcaster, HBO.
The antics of a Mafia family in New Jersey. Chapters 1, 3, 7, and 8.
Spooks
2002–present. Creator, David Wolstencroft. Production company and broadcast-
er, Kudos/BBC. The espionage services (MI5) in the United Kingdom. Chapter 2.
Star Trek Enterprise

2001–2005. Creators, Gene Roddenberry, Rick Beman, and Brannon Braga.
Production company and broadcaster, Braga Productions, Paramount Television
Network Productions, Paramount Television, Rick Berman Productions/UPN.
Final series of the Star Trek chronicles, constructed as a prequel to the original
Star Trek series. Chapter 4.
Starsky and Hutch

1975–1979. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, Spelling-
Goldberg Productions/ABC. American crime series. Chapter 8.
The State Within

2006. Creators, Lizzie Mickery and Daniel Percival. Production company and
broadcaster, BBC and BBC America. British thriller set in Washington and
Appendix 215
international locations. Jason Isaacs stars, and Sharon Gless (of Cagney and Lacey
fame) has a major role. Chapter 3.
Steptoe and Son

1962–1974. Creators, Ray Galton and Alan Simpson. Production company
and broadcaster, BBC. Situation comedy about the dysfunctional relationship
between father and son rag-and-bone men in London. Chapter 7.
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip

2006–2007. Creator, Aaron Sorkin. Production company and broadcaster, Warner
Brothers Television/NBC. Dramedy set backstage of a live American variety
show. Written by Aaron Sorkin, who was also responsible for seasons 1–4 of
The West Wing. Chapter 4.
Summer Heights High

2007. Creator, Chris Lilley. Production company and broadcaster, Princess Pic-
tures/ABC. Australian school-based situation comedy in mockumentary mode.
Chapter 8.
The Sweeney
1975–1978. Creator, Ian Kennedy Martin. Production company and broadcaster,
Euston Films/ITV. British crime series. Chapter 8.
Talking Heads: Soldiering On

1987. Creator, Allan Bennett. Production company and broadcaster, BBC. In this
particular Talking Heads monologue, Stephanie Cole plays a military widow whose
life deteriorates and whose son deceives her for the sake of money. Chapter 1.
The Thick of It
2005–present. Creator, Armando Iannucci. Production company and broad-
caster, BBC. British political situation comedy. Chapter 3.
Thunderbirds
1965–1966. Creators, Gerry Anderson and Sylvia Anderson. Production
company and broadcaster, AP Films/ITV. Science fiction with string puppets.
Chapter 7.
216 Appendix
Tom and Jerry

1965–1972. Creators, William Hanna and Joseph Barbera. Production company
and broadcaster, MGM Television/CBS. Animated series that followed the antics
of a predator cat and a canny mouse. Chapter 7.
The Two Ronnies

1971–1987. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, BBC, ITV.
British comedy show with sketches and musical numbers. Chapters 5 and 6.
Vote, Vote, Vote for Nigel Barton

1965. Creator, Dennis Potter. Production company and broadcaster, BBC. In the
episode “The Wednesday Play,” a follow-up to “Stand Up Nigel Barton,” Barton is
a working-class youth who rises to the middle classes via Oxford University and
then runs for parliament but loses respect for the system and himself and pulls
out. Chapter 3.
Waking the Dead

2000–present. Creator, Barbara Machin. Production company and broadcaster,
BBC Drama Group/BBC. British crime series. Chapter 3.
The Weakest Link

Entertaining quiz show in which the celebrity host Anne Robinson makes fun of
contestants. An American version with the same host was also made. Chapter 9.
The Wednesday Play

Classic British anthology drama series (see Vote, Vote, Vote for Nigel Barton,
above). Chapter 3.
The West Wing

1999–2006. Creator, Aaron Sorkin. Production company and broadcaster, John
Wells Productions/NBC. American political drama series written by Aaron
Sorkin (seasons 1–4). Chapters 1, 2, 6, and 8.
Appendix 217
Whose Line Is It Anyway?

1988–1998. Creator, not known. Production company and broadcaster, Hat Trick/
Channel 4. Improvisational comedy sketches to order. An American version was
also made. Chapter 1.
Z Cars
1962–1978. Creator, Troy Kennedy Martin. Production company and broadcaster,
BBC. British police series set in a northern England town. For its time, a venture
in the direction of greater realism, including more location shooting. Chapters 7
and 8.
Notes
CHAPTER 1
1. Here and throughout this book I will use the term sociolinguistic inclusively, although
the emphasis will mainly be at the micro rather than the macro end of the sociolinguistic
spectrum of concerns. This reaches out to all research on the study of language in use,
irrespective of subdisciplinary origins—pragmatics at its more social end; conversation
analysis, critical discourse analysis, applied linguistics, stylistics, as well as core sociolinguistic
territory, including interactional sociolinguistics, the ethnography of speaking, and the study
of linguistic variation. It is important for the study that it should be data driven, not theory
driven, but the terminology used is intended without prejudice to the integrity of specific
approaches.
2. In principle, this list ought to include the dialogue of feature films, because they are
so often experienced in a domestic context via a TV set or home computer, just like
television drama, whether they are broadcast, on DVD/VHS, or downloaded. However,
there will be little direct discussion of dialogue in feature films here. Readers are invited to
determine for themselves where the account fits the case of films and where it does not.
3. From here on, the first reference to any TV show or series in each chapter will
supply the name of the channel on which the show was first broadcast and the year(s) of
broadcasting. Subsequent references to the same show in the same chapter will not supply
this information. There is a full list of shows and series referred to with brief descriptions
at the end of this book. When the information is available, quotations such as this will be
accompanied by the correct episode writing credits, including those that are reproduced
from other sources rather than my transcriptions from recordings and DVDs. Series
creators, who have more status than the writers of particular episodes, are not necessarily
credited in the text, but this information is provided in the appendix.
4. Sociolinguistically trained readers will recognize this allusion to the truth, rele-
vance, sincerity, and informational adequacy of Carmela’s line here as a reference to the
four maxims of Gricean pragmatics. According to this approach, indirect meaning is
potentially created whenever an utterance is in breach of one of these maxims.
5. For an overview of storytelling on television, and the relevance of narrative research
to this, see Kozloff (1992).
6. The relevant code of practice for British broadcasters on access is available online:
http://www.ofcom.org.uk/tv/ifi/codes/ctas/ (accessed May 3, 2009).
7. Chatman acknowledges that he is following the path set by the Russian formalists
as well as the Prague School and French structuralists. He cites in particular the work of
Claude Bremont.
219
220 Notes to Pages 11–48
8. In narratology, terminology varies when it comes to distinguishing between chro-

nological elements of a narrative and their textual arrangement. I will refer to narratives
when it is not important to make this distinction, to story when the focus is on the
chronological sequence of actions/events within a narrative, and plot for the sequential
organization of those actions/events in a text, which may or may not be in chronological
order. A flashback can therefore occur only in a plot, not in a story—though a story can
have backward or forward time travel.
CHAPTER 2
1. In the current decade, books on contemporary TV drama include Bignell, Lacey, and
MacMurraugh-Kavanagh (2000), Caughie 2000, Jancovich and Lyons (2003), Creeber
(2004), Thornham and Purvis (2004), Hammond and Mazdon (2005), Bignell and Lacey
(2005), Nelson (2007), McCabe and Akass (2007a). This list can be extended by including
books about the history of TV drama (Jacobs 2000), Cooke 2003), books that focus on
single series or single individuals (Lavery 2002 on The Sopranos, Peacock 2007 on 24,
Cardwell 2005 on Andrew Davies, Hallam 2005 on Lynda LaPlante), and those that
consider adaptations of literary works (Cardwell 2002), not to mention edited collections
in which drama is addressed alongside other genres (Davin and Jackson 2008). Formal
concerns of the kind indicated by Geraghty are variably addressed within this literature.
2. Cardwell is willing to declare her own criteria for the determination of value: shows are
good, for her, when they can sustain repeated viewings because they have either stylistic
integrity or thematic importance or both (2007: 30). These are ultimately arguments about
the cognitive-affective-cultural effects of texts, giving rise to familiar social scientific difficul-
ties: some people watch programs with all of the requisite formal qualities without being
affected in the ways that textual analysis has envisaged. If the texts are good in such cases, the
obvious inference is that the audiences must be bad. The quality debate is revisited in chapter
8 and in the conclusion; see also Brundson (1990), Corner (1994), and Nelson (1997).
3. In date order, some key landmarks here are Modleski (1982), Hobson (1982), Ang
(1985), Livingstone (1991), and Geraghty (1991).
4. Age markers are spoken references that a person makes related to his or her own age.
In the case of older adults, such a person might reveal his or her age, call him- or herself a
retiree, refer to grandchildren, or talk about age-related health complaints, for instance.
See Coupland, Coupland, Giles, and Henwood (1988).
CHAPTER 3
1. For example, “Caroline Ahearne’s [sic] and Craig Cash’s sit-com is even more perfectly
reflective at Christmas when the levels of drunkenness, indigestion and banal conversation
standardontheRoyles’sofaarematchedinmosthomes.”Guardian,December22,2000.Retrieved
May 3, 2009, from http://www.guardian.co.uk/christmas2000/story/0,414515,00.html
“The Royle Family is an intricate study in banality, preserving a snapshot of British
working-class culture nearing the turn of the millennium. Chronicling six
evenings in the lives of the Royles, the mundane conversations captured within
the confines of the family’s sitting room provide a voyeuristic odyssey worthy of
so-called reality television, but is all the more impressive because it’s a scripted
Notes to Pages 52–88 221
program with a fidelity to reality that suggests a hidden-camera documentary

rather than a filmed sitcom.” Jason Davies, “Imitation of Life,” February 23, 2006.
Retrieved April 11, 2008, from http://www.creativescreenwriting.com/csdaily/
dvds/02_23_06_RoyleFamilyS1.html
2. America’s Most Wanted (Fox 1988–present) is a close U.S. equivalent.

