Construction Begins
Narrative fights are the bread and butter of stage combat. They may range from a simple slap to the face to a twenty-person broadsword battle, but all exist because words alone are no longer sufficient. Violence enters a play when conflict must become immediate, visible, and irreversible. Sometimes the fight advances the external events of the story. Sometimes it reveals character through action. Most often, it does both simultaneously. A fight is not merely “action.” It is dramatic language expressed physically.
In this sense, staged violence shares some kinship with dance and song in musical theatre. Both compress storytelling into movement and physical expression. But they often function in opposite ways.
Musical numbers frequently expand emotional time, allowing the audience to dwell inside a feeling or moment of realization that, in ordinary life, might pass in an instant. A fight usually does the reverse. Violence collapses hesitation into action. The moment thought becomes deed, the world of the play changes. Relationships shift. Assumptions shatter. Characters discover what they are capable of, and what others are capable of in return.
This transformation need not come from grand violence. A shove to the ground, a slapped face, a grabbed wrist, or a knife drawn in fear may permanently alter how characters understand one another and themselves. The person who strikes learns something from striking. The person humiliated learns something from humiliation. Whether the result is shame, empowerment, fear, vengeance, exhilaration, or regret, the action cannot simply be undone. Violence creates consequence, and consequence is the engine of drama.
Every action within a fight therefore originates from an impulse, and every impulse carries consequences. A fight is not a string of techniques arranged for excitement. It is a dialogue of intentions. One character presses forward; another yields ground. One attacks from fear; another from desperation, cruelty, righteousness, panic, pride, or survival. The audience may not consciously analyze these impulses, but they feel them instinctively. If the underlying intentions are truthful and clear, even simple choreography becomes compelling. If they are absent, no amount of clever swordplay or athletic movement can rescue the scene from emptiness.
Unfortunately, not every fight written into a script arrives fully formed dramatically. Some exist because genre convention expects violence. Some are inherited from cinematic storytelling. Some are little more than placeholders accompanied by vague instructions such as “they fight.” This does not absolve the choreographer of responsibility. One must never hide behind the excuse that “the script gave me nothing.” The audience will still experience the fight as part of the storytelling, and every movement will be judged as though it emerged naturally from the world of the play itself.
That does not mean the choreographer is free to invent an entirely different story. Our task is not to overwrite the playwright or impose our own cleverness upon the production. We must remain faithful to the author’s intent and to the director’s vision. But within those boundaries, the fight choreographer becomes an essential narrative collaborator, responsible for clarifying and articulating the dramatic structure already latent within the scene. We are not merely arranging blows. We are shaping visible consequence.
For this reason, construction must begin long before specific techniques are chosen. Before deciding who throws which punch or which parry follows which thrust, one must first understand what the violence is doing within the life of the play. Only then can the choreography begin to emerge with clarity, purpose, and meaning.
Step 1 — Narrative Function
Before constructing a fight, begin where the actor begins.
What is the play about?
What is its central theme or “take-away”?
What does each character want:
- from life,
- over the course of the play,
- within this scene,
- and within this immediate moment?
A fight does not exist outside the dramatic structure of the play. It emerges from it. Violence enters the story because words, posture, restraint, negotiation, or social convention are no longer sufficient to contain the conflict. Before deciding upon techniques, combinations, or weapons, the choreographer must first understand what dramatic necessity has caused the violence to occur at all.
This means identifying the essential narrative function of the fight.
Who initiates the conflict?
What is at stake?
What is the outcome?
Most importantly:
Can the fight be stated in one clear sentence of action?
If the answer is vague, the choreography will almost certainly become vague as well. Fights drift when the choreographer loses sight of the dramatic engine driving the violence. The moment one begins asking only “What happens next physically?” instead of “What is happening dramatically?”, choreography starts accumulating movement without meaning. Returning to objectives, stakes, and consequence restores clarity.
Begin with story, not stage directions.
Before deciding specific movement, identify the essential dramatic requirements of the scene:
What must the audience understand overall?
What must this scene communicate?
What must this fight accomplish?
Only after these questions are answered should mechanics begin to emerge.
If necessary, black out the stage directions entirely for a first reading. This is not disrespect toward the playwright. Stage directions often describe emotional results, visual impressions, or cinematic shorthand rather than practical theatrical mechanics. Read them once for orientation, then simplify the scene to its indispensable dramatic requirements.
In Man of La Mancha, for example, what truly must happen?
- The muleteers must be defeated.
- They sustain non-life-threatening injuries.
- Quixote, Sancho, and Dulcinea each contribute to the success.