3. Shows with these characters include An Audience with Dame Edna Everage (ITV 1980),
The Dame Edna Experience (ITV 1987–1989), and The Mrs Merton Show (ITV 1994–1998).
CHAPTER 4
1. A complementary ethnographic approach from within media studies, though with-
out a specific focus on dialogue, is offered by Messenger Davies (2007), who interviews
two of the writers on Star Trek: Enterprise (UPN 2001–2005).
2. Eastenders (BBC 1985–present) is a British soap opera set in the working-class East
End of London. It is generally compared with the even more venerable Coronation Street
(ITV 1960–present).
3. To get a feeling for the writers’ room experience, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip(NBC
2007–2008) is well worth watching—it made a point of incorporating “room culture” into
its diegesis. The imaginary show being produced in this case was not a drama but a live
sketch show with musical guests, on the model of the real Saturday Night Live (NBC 1975–
present). Nevertheless, the function of its writing team, to come up with ideas, is not
unlike the function of a drama/comedy writing team. In Britain, the “room” experience is
less common (Batty and Waldeback 2008).
4. A spec script is a script, for a movie or a television show, that is written without
expectation that it will ever be produced, to convince gatekeepers that the writer deserves a
commission, a staff post, and representation by an agency or a fellowship (spec being short
for “speculative”). A slug line is a line in a script that indicates where the action takes place,
whether outside or inside, during the day or at night. A parenthetical is a stage direction.
5. For theme, read also moral, point, evaluation, and message, according to genre and/ or
analytic tradition. Such terms are not synonymous, but they do all point to more abstract
meanings than those present in the story at the literal level.
6. This generalization would not be true for TV dramatization understood inclusively,
because this would encompass TV advertising in its dramatic forms, where thematic
content (of a particular kind) is primary.
7. Brody acknowledges Harlan Ellison as the originator of the story on which this
material is based but does not specify the particular story.
CHAPTER 5
1. Useful discussion of these differentiations can be found in Livingstone (2007), who
traces the trajectory of theoretical discussion from Stuart Hall, through David Morley to
John Corner and Justin Wren-Lewis, taking in relevant research by Celeste Condit and by
Umberto Eco. The following selective list of sources, which focuses mainly on the
theoretical and not the applied contributions to the field, should provide a starting point
for readers wishing to explore this trajectory: Hall (1980, 1994), Morley (1980, 1992),
Wren-Lewis (1983, 1991), Lewis (1991), Corner (1991b), Eco (1979), and Condit (1989).
2. BBC News, “Doctor Who Attracts 8.4m Viewers.” Retrieved May 3, 2009, from http://
news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7333321.stm
3. Andrew Billen, Doctor Who; Louis Theroux’s African Hunting Holiday. The
Times, April 7 2008. retrieved 6th August 2009 from http://entertainment.timesonline.
co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article3684082.ece, Guardian, “Doctor
Who—Partners in Crime Was a Good Start to Season Four.” Retrieved May 3, 2009,
from http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/organgrinder/2008/apr/07/doctorwhopartner-
sincrimew
5. TV.com, “Doctor Who: Partners in Crime, Episode recap.” Retrieved May 3, 2009, from
http://www.tv.com/DoctorþWhoþ%282005%29/PartnersþinþCrime/episode/1166297/
recaphtml
6. Jonathan Tilove, “Something Borrowed, Nothing New in Politics.” Retrieved May 3,
2009, from http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1973378/posts
7. Richard Grigonis, “This Instant Message Will Self-Destruct in Five Seconds.” Re-
trieved May 3, 2009, from http://mobile-voip.tmcnet.com/topics/mobile-communications/
articles/25512-this-instant-message-will-self-destruct-five-seconds.htm
CHAPTER 6
1. This problem, extended beyond the communicative acts of characters to encompass
all description of fictional works, has been addressed by Wikipedia under the heading
“The Problem with In-Universe Perspective”:
An in-universe perspective describes the narrative from the perspective of charac-
ters within the fictional universe, treating it as if it were real and ignoring real-world
context and sourced analysis. The threshold of what constitutes in-universe writing
is making any effort to re-create or uphold the illusion of the original fiction by
omitting real-world info.
For Wikipedia, seeking to be an authoritative source of reference, in-universe perspec-

tives on fictional works potentially blur the boundary between real and fictional to an
unacceptable extent:
For example, if a fictional TV detective loses a partner in the line of duty, taking an
in-universe perspective will obscure whether this occurred in the backstory, the pilot
or the main series. If the partner died in the pilot, but is the subject of little-known
prequel novels, then an in-universe perspective may describe the partner in exces-
sive detail. If later episodes have events which suggest the dead partner never
existed, this is impossible to describe from an in-universe perspective, and editors
[i.e., Wikipedia contributors] will have to try to explain away such continuity errors
themselves, leading to original research [i.e., speculation by Wikipedia contributors]
and inaccuracy.
Retrieved May 3, 2009, from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Manual_of_ Style
(writing_about_fiction)#The_problem_with_in-universe_perspective.
2. A transition relevance place is understood as a structurally projected boundary in the
flow of a single speaker’s talk, such as the end of a grammatical clause, which participants
agree to treat as an opportunity for another speaker to take the floor. An adjacency pair is a
bounded set of utterances such that the former, from one speaker, projects the other, from
another speaker. If someone asks a question, an answer is then expected, and its absence
will be notable for participants. Preference organization refers to the fact that in some
adjacency pairs there may be more than one possible second part (an offer, for example,
may be either accepted or refused). In such circumstances it is often the case that one of
the two possibilities will be delivered with extra features, such as hesitation, hedging, or
delaying prefaces, which mark it as the “dispreferred” response.
3. Accent convergence and divergence are not much in evidence as resources in the
performance of television dramatic dialogue. We can explain this by reference to the
public character of this particular kind of communication, specifically to the fact that its
audience is construed as geographically heterogeneous. Such a mixed audience could not
be relied upon to register as meaningful the subtleties of convergence and divergence in
pronunciation. If convergence was rendered “obvious” enough to be thus registered, it
would cease to be faithful to the realities of real-life linguistic accommodation and become
caricature convergence. I have not, in my own research, come across any examples of this,
though I can imagine it being made to work in a comedic production. Accent mimicry (by
characters of one another) is a different matter, and not uncommon, especially in Britain.
Caricature performance is perfectly acceptable in that context.
CHAPTER 7
1. There is more about the responses of fans/audiences to dialogue in chapter 5 in this
volume.
2. At the time of writing, about a dozen of these commercial were available online at:
http://www.tellyads.com/show
3. The sponsor of House at the time was Spontex Comfy Gloves.
4. My use of the adjective prototypical here is meant to evoke another relevant concept
from cognitive science that has influenced language theory. Eleanor Rosch’s work in the
1970s (see, e.g., Rosch 1973) offered a way out of the difficulty of assigning phenomena to
categories based on necessary and sufficient conditions, by proposing that human cogni-
tion works on the basis of core and peripheral category membership. Other things being
equal, a robin is a better (more central) bird than an ostrich, because an ostrich cannot fly.
Category membership is clear in the center of the category but fuzzy at the boundaries. As
a consequence, a set of people with the same concepts can agree about the categorization
as red of, say, a color that is near the center of the reds section on a decorator’s paint sample
sheet, but there will be understandable/legitimate disagreement about a swatch that falls
in the range between red and orange.
5. I am using the concept of referential reading here in the sense similar to that of
Liebes and Katz (1990). Referential readings in this research were those that interpreted
characters in the American soap Dallas (CBS 1978–1991) as people, and treated the show
as if it were a kind of documentary about those people. Liebes and Katz contrasted such
readings with critical readings that maintained some distance from the representations. In
Richardson and Corner (1986) the notion of transparency reading is used in a similar way,
emphasizing a predilection to ignore the work of mediation and regard on-screen persons
as if they were being encountered directly. Both of these studies focus on actual audience
uptake of particular shows.
6. Readers not familiar with Little Britain may find clips and other related material via
the BBC website at http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/littlebritain (accessed June 9, 2008).
7. The BBC’s website currently offers the opportunity to view various crime recon-
structions online at http://www.bbc.co.uk/crimewatch/ (accessed June 9, 2008). A compa-
rable show on American television is America’s Most Wanted (Fox 1988–present), which
I have not seen.
8. The work of Schank and Abelson (1977) is generally cited as the inspiration for
much of what developed when the theory moved beyond its origins in artificial intelli-
gence. It has of course been a huge influence on research in discourse analysis, sociolin-
guistics, and social psychology. See Cook (1994) for a detailed, critical review of the
relevant sources written expressly as part of an exploration of the relevance of schema
theory for literary research.
For my purposes, it is important to note that schemata, in this approach (as well as the
related concepts of scripts and frames), are higher order cognitive structures, in other
words, more abstract than the medium (language, image) from which they are derived.
Schemata, according to the theory, are mental structures that represent knowledge in the
brain. Cook himself disputes the claims of total separation between linguistic and mental
representations.
9. There was a subsequent American version of this series that initially aired on a
U.S. cable network 2000–2005 and has been seen in some other countries, including
Spain and Germany, but not the United Kingdom.
10. It would be wrong to use this argument to oversimplify what television has offered
audiences over the years in terms of images of policing. O’Sullivan (2005) surveyed existing
research in this area with respect to the United Kingdom’s crime drama series from Dixon
of Dock Green (BBC 1955–1972) onward, and found considerable variation. The general
point still holds, however, because dramas that focus on the police are more readily
available to expand on the characteristics of individual police officers than those in
which police officers are incidental to the plotline. These are the ones in which default,
schematic “police officer” assumptions will be in play.
11. Review at http://libcom.org/library/shameless-paul-abbott-series-1–2-channel-
4–20034-television-review-%E2%80%93-tom-jennings (accessed May 9, 2009).
12. At the time of writing, this episode was available online to institutional subscribers
via the British Film Institute—sponsored website, at http://www.screenonline.org.uk/
media/stream.jsp?id¼1234745 (accessed June 9, 2008).
13. Claptraps are rhetorical devices (such as the three-part list) used in formal
speeches, for example, by politicians, to provoke applause “on cue” (see Atkinson 1984).
I am suggesting that there are equivalent cues for laughter in comic genres.
14. Sperber and Wilson (1986) is the main work in the relevance theory literature.
15. See, for example, Jakobson (1960).
16. See Kress and van Leeuwen (2001).
CHAPTER 8
1. This raises issues about national versus international audiences, which this chap-
ter does not have scope to address. Comprehensibility of language is one of the issues,
even when the trade is between one Anglophone country and another, as with American
imports to the United Kingdom and vice versa. Cultural references both unite and divide:
“Wild West” analogies may achieve the former, but the period character of this show
introduces a specifically British frame of reference (power cuts, The Sweeney, Open
University TV broadcasts). Of course, these characteristics can contribute an exotic flavor
for international audiences (or British viewers too young to access their substantive
content). The same applies to American cultural references in shows exported to the
United Kingdom and elsewhere, though in this case it may also be that sufficient exposure
to the same references in a range of such programming makes them familiar internation-
ally as well as nationally. (See chapter 10 for further discussion.)
2. The American equivalent of this caution is referred to as reading someone their
Miranda rights.
3. Sam Wollaston, “Last Night’s TV,” Guardian, January 10, 2006. Retrieved May 3,
2009, from http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2006/jan/10/broadcasting.tvandradio
4. Ray King, “Life on Mars Writers on Another Planet—Top Cop,” Manchester Evening
News, February 21, 2006. Retrieved May 9, 2009, from http://www.manchestereveningnews.
co.uk/entertainment/film_and_tv/s/205/205246_life_on_mars_writers_on_another_
planet__top_cop.html
5. David Smith, “£1,500 in a Carrier Bag? What Planet Are You On?” Observer,
April 8, 2007. Retrieved May 9, 2009, from http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2007/
apr/08/broadcasting.uknews
6. James Rampton, “It’s an Unfair Cop: Gene, the Most Defiantly Un-PC Cop on
the Block, Is Back,” Independent, April 13, 2009. Retrieved May 3, 2009, from http://www.
independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/tv/features/its-an-unfair-cop-gene-hunt-the-most-
defiantly-unpc-pc-on-the-block-is-back-1667712.html
7. Hillsborough is a football ground in the city of Sheffield. On April 15, 1989, the
match to be played was between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest. Ninety-six Liverpool
supporters eventually died of asphyxiation in the crush of bodies after entering the
ground. A subsequent official report laid responsibility at the door of the police, while
also recognizing that the spectators would not have died if they had been able to get on to
the field. This was not possible because of the hooligan-proof fencing that kept the fans in
separate “pens.”
CHAPTER 9
1. The concept of face in Brown and Levinson’s original 1978 account has been
criticized for being spuriously universalistic when in fact restricted to Western cultures
(see, e.g., Matsumoto 1989, Gu 1990). The binary distinction between positive and
negative face has been subjected to conceptual critique and revision (see, e.g., Spencer-
Oatey 2002, Tracy and Tracy 1998). The concept of politeness continues to be contested
(Eelen 2001; Watts 2003; Mills 2003). In the absence of theoretical consensus, and with no
theoretical axes of my own to grind, I have related my account of the aggressive facework
in House M.D. to the Brown and Levinson model on the grounds (a) that it is the one that
is most familiar to all researchers in this area, and (b) that Culpeper’s influential account
of impoliteness in discourse is itself derived from this approach, albeit with critique and
revisions.
2. An opposite case can, in fact, be made: that Brown and Levinson have made all talk,
all interaction, and all human proximity inherently hostile or at least dangerous, by
putting face threatening acts at the core of any encounter, with politeness strategies as
an optional extra. This representation is then compounded by setting up several different

kinds of no-win situations for would-be speakers. A compliment, for example, counts as
positive politeness in their schema, a kind of redressive action. But it can also count as a
negative, face-threatening act in its own right—an intrusion into the personal space of an
addressee who would rather be left alone than have to find a way of responding to the
unsought and unwelcome attention. In practice, perhaps, contexts will contribute in
assigning just the right kind of interpersonal meaning to any specific compliment, but
the general issue of the ubiquity of “face danger” still remains. As an image of human
social relations, it has a decidedly neurotic flavor.
3. See Sarah Womack and Thomas Penny, “Robinson Tells Welsh: You Are Weakest
Link,” Daily Telegraph, March 5, 2003. Retrieved April 21, 2009, from http://www.telegraph.
co.uk/news/uknews/1325280/Robinson-tells-Welsh-you-are-weakest-link.html
4. See also Kochman (1983) and Eder (1990) for more evidence that banter-like talk is
possible even if the offensive content is not obviously untrue.
5. Martin Ellingham in the series Doc Martin also has to contend with a smelly patient
in one episode, and the contrast is striking. It actually turns out that the smell is not from
the patient at all, but from his dead pet goldfinch, rotting away into a bag that the patient
has been carrying around with him. Whereas House takes pleasure in drawing attention
to the smell, Ellingham and his receptionist are depicted as being forced into doing so by
its insuperable potency. Ellingham’s patient, an elderly, frail, rather timid man, treats his
own smell as a face-threatening act for which he is obliged to apologize. The doctor
accepts the apology (“It’s all right,” in a matter-of-fact, rather than sympathetic, tone),
and obliges himself to examine the patient despite the smell. Other things being equal,
House would have delegated such a repellent task to a junior, or found some other way of
sidestepping his duties while ensuring the patient got medical care.
6. Watts (2003) draws a distinction between politic behavior and polite behavior. The
former refers to behavior that is conventionally expected, such as greetings, “please” and
“thank you,” and so forth; the latter goes beyond conventionality, such as compliments.
Although this works well enough in relation to politeness phenomena, it is awkward in
relation to impoliteness, because the deliberate, intentionally rude, withholding of greet-
ings, as in this example, is just as strategic as paying a compliment.
CHAPTER 10
1. Wall Street Journal, “Talk the Talk: A ‘Wire’ Insider’s Guide to the Show’s Street
Slang,” December 28, 2007. Retrieved May 3, 2009, from http://online.wsj.com/article/
SB119888101122256433.html
2. Questions about the cultural grounding of interpretation are not unique to the
understanding of drama. The production of intelligible talk in any context requires the use
of both general and culture-specific interpretative resources. In the case of schema theory,
the point of division would be between schema-based understanding as such, and the
content of particular schemata, in which the latter is understood to be culture specific,
whereas the general principle is universal. Theoretical difficulties occur when purportedly
general universal principles are themselves discovered to be culture specific, as has
happened in the case of politeness theory (see chapter 9, “House and Snark”).
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Index
Abbott, Paul, 142–43, 213 anchorage, 52–53, 107, 156–58

Abrams, J.J., 210 Anders, David, 132
absurdity, 30–32, 70 Anderson, Gerry and Sylvia, 215
accent convergence/divergence, 120, Anderson, Gillian, 200
223n3 Angell, David, 205
accents, 132 Aniston, Jennifer, 147
actors antagonists, 82
character agendas, 83 apologizing, 110
conflict talk, 172 Applied Linguistics, 193, 196
delivery, 65 applied sociolinguistics, 28, 36–38, 194
directions for in screenplays, 76–78 Apter, Harold, 37
dramatic dialogue, 63 The Archers, 81, 199
dramatizations, 60 argumentation, 55, 110, 173
social relationships and dialogue, 106 Aristotle, 131
stage plays, 67 Armchair Theatre, 58, 199
voices and character, 132–34 Armstrong, Jesse, 58
adaptations, 44 artifice, 87, 129
adjacency pair, 118, 126, 222–23n2 artificial intelligence, 224n8
advertising. See commercials Ashes to Ashes, 65, 156, 163–64, 199
aesthetics, 21–25, 29–30, 45, 185 Associated-Rediffusion, 26
affordances, 62–63, 187, 197 Atkinson, Rebecca, 141
age markers, 28, 36, 220n4 Attanasio, Paul, 207
agendas, 82–83 An Audience with Dame Edna Everage, 199
Aherne, Caroline, 48–49, 60, 210, 213, audiences
220–21n1(chpt3) accent convergence/divergence, 223n3
Akass, Kim, 8, 15, 22, 23 blogging, 82, 103
All My Children, 28, 198 catchphrases, 81, 100, 102–4
allegory, 54, 156, 160 categorization of, 88–89
Allen, James, 212 character development, 128–29
Allen, Keith, 178 character schemata, 138
Allen, Woody, 45 and dialogue, 81–82, 103–4, 156,
Ally McBeal, 28, 198 224–25n1
Altman, Robert, 45 and dramatists, 63, 105, 127, 149–50,
The Amazing Mrs. Pritchard, 52, 60–61, 167–69, 188, 190–92
198–99 as eavesdroppers, 6, 60
Amazon, 93 expositional dialogue, 53, 55, 107
America’s Most Wanted, 199 face attacks in House, 181
237
238 Index
audiences (continued) Baseley, Godfrey, 199