Everything else is negotiable.
Once the essential dramatic structure is identified, the choreography becomes flexible. The fight is no longer trapped by literal staging assumptions or decorative movement. It can now be constructed in whatever form best serves the production, the actors, the space, and the story itself.
Step 2 — Baseline Character Creation
Before building specific choreography, we must first establish the physical “bias” of each character. Otherwise, every fight tends to unconsciously drift toward the choreographer’s own habits and preferences. Everyone begins moving alike. The same rhythms appear. The same tactics recur. The same combinations emerge regardless of character. This step exists to prevent that flattening.
These choices are not actor notes. They are private construction tools for the choreographer. The actor will later bring complexity, nuance, contradiction, and humanity to the role. Our task at this stage is simpler and more structural: we are creating an initial physical vocabulary from which the fight can grow.
By now, you should know the characters very well, having done all of your homework. Ideally, you have read the play several times, spoken with the director, and begun understanding how each character functions within the world of the story. You may even have had the opportunity to meet the actors, or at least review their resumes, headshots, or prior work.
Now I want you to translate everything you have gleaned from that research into one simple question:
How does this character move through the world?
For every character involved in the fight, choose one quality from each of the following pairs:
- Strong ↔ Weak
- Heavy ↔ Light
- Fast ↔ Slow
And no — do not say “well, this character is somewhere in between.” Make a choice and make it boldly. This is not the stage for subtlety. The character is either heavy or light. Fast or slow. Strong or weak. Commit fully to the choice.
Please do not misunderstand these terms. They do not describe visible physical appearance. They describe movement personality.
“Heavy” and “light,” for example, have nothing whatsoever to do with fat or thin. The comedian Jackie Gleason was overweight most of his life, yet often moved as though light as a feather. A large-framed actor such as Dave Bautista frequently moves with surprising lightness and precision, while a slighter actor such as Rami Malek often carries weight and resistance even in small gestures. These are qualities of energy and presence, not body type.
Likewise, “strong” and “weak” do not necessarily indicate muscular capability. A physically small character may move through the world imposing will upon others with clarity and directness, while a larger character may hesitate, yield, retreat, or overcompensate. “Weak” in this context does not mean cowardly, foolish, or inferior. It refers instead to a movement quality that struggles to impose itself directly upon the environment.
“Fast” and “slow” also require careful interpretation. This is not merely about raw speed. A “fast” character tends to commit quickly, react immediately, interrupt space aggressively, and change tactics without hesitation. A “slow” character often appears measured, deliberate, restrained, or inevitable. Slowness can feel calm and terrifying. Fast movement can feel brilliant, or dangerously unstable.
Once you have selected one quality from each pair, you will have established a simple baseline profile for the character.
Baseline Profiles
Strong / Heavy / Fast
Overwhelming force. Explosive pressure. This character drives into conflict aggressively and attempts to dominate space immediately.
Strong / Heavy / Slow
Crushing inevitability. Minimal wasted motion. The character appears difficult to disrupt or redirect once committed.
Strong / Light / Fast
Sharp, precise, aggressive. This fighter cuts through space cleanly and decisively, often appearing technically confident or predatory.
Strong / Light / Slow
Controlled dominance. Economical movement. The character rarely appears rushed because they assume control already belongs to them.
Weak / Heavy / Fast
Desperate and overcommitted. This character often pushes too hard, too suddenly, expending excessive energy in attempts to regain control.
Weak / Heavy / Slow
Fatigued, burdened, resistant. Movement may appear emotionally or physically weighed down even before the conflict begins.
Weak / Light / Fast
Skittish, evasive, reactive. This character survives through avoidance, redirection, interruption, or frantic adaptation.
Weak / Light /Slow
Withdrawn, minimal, hesitant. Conflict feels unwanted, delayed, or emotionally difficult for this character to sustain.
Again, these are not performances. They are design biases.
Their purpose is to:
- bias early choreographic choices,
- influence vocabulary and rhythm,
- affect spacing and movement pathways,
- and help differentiate one fighter physically from another before detailed choreography begins.
A “heavy” fighter may naturally claim center space and advance directly. A “light” fighter may circle or redirect. A “fast” fighter may interrupt rhythm constantly, while a “slow” fighter may force pauses and moments of pressure. These qualities quietly shape the structure of the fight long before individual attacks or defenses are selected.
Most importantly:
Baseline informs construction, not performance.