face-to-face talk, 44 Battlestar Galactica, 73, 199
fans, 95–97 Batty, Craig, 66
genres, 89–92 Baylin, Noah, 116
The Golden Girls, 36–37 BBC, 93, 113, 160–61
House, 185–86 BBC America, 161, 191
impact of television dialogue on, 5, beats, 82
24–25, 40–41 Beckett, 47, 70
impression management, 146–47 Beman, Rick, 214
interview programming, 26–27 Bennett, Alan, 9, 215
Life on Mars, 163 Bergman, Ingmar, 213
media research and, 190, 196–97 Berman, Josh, 124
and media talk, 59–60 Bestall, Alfred, 208
metacommunication, 125 Betrayal, 172
mimesis, 118 Between the Lines, 152, 200
national vs. international, 224–25n1 The Bill, 69, 152, 200
nonverbal signs, 117 Billen, Andrew, 94–95
ordinary viewer, 97–100, 104 biopics, 18–19
overhearing (dialogue), 44, 59–60, 142 Blackwell, Simon, 58, 203
police dramas, 164–67 Blair, Tony, 8
political correctness, 195 Bleak House, 154, 200
and quality drama, 154–56 Bleasdale, Alan, 70, 200, 206
referential reading, 223n5 blogging, 65–66, 82, 89–91, 98, 103
shared viewing, 186 Blue Öyster Cult, 102
soap operas and, 134 Bob the Builder, 101, 200
subtext, 80 Bochco, Steven, 207, 211
synchronization and, 132 Bodies, 178, 200
textual cues, 146 Boiling Point, 177, 212
top-down comprehension, 134–35 Bond, Edward, 70
unacknowledged meaning, 121 “Boom,” 124
voices and character, 133 Booth, Connie, 51, 205
aural display, 55, 62, 132 bottom-up comprehension, 32–34, 137,
Austin, John L., 115 143–46
auteurist, 66, 126 Boys from the Blackstuff, 70, 200
authentic speech, 4, 14 Braga, Brannon, 214
authorial commentary, 54, 191 branding, 169
authorship, 64, 67 breadth, 15
breaking process, 73–75
background sound, 13, 14 Brecht, 70
backgrounding, 106, 129 Britton, Connie, 56
backstories, 193 broadcast talk, 44, 59–61
BAFTA, 55, 156 Brock, Jeremy, 201
Baitz, Jon Robin, 200 Brody, Larry, 71–75, 156, 194, 221n7
ballet, 10–11, 131, 188 Brook, Stephen, 98
banality, 48–49, 56–57, 220–21n1(chpt3) Brookes, Ian, 102–3
banter, 173, 177 Brooks, Walter, 210
Barbera, Joseph, 216 Brothers and Sisters, 137, 200
Barker, Ronnie, 122 Brown, June, 55, 173, 225n1, 225–26n2
Barlow, Thelma, 146 Bubel, Claudia, 28, 39–40
Index 239
Buckner, Brian, 120 “The Problem with In-Universe

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 28, 71, 73, Perspective,” 222n1
193, 201 prototypical, 131, 223n4
BUPA commercials, 130–31 relationships in drama, 186
Burditt, Joyce, 203 revelation of, 53, 156
Burton, Deirdre, 194 rounded characters, 34, 143
schema theory, 135–36, 149–50, 188,
cable television, 155, 189 191, 197
call-and-response, 101 shading of, 77
Cameron, Deborah, 114 Shameless, 138–43
canned shows, 43 sincerity and performance, 146–49
Cardwell, Sarah, 22–23, 220n2 social relationships and, 106–7
caricatures, 223n3 television dramatic dialogue and, 81–83
Carter, Ron, 193–94, 196 textual cues, 135, 143
Casey, Peter, 205 top-down comprehension, 33–34, 134,
Cash, Craig, 49, 213, 220–21n1(chpt3) 136–37
Casualty, 201 as triggers for schemata, 138
catchphrases, 62, 81, 100–104 voice as embodiment of, 132–34
“Catering,” 144 Charlie Jade, 82, 201
causality, 53 Chase, Allan, 203
Chapman, Graham, 210 Chase, David, 7, 214
Chapman, Keith, 200 chat shows, 15, 61
characterization, 172, 185 Chatman, Seymour, 10, 129–31, 142, 149
characters Cherry, Marc, 203
agendas, 82–83 Chicago Hope, 170, 201
audience response to, 81–82, 104 Churchill, Caryl, 70
backstories, 193 cinematography, 154, 171
bottom-up comprehension, 137, clams, 68
143–46 claptraps, 144, 224n13
character-to-character relationship, 188, Cleese, John, 51, 205
192–93 Clooney, George, 205
character-to-character speech, 176 closed-captioning, 10
Coronation Street, 82, 130, 134 close-ups, 19
defined, 129 Clunes, Martin, 178
dialogue and development, 57, 64, 79, Cochran, Robert, 198
87, 127, 143, 195 cognitive stylistics. See stylistics
Dixon of Dock Green, 165 Cohen, Ted, 119
Doctor Who dialogue, 99 Cole, Stephanie, 9, 215
embodiment in radio, 131 Columbo, 147, 201
flat characters, 34, 135, 137, 143 Comedians, 70
indexical signs, 128 comedy. See also situation comedy
leakage, 117 clams, 68
Life on Mars, 158, 191 claptraps, 144, 224n13
long-form drama, 62 language exploitation, 57–58
and narrative, 6, 57 Life on Mars, 159
nonlinguistic cues, 144 monologues, 118
open theory of character, 129–30, 142 and quality drama, 153
person perception theories, 134 and radio, 58
police dramas, 224n10 romantic comedy, 82
240 Index
comedy (continued) preference organization, 118, 222–23n2

rude doctor schema, 178 Secrets and Lies, 40
skip connecting, 118–20 soap operas, 28
slam, 79 in television drama, 27–28
comic books, 188 through line, 193
commercials transition relevance place (TRP), 118,
BBC America, 161 222–23n2
BUPA commercials, 130 turn-taking rules, 118–20
catchphrases, 103 Cook, Guy, 135, 224n8
and dialogue, 6, 11 Cook, Ron, 40
dramatizations, 8, 60 Cooper, Sara B., 181, 183
imagination, 190 cooperative principle, 106, 115
impression management, 147 The Cops, 152, 201
telling, 13 copyright holders, 82
and theme, 221n6 Corbet, Brady, 57
voiceover narration, 11, 13 Corbett, Ronnie, 122
communication Corday, Ted, 203
communication ethnography, 63, 105, Corner, John, 25–26, 41
112–14, 167 Coronation Street
communicative events, 113–14 character development, 82, 130, 134
creativity, 63 credits, 201
mediated, 196 dramatic dialogue, 121
metacommunication, 5, 61, 104, examples, 108–9, 111
124–25 lying, 117
and speech, 113 narratives, 107, 110
virtual communication, 184 quality drama, 153
complex seeing, 163 costume drama, 153–54
compliments, 110, 226n6 Cottrell Boyce, Frank, 71, 206
comprehension, 32–34, 41, 197 Coupland, Nik, 27, 35–36
conflict talk, 169, 172–77 couples talk, 27
confrontational talk, 110 courtroom drama, 19
continuity, 136–37 Cox Arquette, Courtney, 119
continuity editing, 4 Crane, David, 206
conversations creativity
adjacency pair, 118, 222–23n2 catchphrases, 102
analysis, 5, 28, 47, 192 character development, 127
authentic speech, 14 in communication, 63
and broadcast talk, 59 dramatic dialogue and, 84, 156, 190
conversational implicature, 115–16 in a dramatized society, 20
in dramatic dialogue, 47, 65 fan fiction, 195, 197
extreme naturalism, 70 impact of television dialogue on, 5
Friends, 27–28 Kozloff typology, 106
hearings, 120–24 language and, 193–96
impoliteness theory, 175 “Language Creativity in Everyday
interactional sociolinguistics, 5 Contexts,” 196
ordinary conversation, 42, 47–49, 116, screenwriting, 67
194 value-added dialogue, 191
and poetics, 46 word play, 187
politeness theory, 110 YouTube, 197
Index 241
Crichton, Michael, 205 dialogue. See also characters; dramatic

crime shows, 52, 58 dialogue; realism; screenwriters
Crimewatch UK, 52, 58, 133–34, 202 aesthetics, 21–22
critical discourse analysis, 190 affordances, 62
critical readings, 223n5 anchorage, 107
criticism, 66, 163, 196, 197 applied sociolinguistics, 28, 36–38,
critics, 64, 88, 90 83–84
Cronin, A.J., 204 argumentation, 55
Crowdy, Mark, 204 artifice in, 87
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, 15, 123–24, as audience resource, 103–4
133, 171, 202 audience response to, 81–82, 156,
CSI Miami, 73, 202 224–25n1
CSI: New York, 202 blogging, 82, 103
Culpeper, Jonathan broadcast talk/media talk, 44, 59–61
banter, 179 catchphrases, 100
character schemata, 136, 188 closed-captioning, 10
cognitive stylistics, 32–34, 41 conciseness, 78–79
foregrounding, 145, 146 conflict talk, 172
impoliteness theory, 174–78, 184, 186, and contemporary culture, 3
225n1 creativity and, 5
sarcasm, 182 defined, 75, 156, 194
schema theory, 149–50 direct/indirect speech, 43
top-down comprehension, 134–37 Doctor Who, 92–93, 99
cultural significance, 226n2 documentary, 6
current affairs, 6, 13 and drama research, 21–22, 40–41
expositional functions of, 53, 55, 107
Dallas, 202, 223n5 factual television, 25–27
The Dame Edna Experience, 202 fan fiction, 82, 89–90
“Damned If You Do,” 181, 183 feature films, 4, 29, 56, 156, 191
Daniels, Greg, 211 feedback, 98
Davies, Andrew, 81, 200, 212 focus groups, 89
Davies, Messenger, 67 function of in dramas, 52, 192
Davies, Russell T. heightened naturalistic talk, 69
credits, 204, 212 hesitations, 64–65, 83
Doctor Who, 71, 126 historical dramas, 6
“Partners in Crime,” 93, 96 hospital dramas, 114
Queer as Folk, 135 House, 84
Davis, Rib, 68–71, 82–83 impoliteness theory, 110
Days of Our Lives, 81, 203 improvisations, 6, 43, 59
Dead Ringers, 58, 203 and language, 188
The Deal, 8, 203 legal dramas, 6
Death of a Salesman, 70 Life on Mars, 161–62
delivery, 65 market research, 191
demographics, 88–89 media research, 40
Desperate Housewives, 11–12, 52, 59, 60, media talk, 44, 194
130, 203 as mediated talk, 42, 63
Dexter, 148–50, 203 mimesis, 118
Dexter, Colin, 208 monologues, 6
Diagnosis Murder, 82, 203 Mr. Bean, 11
242 Index
dialogue (continued) cultural significance, 189

narrative and, 29, 83, 191–92 Davies as showrunner, 71
naturalistic talk and, 83, 99, 103, 121, Doctor Who Confidential, 93, 204
127, 192–93 Doctor Who Ratings Guide, 95
news programs, 9 fan fiction, 96–97
overhearing, 44, 142 “Partners in Crime,” 82, 92–100
and plot, 73–75 Tate review, 87
political dramas, 6 docudrama, 8, 25
quality drama, 151, 156–60, 194 documentary, 6
in radio, 53, 58 docusoaps, 153, 172
realism and, 5–6, 46, 56–57, 106, 112, Donahue, Ann, 73, 124, 202
127 The Dot and the Line, 130
relevance of, 15 double discourse, 117
representational nature of, 42–44, Dr. Finlay’s Casebook, 178, 204
62, 106 Dr. Kildare, 178, 204
reverberations, 30 Dragnet, 152, 204
schema poetics, 138 drama. See also dramatic dialogue
schema refreshment, 140 Drama in a Dramatised Society, 187
social relationships, 62, 82, 103–4, 106 drama research, 21, 24–25, 40–41
in stage plays, 53 dramadoc, 25
storytelling and, 12, 74, 187–88, 192–93 ethnographic analysis, 188
stylistics and, 28–34, 167–68 impoliteness theory, 182–83
subtext, 78, 80–81, 112 and poetics, 46–47
as talk, 35–36 television, 189–90
thematics, 106 voiceover narration, 11–12
and theme, 72–73 dramatic dialogue. See also dramatists
transparency, 4–5, 111–12, 223n5 actors and, 63
unscripted talk, 83 aesthetics, 45
value-added, 160–63, 168 authorial commentary, 191
voices as delivery mechanism for, and broadcast talk, 59–61
132–34 character development, 81–83
The Wire, 191–92 close-ups, 19
diegesis, 12, 221n3 cognitive stylistics, 16, 20
dinnerladies, 128–29, 144, 203–4 conversations in, 47, 65
direct speech, 81 cooperative principle, 106
direct/indirect speech, 43 Coronation Street, 121
directors, 63, 67, 76–78, 106 creativity, 84, 156, 190
discourse analysis, 38, 194 defined, 3, 63
discourse markers, 78–80, 83 examples, 6–10
disfluency, 65 fake banter, 194–95
displaced readings, 143 formulaic speech, 49–50
dispreferred response, 79 imagination, 3–4, 190
Dixon of Dock Green, 152, 164–65, 204, impoliteness theory, 177
224n10 Law and Order, 16
Doc Martin, 178, 204, 226n5 leakage, 117
Doctor in the House, 178 Life on Mars, 156–57, 168
Doctor Who and lying, 117
character development, 130 meaning in text, 64, 150, 188
credits, 204 naturalistic talk, 83, 99, 103, 121
Index 243
nature of, 42–44 endoscopic gaze, 171

nonfluency, 65 ensemble drama, 81
overhearing audience, 44 Entwhistle, Vicky, 121
pragmatics, 47, 111 Epps, Omar, 170
quality drama, 22–23 Epstein, Alex, 71
representational talk, 44–61, 113 ER, 96, 170–71, 205
sociolinguistics and, 3, 27–40, 219n1 errors, 65, 120
speech and, 17–18, 63, 106 Espenson, Jane, 65–66, 72–73
stylistics, 29 ethnographic analysis, 81–82, 105, 167,
television and, 3, 190–97 188, 195
unmediated talk, 44–51 Eve, Trevor, 46
verisimilitude, 45, 192 exploiting the resources of language,
vocality, 19 57–58
dramatists. See also screenwriters exposition, 74–75, 159
and audiences, 63, 105, 127, 149–50, expositional discourse, 5
167–69, 188, 190–92 expositional functions, 53, 55, 107
as crusaders, 161 extra-diegetic effect, 17
dialogue functions, 107 extreme naturalism, 69, 78, 81
interactional sociolinguistics, 112
playfulness, 191 face (identity), 173, 225n1
schema theory, 150 face-threatening act (FTA), 173, 174, 181,
simulated talk, 126 225–26n2
dramatizations face-to-face talk, 42, 62, 105
actors as themselves, 60 factual television, 25–27, 58
commercials, 8 fake banter, 179–81, 186, 194–95
and dialogue, 29, 190 Falco, Edie, 7
Drama in a Dramatised Society, 187 Falk, Peter, 147, 201
dramatized documentary, 25 The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, 102,
language, 11 205
narratives, 10–11 fan fiction
and social experience, 187 audiences and dialogue, 82, 89–90
social relationships, 63, 190–91 commentary, 89
sociolinguistics, 187 creativity of, 195, 197
and theme, 221n6 Doctor Who, 96–97
dramaturgical model, 4 wannabe writers, 91–92
dramedy, 6 fans, 88, 95–97
dubbing, 192 fantasy drama, 6, 43
DVDs, 16, 39, 89, 93, 169, 191–92 Fawlty Towers, 27, 38–39, 50–51, 205
feature films
Eastenders, 55, 67, 205 aesthetics, 29–30
easy listening effect, 5–6, 23 as audio/visual medium, 74
eavesdroppers, 6, 60 aural display, 62
Edelstein, Lisa, 170 Bubel research, 39–40
Ellingham, Martin, 226n5 common culture, 189
ellipsis, 71 dialogue in, 4, 29, 56, 156, 191
Ellis, John, 16–17 directors as creative force, 77
Ellison, Harlan, 221n7 memorable quotes, 62
Emmott, Catherine, 10 narratives, function of, 4, 52–53, 156,
Emmy award, 156, 170 160, 191
244 Index
feature films (continued) Gellar, Sarah Michelle, 201

screen fictions, 43 Geller, Bruce, 210
screenwriting, 66–67 gender relations, 23, 28
spectacle, 55 genres, 89–92, 134, 152–53, 155, 189–90,
speech and character development, 195
131–32 Geraghty, Christine, 21–22
vs. stage plays, 39 Gervais, Ricky, 211
storytelling, 156 Giles, Howard, 28, 36–38
synchronization, 132 Gilliam, Terry, 210
vs. television dialogue, 62 Glenister, Philip, 152–53, 161, 199
value-added dialogue, 160 Gless, Sharon, 215
feedback, 98 God on Trial, 71, 73, 206
feminism, 189 Godberg-Meehan, Shana, 148
Ferguson, Craig, 204 Goffman, Erving
Field, Sally Ann, 137, 200 authorship, 67
Fighting for Gemma, 26, 205 dramatized society, 187
Fine, Marlene, 28 dramaturgical model, 4
Firkin, Rex, 216 impression management, 146–47
Fitzgerald, Tara, 46 manipulation of meaning, 128
flashbacks, 220n8 positive face, 173
flat characters, 34, 135, 137, 143 social interaction, 147
Flockhart, Calista, 198, 200 The Golden Girls, 28, 36–38, 206
fluency, 78 Golden Globe, 170
focus groups, 89 Gordon, Howard, 54, 56, 81, 123
foley artists, 17 Gorman, Dave, 210
foregrounding, 13, 31, 48–49, 57, 106, Graham, Mathew
144–45 credits, 199, 209
Fox network, 170, 189 Life on Mars, 151, 153, 157, 159,
Frasier, 28, 205 162–63
Frears, Stephen, 203 Grammer, Kelsey, 205
Friel, Anna, 132 Greek chorus, 51
Friend, Russel, 180 Grice, H. Paul, 115, 177, 219n4
Friends Gricean pragmatics, 106, 110
conversation research, 27–28 Griffiths, Rachel, 200
credits, 206 Griffiths, Trevor, 70
examples, 119–20, 148 Grimshaw, Allen, 172
quality drama, 153 Groening, Matt, 214
skip connecting, 118 Guggenheim, Marc, 116
social interaction, 147–48 Guiding Light, 58, 206
transcripts of, 36
voices and character, 133 Hall, Stuart, 196
FTA (face-threatening act), 173, 174, 181, Hamilton, Andy, 211
225–26n2 handles, 79–80
Fuller, Bryan, 212 Hanna, William, 216
harmony, 110
game shows, 8 Harris, Susan, 206
Gandolfini, James, 7 Harwood, Jake, 28, 36–38
Gardner, Jimmy, 201 Hawes, Keeley, 164
GBH, 70, 206 Hawksworth, John, 216
Index 245
Haysbert, Dennis, 123 House of Cards, 62, 208

HBO, 23, 161, 189 humor, 120
hearers, 105–6, 183 Humphries, Barry, 60, 199, 202
hearings, 120–24, 223n3 Hutchby, Ian, 59, 173
Heartbeat, 153–54, 206 hybridization, 153
Heber-Percy, Colin, 14, 207 Hynes, Jessica, 49
hedges, 78–79, 83
heightened naturalistic talk, 69–71 Iannucci, Armando, 58, 215
Helgenberger, Marg, 123 identity, 147–48, 173
Heller, Bruno, 212 identity play, 148–49
helpers, 82 Idle, Eric, 31, 210
Herman, Vimala, 46–47 illumination, 30
Heroes imagination, 3–4, 190, 195, 197
catchphrases, 62 IMDb (Internet Movie Database), 43, 93,
character development, 130 159, 170
concept drama, 16 implicature, 80, 184
credits, 206–7 impoliteness theory. See also politeness
fan fiction, 96 theory
narration, 52 banter, 173, 177
voiceover narration, 11–12 branding, 169
voices and character, 132 conflict talk, 169
Heroes and Villains: Spartacus, BBC 2008, Culpeper critique, 174–78, 184, 186,
14, 207 225n1
hesitations, 64–65, 83 defined, 173, 175
Higgins, Paul, 58 dialogue and, 110
Hiken, Nat, 213 drama and, 182–83
Hill Street Blues, 152, 207 dramatic dialogue, 177
Hillsborough Stadium, 165, 225n7 face (identity), 173
historical dramas, 6 harmony, 110
Holby City, 34, 207 hearers, 183
Home and Away, 207 House, 169
Homicide: Life on the Street, 152, 207 insults, 173, 177, 183–84, 186
homois, 131 intentionality, 175
Horn, Ken, 213 interactional sociolinguistics, 169
Horrocks, Jane, 52, 198–99 intimacy, 177
hospital dramas, 114 mediation, 176, 186
House metastrategy, 177
audience response to, 185–86 offensiveness, 184
background and setting, 170–71 off-record, 176
character development, 130 pragmatics, 184
credits, 207 quiz show, 175
dialogue in, 84 representational talk, 177
examples, 180–81, 183 rhetorical questions, 177
face-threatening act, 184 rude doctor schema, 178
fake banter, 179–81, 194–95 rudeness, 226n6
hybridization, 195 sarcasm, 174, 176
impoliteness theory, 169 self-gratification, 181–85
racism, 186 silences, 184
sexism, 186 snarkiness, 185–86
246 Index
impoliteness theory (continued) Kath and Kim, 209