These profiles are scaffolding, not finished architecture. Once rehearsals begin, the actors will bring their own discoveries, instincts, and contradictions into the role. Some of your initial assumptions may change entirely. That is perfectly acceptable. The purpose of this step is not to imprison the character inside a rigid system, but to give the choreographer a clear and usable starting point from which meaningful physical storytelling can emerge.
Step 3 — Spatial Conflict
Once the narrative purpose of the fight is understood, and once the physical “bias” of the characters has been established, we can finally begin shaping the actual conflict itself.
But even now, resist the temptation to rush immediately into techniques, combinations, or weapon exchanges.
The true shape of a fight is not created by punches or sword strikes.
It is created by the negotiation of space.
Who advances?
Who yields ground?
Who claims the center?
Who is forced toward the edge?
Who cuts off escape?
Who circles, avoids, presses, pursues, traps, or retreats?
These spatial relationships form the underlying dramatic structure of the fight long before individual techniques are selected.
A fight choreographer must learn to think territorially.
Conflict is pressure expressed physically through space. Before the audience consciously registers a single attack or defense, they are already reading dominance, fear, aggression, confidence, desperation, hesitation, and control through movement patterns alone. A character steadily driving another backward communicates something very different than two opponents cautiously circling one another. A fighter trapped against a wall creates a different emotional reality than one commanding open center space.
This is why center and edge matter.
Characters occupying center stage often appear dominant, exposed, confident, declarative, or powerful. Characters forced toward the edges may appear cornered, defensive, evasive, uncertain, or desperate. Even before weapons are drawn, audiences instinctively understand territorial relationships. We are animals. We understand pursuit, encroachment, avoidance, entrapment, and escape long before we intellectualize them.
Likewise, the pathways characters travel through space communicate different forms of conflict.
Linear movement often feels direct, forceful, aggressive, or inevitable. Circular movement may suggest caution, strategy, predation, or uncertainty. Evasive movement creates instability and survival behavior. None of these are inherently correct or incorrect. They simply communicate different dramatic realities.
Different weapons also create different spatial realities.
A fistfight or swordfight still permits a negotiation of distance. One may retreat, disengage, pursue, corner, or flee. A drawn sword is, in many ways, an invitation into contested space. Firearms alter that geometry dramatically. A drawn gun projects control outward instantly and changes how characters occupy territory, pressure opponents, or attempt escape. This becomes especially important when productions relocate plays into historical periods where firearms exist. If a Shakespeare production places visible guns upon the characters, the choreographer must account for the altered spatial assumptions those weapons create, or the violence may begin feeling disconnected from the internal reality of the production itself.
At this stage, ask yourself a very important question:
Can the fight be understood without technique?
If the answer is no, then the choreography is probably still too dependent upon mechanics.
A strong narrative fight should remain understandable even if one removes the swords entirely. The audience should still be able to perceive:
- pressure,
- pursuit,
- fear,
- resistance,
- dominance,
- retreat,
- escalation,
- and changing control.
This leads us to an exercise I strongly encourage:
Daydream the Fight
Do not immediately picture punches, parries, or weapon combinations.
Instead, imagine the fight occurring in a real space occupied by vague figures. Watch how they move toward one another. Watch who hesitates. Watch who advances first. Watch who circles instead of closing directly. Allow the blocking to emerge before seeing limbs or weapons.
At first, the figures may appear almost abstract. That is perfectly acceptable. Resist the urge to sharpen the image too quickly. You are not yet choreographing techniques. You are discovering conflict geometry.
Gradually, the movement patterns will begin clarifying themselves.
Write down the blocking outline first.
Only afterward should you begin layering in specific choreography.
This process often reveals dramatic truths that mechanical invention alone would never discover. One character may repeatedly attempt to reclaim center space. Another may refuse to move backward until panic finally forces retreat. One may constantly angle toward escape routes while another relentlessly cuts those routes away. None of this requires a sword to become readable.
That negotiation of space is the fight.
The sword merely articulates it in a historical vocabulary.
If the fight reads clearly without weapons, then adding blades, punches, grappling, or other techniques will sharpen and enrich the conflict. But if the underlying spatial relationships are unclear, no amount of clever choreography will repair the scene. Elaborate mechanics layered over weak dramatic structure simply create decorative confusion.
Fights should travel, breathe, and evolve spatially.
Pressure should shift.
Dominance should change hands.
Distances should collapse and expand.
Moments of stillness should alternate with sudden movement.
A fight that remains emotionally and spatially unchanged quickly becomes monotonous no matter how technically impressive the choreography may be.
Always remember:
The audience experiences the fight first as human conflict, and only secondarily as technique.