superstrategies, 174–75 Kauffman, Marta, 206
top-down comprehension, 34 Kavner, Julie, 133
impressions, 134, 146–47 Keitel, Harvey, 151
improvisations, 6, 8–9, 43, 59 Kelley, David E., 198, 201
Imrie, Celia, 129 knowledge economy, 195
inauthentic speech, 4 Kojak, 152, 209
inconclusiveness, 126 Kozloff, Sarah
incongruity effect, 31 creativity, 106
indexical signs, 128 narrative in feature films, 4, 52–53, 156,
indirectness, 71, 80, 115–16 160, 191
insertion sequence, 7 nonlinguistic actions, 11
Inspector Morse, 152, 208 reverberations, 30
insults, 120, 173, 176–77, 183–84, 186 Kozoll, Michael, 207
intelligibility, 115 Kring, Tim, 206–7
intentionality, 175 Kudrow, Lisa, 148
interactional sociolinguistics, 5, 28, 112,
169, 192 La Plante, Lynda, 66, 212
intergroup context, 36–37 Lakoff, Robin, 27
Internet, 82, 88–89, 97–100, 196, 197 Lancashire, Sarah, 95–96
Internet Movie Database, 43, 93, 159, 170 language
intertextuality, 93 audiences and dialogue, 224–25n1
interviews, 15, 18, 25–27, 42, 194 comedy and, 57–58
intimacy, 177, 179 conflict talk, 172
involvement strategies, 47 creativity, 193–96
Ionesco, Eugène, 31 and dialogue, 188
irony, 80, 116, 159 drama and, 46–47
Isaacs, Jason, 56, 215 and dramatization, 11
Itzin, Gregory, 54 every day language, 194
function of, 105
Jackanory, 9, 208 “Language Creativity in Everyday
Jacobs, David, 202 Contexts,” 196
Jacobs, Jason, 170 language taboos, 23
Jane in Progress, 65–66 and metalanguage, 83, 106, 124, 187
Jehovah’s Witnesses, 32–33 monomodal, 197
Jenkin, Guy, 211 narrative in feature films, 156
Jennings, Tom, 139, 143 nonnarrations, 54
The Jerry Springer Show, 44, 208 and pragmatics, 114
Jerry Springer: The Opera, 61, 113, 208 Shakespeare and drama, 46–47
job interview, 42 sign language, 10
Johnston, Sheila, 48 as snark, 186
Jones, Chuck, 130–31 value-added dialogue, 191
Jones, Robert, 201 Latham, Jody, 141
Jones, Sebastian, 120 laugh track, 37
Jones, Terry, 210 Laurie, Hugh, 169–70
Jordan, Tony, 55, 151, 165, 209 Law and Order, 16, 19, 116, 152, 209
Judge John Deed, 19, 208 The League of Gentlemen, 58, 209
Juliet Bravo, 152, 208 leakage, 117
Justice, James Robertson, 178 least offensive programming (LOP), 189
Index 247
Lee, David, 205 malapropisms, 121–22

Lee, Mike, 40 Mandala, Susan, 28–30, 193
Lee, Stephen, 123 Mann, Abby, 209
Leech, Geoffrey, 179 manner maxim, 115
legal dramas, 6 Manos, James, Jr., 149
Leigh, Mike, 69, 213 Martin, Anna Maxwell, 200
Leonard, Robert Sean, 170 Martin, Ian, 58
Lerner, Garrett, 180 Martin, Ian Kennedy, 208
Levinson, Stephen, 173, 201, 225n1, Martin, Jesse L., 116
225–26n2 Martin, Kennedy, 215
Lieber, Jeffrey, 210 Martin, Troy Kennedy, 217
Life on Mars mass media, 37–38, 195
BBC America, 161 Mastermind, 121, 126, 210
character development, 81–82, 195 Masterpiece Theatre, 193
character schemata, 138, 191 maxims, 115
credits, 209 McCabe, Janet, 8, 15, 22, 23
criticism, 163–64 McKee, Robert, 71
cultural significance, 189 McQueen, Geoff, 200
dramatic dialogue in, 156–57, 168 Mead, Adrian, 46
examples, 157–58, 162–63, 165 meaning in text
fan reviews, 166–67 critical discourse analysis, 190
hybridization, 195 dramatic dialogue, 64, 150, 188
period detail, 154 inconclusiveness, 126
quality drama, 151, 155–56, 168 and pragmatics, 114
reviews, 161 process research, 34
social and literary critique, 32 sociolinguistics, 15
value-added dialogue, 160–63, 168 subtext, 78, 80
Lilley, Chris, 215 verbal display, 54–55
Lindelof, Damon, 210 media research
Lindsay, Jeff, 149 audiences and, 190, 196–97
Lindsay, Robert, 206 broadcast talk, 59–61
literal meaning, 114 critical discourse analysis, 190
literary drama, 11, 15, 28, 172, 196 dialogue, 40
Little, Ralf, 49 language creativity, 196
Little Britain, 27, 133, 209 and sociolinguistics, 21
Livingstone, Sonia, 134 media talk, 44, 59–62, 194
location filming, 19, 52 mediated talk, 20, 42
Look in on London, 26, 209 mediation, 176, 186, 223n5
Lost, 159, 191, 210 medical drama, 82, 170–71, 177–85,
Lowe, Rob, 200 226n5. See also House
Lucas, Matt, 209 melodrama, 112
Lucci, Susan, 198 Mendelsohn, Carol, 124, 202
lurkers, 90 Merchant, Steven, 211
Lury, Karen, 133 Mercurio, Jed, 200
lying, 116–17 metacommunication, 5, 61, 124–26.
See also communication
MacDonald, William J., 212 metadiscourse, 32
Machin, Barbara, 216 metalanguage, 83, 106, 124, 187.
Mad Men, 71, 210 See also language
248 Index
metastrategy, 177, 181 dramatizations and, 10–11

Michaels, Lorne, 213 easy listening effect, 5
Mickery, Lizzie, 56, 214–15 feature films, 4, 52–53, 156, 160, 191
micro-sociolinguistics, 167 in House, 171
Milch, David, 211 narrative actions, 11
Milius, John, 212 naturalistic talk and, 193
Miller, Arthur, 70 prose narrative, 12, 28–29, 64
mime, 9, 131 representational talk, 51–59
mimesis, 12, 69, 118 storytelling and, 188
mimicry, 223n3 substratum of, 10
Minghella, Dominic, 204 turns in, 74
Mission: Impossible, 16, 102–3, 210 voiceover narration, 11–14, 52,
mistaken identity, 32–34 60, 140
Mister Ed, 130, 210 narratology, 220n8
monologues naturalistic talk
comedy, 118 defined, 69
and dialogue, 6 and dialogue, 83, 99, 103, 121, 127
Eastenders, 55 discourse analysis, 194
newsreaders, 18 dramatic dialogue, 83, 99, 103, 121
reviews, 98 heightened naturalistic talk, 71
Shameless, 140–41 narratives, 193
Talking Heads, 9 nonnaturalistic talk, 69–70
monomodal, 197 pauses, 78
Monty Python’s Flying Circus, 27, 30–32, relevance theory, 116–17
40–41, 189, 210 screenwriters, 192–93
Moore, Ronald D., 199 subtext, 80
Morgan, Peter, 203 negative face, 173, 225n1
Morley, David, 196 Neighbours, 34, 137, 211
Morrison, Jennifer, 170 Nelson, John Allen, 54
Mr. Bean, 11 Nelson, Robin, 22–25, 161, 163, 189–90
The Mrs. Merton Show, 60, 210 Newman, G.F., 208
multidimensional scaling, 134 news programs, 9, 44
multimodal, 197 newsreaders, 18
multiparty talk, 45–46, 121 Nicholls, Sue, 107
music, 17, 58 Nixon, Agnes, 198
musicals, 48, 55 nonfictional dramatization, 8
nonfluency, 65, 78
naivety, 107–12, 125–26 nonlinguistic actions, 11
Nalluri, Bharat, 158 nonlinguistic cues, 144, 172
narration, 51–52, 56, 58. See also voiceover nonnarrations, 54–55
narration nonnaturalistic talk, 69–70
narratives nonrepresentational talk, 62
aesthetic disposition, 185 nonresponse, 184
affordances, 187 nonverbal signs, 114, 117, 133–34
author distinction, 220n8 Normal, Henry, 49, 210
causality, 53 notes (screenwriting), 66
and characters, 6, 57, 130 no-win situations, 225–26n2
continuity editing, 4 nudge, nudge, 30–31
dialogue and, 29, 83, 191–92 NYPD Blue, 152, 211
Index 249
Obama, Barack, 101 plot. See also scripts

O’Brien, Tina, 107 author distinction, 220n8
offensiveness, 184 character development, 81–82
The Office, 189, 211 and dialogue, 73–75
The Office: An American Workplace, 211 Doctor Who, 99
One Foot in the Grave, 27, 32–34, 100–101, relationships in drama, 19
149, 211 and theme, 72–73
“The One with All the Cheesecake,” 148 treachery plots, 147
“The One with Chandler’s Dad,” 120 poetics, 28–29, 46–47, 64
“The One with the Joke,” 119 Poliakoff, Steven, 66, 212
O’Neill, Maggie, 141 police dramas, 113–14, 164–67, 224n10.
open theory of character, 129–30, 142 See also Life on Mars
opera, 188 polite behavior, 183
ordinary conversation. See conversations politeness theory. See also impoliteness
ordinary viewer, 97–100, 104 theory
O’Reilly, Genevieve, 56 conversations, 110
Organgrinder blog, 98 face (identity), 225n1
Osborne, John, 48 face-threatening act, 173, 174,
O’Sullivan, Kevin, 94, 224n10 225–26n2
outlines, 66 Gricean pragmatics, 110
Outnumbered, 9, 43, 211 harmony, 110
output strategies, 174 intimacy, 177
overhearing, 44, 59–60, 142 negative face, 225n1
no-win situations, 225–26n2
Palin, Michael, 210 person perception theories, 128
Pandolfo, Anita J., 201 politic/polite behavior, 226n6
paralinguistics, 117 positive face, 225n1
parataxis, 153 pragmatics, 5, 110
parenthetical, 68, 221n4 sarcasm, 179, 182
parody, 121 schema theory, 226n2
“Partners in Crime,” 82, 92–100. See also social interaction, 110
Doctor Who social relationships, 110
pauses, 45, 65, 78, 172–73 top-down comprehension, 34
Pearson, Neil, 200 politic behavior, 183, 226n6
Pennies from Heaven, 48, 211 political correctness, 164, 195
People’s Choice, 170 political dramas, 6, 23–25, 61. See also The
Percival, Daniel, 56, 214–15 West Wing
Perfect Strangers, 212 popular culture, 189
Perry, Matthew, 119, 147 positive face, 173, 182, 225n1
person perception theories, 128, 134 Potter, Dennis, 48, 60, 161, 211, 216
Petersen, William, 123, 202 pragmatics
Pharoah, Ashley, 151, 159, 163, 199, 209 character-to-character relationship, 192
The Phil Silvers Show, 27, 35–36, 213 cooperative principle, 115
Phillips, Irna, 203, 206 defined, 114
phone-ins, 15 dramatic dialogue, 47, 111
Pinter, Harold, 29, 45, 47–48, 172, 194 impoliteness theory, 184
Piper, Billie, 93 and language, 114
Play for Today, 58, 212 literary drama, 28
playfulness, 191 and lying, 117
250 Index
pragmatics (continued) racism, 180–81, 186

meaning in text, 114 raconteur, 12–13
politeness theory, 5, 110 radio
sociolinguistics, 219n4 catchphrases, 62
and speech, 115 character development, 81
and subjectivity, 114–17 and dialogue, 53, 58
subtext, 80 embodiment of character, 131–32
preference organization, 118, 222–23n2 reflexivity, 70
pre-scripted talk, 18 relationship to television, 17
Pride and Prejudice, 44, 81, 153–54, social relationships, 15
212 talk radio, 172–73, 194
Prime Suspect, 152, 212 Rajskub, Mary Lynn, 57
principalhood, 67 Ramsay, Gordon, 177, 212
“The Problem with In-Universe realism
Perspective,” 222n1 defined, 48
process research, 34 Kozloff typology, 156
producers, 95, 172 Life on Mars, 152, 157–58, 160–61
production values, 63, 144, 156, nonverbal signs, 133–34
189, 191 quality drama, 155
profanity, 23, 58, 84 selective naturalism, 71
pronunciations, 18, 65 Shameless, 139–40
prose narrative, 12, 28–29, 64 soap operas, 111–12
protagonists, 82 The Sopranos, 129
prototype theory, 135 stage play dialogue, 47–48
psychological drama, 8 and television dialogue, 5–6, 46, 56–57,
public service broadcasting, 160–61 106, 112, 127
Pushing Daisies, 43, 132, 212 The West Wing, 61
The Wire, 192
Quaglio, Paul, 27–28, 36 reality television, 15, 18, 194
quality drama. See also The West Wing referential reading, 143, 223n5
audiences and, 154–56 reflexivity, 66, 70
cable television, 155, 189 Reich, Andrew, 119
Cardwell criteria, 220n2 relation maxim, 115–16
comedy and, 153 relationships in drama, 28, 186
cultural significance, 189 relevance theory, 116–17, 144
dialogue, 151, 156–60, 194 Renwick, David, 33, 101, 211
dramatic dialogue, 22–23 repetitions, 45, 100–102, 138
as genre, 22–23 representational talk
Life on Mars, 151, 155–56, 168 dialogue and, 42–44, 62, 106
nature of, 153–56 dramatic dialogue and, 44–61, 113
political dramas, 23–25 impoliteness theory, 177
realism, 155 multimodal nature of, 188
The Sopranos, 22–23, 25 narratives, 51–59
quality maxim, 115–16, 177 ordinary conversation, 47
quantity maxim, 115–16 taboos, 113
The Queen, 8 Restoration, 70
Queer as Folk (UK), 135–36, 143, 212 reveal, 147
quintessence of selfhood, 131 reverberations, 30
quiz show, 121, 126, 175, 210 reviewers, 88. See also reviews
Index 251
reviews dramatists and, 150

audience surrogates, 91 One Foot in the Grave, 33
audiences and dialogue, 82, 103 politeness theory, 226n2
Doctor Who, 94–95 refreshment, 138–43
DVDs, 89 Richardson definition, 224n8
interactive forums, 98 schema refreshment, 135–36, 138–43,
Life on Mars, 161, 166–67 149–50, 188, 191, 197
Queer as Folk, 143 Schlesinger, Philip, 195
Shameless, 139 Schwimmer, David, 148
revisions, 66–67 screenplays, 78
rhetorical questions, 177 screenwriters. See also screenwriting
Richardson, Kay, 28 affordances, 63
Riley, Gina, 209 catchphrases, 100
Robinson, Anne, 175–76, 216 conflict talk, 172
Roche, Tony, 58 craft of, 63–65
Roddenberry, Gene, 67, 214 and dialogue, 63, 68–71, 81, 87, 106
Roland, Chris, 201 discourse markers, 83
Rome, 8, 212 guidelines for, 194
Rosch, Eleanor, 223n4 hedges, 83
rounded characters, 34, 143 hesitations, 64, 83
The Royal, 153–54, 213 naturalistic talk and, 192–93
The Royle Family room experience, 67–68, 221n3
banality, 57, 220–21n1(chpt3) storytelling and, 72
credits, 213 wannabes, 88, 104
examples, 49 screenwriting. See also screenwriters
extreme naturalism, 69, 84 auteurist, 66, 126
ordinary conversation, 48–49 breaking process, 73–75
rudeness, 177–85, 226n6 creativity, 67
Russell, Rupert, 203 criticism, 66, 197
discourse markers, 78–80
Santa Claus, 179, 181–85 division of labor in, 76–78, 188
sarcasm feature films, 66–67
Fawlty Towers, 50–51 handles, 79–80
House, 182 hedges, 78–79
impoliteness theory, 174, 176 instructions for, 65–68
metastrategy, 181 Jane in Progress, 66
politeness theory, 179, 182 metalanguage, 83
The Royle Family, 49 nonnaturalistic talk, 69–70
satire, 31–32, 40–41 reflexivity, 66, 70
Saturday Night Live, 102, 213 resources for, 66
Savalas, Telly, 209 selective naturalism, 78
Scales, Prunella, 39, 51, 205 showrunners, 66, 71
scenarios, 74 wannabe writers, 104
Scenes from a Marriage, 27, 213 scripts. See also plot; screenwriters
schema poetics, 138 absence of directorial directions,
schema theory 76–78
character development, 134–36, editing, 66
149–50, 188, 191, 197 outlines, 68
comprehension, 197 pauses, 78
252 Index
scripts (continued) soap operas. See also Coronation Street

revisions, 66–67 argumentation, 110
showrunners, 66, 71 confrontational talk, 110
spec script, 72–73, 221n4 conversations, 28
subtext, 80–81 and dialogue, 6
Secrets and Lies, 40, 213 as drama, 8
selective naturalism, 69–71, 78 evaluation of, 189
self-gratification, 181–85 flat characters, 34
semiotics, 11 Guiding Light, 58
Sergeant Bilko/The Phil Silvers Show, 27, interactional sociolinguistics, 112
35–36, 213 as melodrama, 112
“7.00–8.00am,” 123 multidimensional scaling, 134
sexism, 186 person perception theories, 134
Shakespeare, 46–47 and radio, 58
Shameless realism, 111–12
character development, 138–43, 145, referential reading, 223n5
146 relationships in drama, 106
credits, 213 Sopranos as, 8, 154
examples, 141–42 subtext, 112
hybridization, 195 Upstairs, Downstairs, 193, 216
reviews, 139 social interaction, 110, 117, 147–48,
shared viewing, 186 167, 169
Shaw, Bernard, 70 social relationships
Sheen, Michael, 8 actors and dialogue, 106
Shepherd, Jack P., 107, 111 authentic speech, 4
Shore, David, 207 broadcast talk, 15
Short, Mick, 38–39 character-to-character relationship, 188,
showing, 10, 12–14, 67 192–93
showrunners, 66, 71 and dialogue, 62, 82, 103–4, 106
Shuy, Roger, 113–14 as dramatized on television, 63, 190–91
sign language, 10 face-threatening act, 225–26n2
signifier, 4, 115, 132 face-to-face talk, 105
silences, 172–73, 184 person perception theories, 128
silent movie, 132 politeness theory, 110
Simm, John, 152, 161 and radio, 15
Simon, David, 217 thrillers, 106
Simpson, Paul, 30–32, 40–41 sociolinguistics
The Simpsons, 130, 133, 214 applied sociolinguistics, 28, 36–38, 194
simulated talk, 126 character-to-character relationship, 192
sincerity, 146–49 and dialogue, 28, 36–38, 83–84
situation comedy, 6, 8, 27, 101, 133. dialogue-as-talk, 64
See also comedy discourse analysis, 194
sketch shows, 6, 8, 27, 101, 133. discourse markers, 78–80
See also Monty Python’s Flying Circus dramatic dialogue and, 3, 27–40, 219n1
skip connecting, 118–20 dramatizations and, 187
slam, 79 every day language, 194
slug line, 68, 221n4 hedges, 78
Smart, Jean, 54 interactional sociolinguistics, 28, 112,
snark, 169–70, 185–86 169, 192
Index 253
and language, 105 Spooks, 24–25, 214

meaning in text, 15 stage directions, 11
media research, 21 stage plays. See also Pinter, Harold
micro-sociolinguistics, 167 Betrayal, 172
naivety of, 64–65, 107–12, 125–26 character development, 131
pragmatics, 219n4 and dialogue, 29, 47, 53
stylizations, 35 vs. feature films, 39
unscripted talk, 20 reflexivity, 70
“Soldiering On,” 9, 214 and television dialogue, 58
The Sooty Show, 130, 214 text as sacrosanct, 67
The Sopranos Star Trek Enterprise, 67, 214
credits, 214 star turns, 54–55, 156
examples, 6–7 Starsky and Hutch, 152, 214
interactive dialogue, 18 state of mind, 117
narrative actions, 11 The State Within, 55–56, 214–15
psychological drama, 8 Steptoe and Son, 139–40, 215
quality drama, 22–23, 25 stereotypes, 135, 178
realism, 129 Stoppard, Tom, 29
role of dialogue in, 59 storytelling
as soap opera, 8, 154 allegory, 156
strong women, 15 author distinction, 220n8
Sorkin, Aaron, 66, 215, 216 beats, 82
sound effects, 17, 58 and dialogue, 12, 74, 187–88, 192–93
soundtrack, 14, 58 dramatists and audiences, 191–92
Spall, Timothy, 40 feature films, 156
speakers, 105 importance of, 71–75
spec script, 72–73, 221n4. See also scripts narratives and, 188
spectacle, 55 on television, 9, 72
speech thematics, 72, 156, 221n5
authentic speech, 4, 14 verisimilitude, 12
character-to-character speech, 167, 176 strong women, 15
and communication, 113 Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, 215,
direct speech, 81 221n3
direct/indirect speech, 43 stylistics
dramatic dialogue, 17–18, 49–50, as arts discipline, 21
63, 106 cognitive stylistics, 16, 20, 32–34, 41
feature films, 131–32 defined, 27
formulaic speech, 50–51 dialogue, 28–34, 167–68
inauthentic speech, 4 dramatic dialogue, 16, 20, 29
malapropisms, 121–22 Fawlty Towers, 27, 38–39
naturally occurring, 192–93 literary drama, 15
and pragmatics, 115 realistic drama, 47–48
speech act therapy, 47 stylizations, 35, 187
speech acts, 82, 115 stylized deception, 27, 35–36
textual cues, 144 subjectivity, 114–17
Spencer, Jesse, 170 subtext, 78, 80–81, 112
spin doctors, 28, 125–26 subtitles, 10
Spitz, Alice, 28 Summer Heights High, 215
spoken discourse studies, 28 superstrategies, 174–75
254 Index
Surnow, Joel, 198 Tomlinson, Ricky, 49

suspension of disbelief, 129 top-down comprehension, 32–34, 134,
Sutherland, Kiefer, 56 136–37, 224n8
swearing, 84, 113. See also profanity Tourtel, Mary, 208
The Sweeney, 152, 158–60, 215, transition relevance place (TRP), 118,
224–25n1 222–23n2
synchronization, 132 transparency, 4–6, 111–12, 223n5
treachery plots, 147
taboos, 113 triggers, 138
talk radio, 172–73, 194 Turner, Jane, 209
Talking Heads, 9, 215 turn-taking rules, 24, 106, 118–20, 121,
Tannen, Deborah, 27, 47, 172–73 credits, 198
Tate, Catherine, 87, 92–94, 126 dialogue, 122
television. See also dramatic dialogue; examples, 54, 56–57, 81, 123
individual shows impression management, 147
as audio medium, 16–17 metacommunication, 124
as audio/visual medium, 74 quality drama, 25
drama in, 189–90 twittering, 82
impact on drama, 3 The Two Ronnies, 101–2, 122, 216
layering, 61
least offensive programming “Under God,” 116
(LOP), 189 unmediated talk, 44–51
nostalgia, 153–54 unscripted talk, 20, 25, 61, 80, 83
production values, 63 Unwin, Paul, 201
and radio, 17 Upstairs, Downstairs, 193, 216
screen fictions, 43 uptake gap, 120–24, 162
screenwriting credits, 67 utilitarianism, 195
season length (USA), 48
soundtrack, 58 value-added dialogue, 155–56, 160–63,
and stage plays, 58 168, 191, 194
star turns, 55 verbal display, 54–55
and storytelling, 9, 72 verisimilitude, 5, 12, 45, 192
UK writers workshop, 65 viewers, 54, 104, 125–26, 128
telling, 12–14 virtual communication, 184
tells, 117 visual resources, 55, 62, 191
textual cues, 135, 143, 145, 146 vocal distinctiveness, 11
Thaw, John, 159, 208 vocal meaning, 17
thematics, 54, 72, 106, 156, 160, 221n5 vocality, 19
The Thick of It, 57–58, 61, 215 voice, 132–34
Thomas, Ryan, 107, 111 voiceover narration, 11–14, 52, 60, 140
Thompson, Joel Anderson, 180 Vote, Vote, Vote for Nigel Barton, 60, 216
Thompson, Robert J., 155
threads, 89–91, 98, 103 Wainwright, Sally, 198–99
Threlfall, David, 139 Waking the Dead, 45–46, 216
thrillers, 81–82, 106, 191 Waldeback, Zara, 66
through line, 193 Walken, Christopher, 102
Thunderbirds, 130, 215 The Wall Street Journal, 192
Tilove, Jonathan, 101 Walliams, David, 209
Tom and Jerry, 130, 216 wannabe writers, 88, 91–92, 104
Index 255
Wark, Kirsty, 60 Whose Line Is It Anyway?, 8–9, 217

Warren, Tony, 201 Wikipedia, 93, 222n1
watching talk, 132 Williams, Raymond, 187, 196
Watson, Lyall B., 14, 207 Wilsher, J.C., 200
Watson, Reg, 211 Wilson, Richard, 32
Watts, Richard, 183, 226n6 The Wire, 191–92, 217
The Weakest Link, 175–76, 216 Witten, Matt, 180
Webb, Jack, 204 wittiness, 185
The Wednesday Play, 58, 216 Wolf, Dick, 209
Weiner, Matthew, 210 Wolstencroft, David, 214
Wertheimer, Robert, 201 Wood, Victoria, 128–29, 144, 203
Wesker, Arnold, 69 Woodside, D. B., 123
The West Wing word play, 187
ceased production, 16 Worth, Helen, 107
credits, 216 writers. See screenwriters
as genre, 15 writers room, 221n3
metacommunication, 61, 124–25
quality drama, 22–23, 25 youth social networks, 28
spin doctors, 28 YouTube, 82, 93, 100, 121, 197
Whedon, Joss, 71, 201
Whitby, Joy, 208 Z Cars, 138, 152, 164, 217
Whittaker, Jonathan, 56 Zuiker, Anthony E., 202

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Television Dramatic Dialogue

OXFORD STUDIES IN SOCIOLINGUISTICS

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Television Dramatic Dialogue: A Sociolinguistic Study

Oxford New York

Copyright # 2010 by Oxford University Press, Inc.

Published by Oxford University Press, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Chapter 2: Previous Research, 21

Chapter 3: What Is TV Dialogue Like?, 42

Chapter 4: What TV Screenwriters Know about Dialogue, 63

Chapter 5: What Audiences Know about Dialogue, 85

Chapter 6: Dialogue as Social Interaction, 105

Chapter 7: Dialogue, Character, and Social Cognition, 127

Chapter 8: Dialogue and Dramatic Meaning: Life on Mars, 151

Chapter 9: House and Snark, 169

Chapter 10: Conclusion, 187

Appendix: List of Television Shows, 198

THE SCOPE OF THE RESEARCH

Television drama dialogue can be deﬁned as onscreen/on-mike talk delivered by

The image of dialogue as “transparent” is an interesting one in this context. It

WHAT IS TELEVISION DRAMATIC DIALOGUE?

1 TONY : Carmela, something I gotta confess.

(The Sopranos, HBO 1999–2007, episode 1, written by David Chase)3

the show’s raison d’être. Elsewhere, improvisation may be disguised in postpro-

This is what “Muriel” (played by Stephanie Cole) says at the start of

THE PLACE OF DIALOGUE IN TELEVISION

Although this book is about language in TV dramatization, it is important not to

The substratum of narrative is supposed to involve some kind of cognitive

The distinctiveness of dramatic narratives has to do with the role of showing

(Heroes, season 1, episode 1, written by Tim Kring)

SHOWING AND TELLING

1. The baby cried. The mommy picked it up.

2. The baby went: “Waaaagh!” The mommy picked it up.

“Waaaagh!” in version 2 is closer to the aural experience of hearing a baby cry

A crying infant may be capable of verbalizing distress as well as emitting distress

The soundtrack is a mixed compilation of voiceover, music, and a background

In this voiceover, the commentary is that of an implied narrator—a character with

HOW TO STUDY DIALOGUE ON TELEVISION

Stylistics is canonically interested in the language of literary texts, including

In the case of drama dialogue, the speech in question is standardly of a

public realms. Public discourse is frequently staged in the form of courtroom

The chapters that follow represent an attempt to construct an account of

Who else has written about dialogue in TV drama/dramatization, and why

TELEVISION STUDIES, DRAMA, AND DIALOGUE

strongly associated in a variety of ways with talk, with “overheard conversations”

Dialogue and Quality

Nelson evaluates Sopranos dialogue positively on the basis of three main

Dialogue and Politics

Factual Television and Dialogue