Thespis, the first actor

Preface: Welcome to this very long series of filmmaking in the age of AI(2026).

As AI impacts the film industry, and people are using it in the field more than they let on, I'm trying to catch the attention of Netflix and land this job. So I thought, what's a better way to catch their attention than writing an entire series on all aspects of filmmaking and AI's impact on them, along with my take, to impress them? Here we go. The first section is about screenwriting, before we start making a film, we don't always have a script (Not Wong Kar-wai), but we usually do. I wanna go back to screenwriting before there was a screen, play writing. What was it like to be a playwright?

The playwright, as a defined role, was essentially invented in Athens — and the invention has a name attached to it. Around 534 BCE, a poet named Thespis from the deme of Icaria stepped out of a choral performance at the City Dionysia and began speaking as a character rather than as himself.

Before Thespis, the performance was entirely choral: singers and dancers honoring Dionysus, with no individual actor distinct from the group. Thespis introduced the first protagonist — a single performer who could exchange words with the chorus leader, play a specific character, and drive a narrative. The word thespian, still used for actor today, comes from his name. He won the first documented tragedy competition at the City Dionysia, which the Athenian ruler Pisistratus had recently institutionalized as a major civic festival. Aeschylus later added a second actor, which allowed conflict between characters. Sophocles added a third. The playwright as we understand the role — someone who writes spoken parts for individual characters in dramatic relation to each other — grew directly out of these incremental innovations across roughly a century.

The deeper question is where the whole enterprise came from. The traditional account, following Aristotle's Poetics, traces tragedy to the dithyramb — a choral hymn sung in honor of Dionysus, out of which, Aristotle argued, the first dramatic forms gradually evolved. This has been the dominant explanation since antiquity. Modern classical scholarship has complicated it considerably. The classicist Scott Scullion, in a paper called "Nothing to do with Dionysus: Tragedy Misconceived as Ritual," argues that the Dionysian origin story is largely a retrospective construction — noting that the ancient Greeks themselves questioned it. There was a well-known saying, τί πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον — "What does this have to do with Dionysus?" — used when tragedies had no Dionysian content, which was most of them. The Oresteia has nothing to do with Dionysus. Oedipus has nothing to do with Dionysus. Alternative theories exist: tragedy emerging from hero cult worship at grave sites, from pre-Hellenic burial and fertility rites, from satyr performances that preceded the formal festival structure. None is definitively proven. What is not in dispute is that tragedies were performed at Dionysian festivals, and that the festival context shaped the form from its earliest documented stages.

What Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides established — collectively, across the fifth century BCE — were the foundational conventions of dramatic writing: the protagonist in conflict with opposing forces, character psychology as the engine of action, the chorus as collective witness and moral commentator, the structured alternation between dramatic episodes and choral reflection. This is not the three-act structure — that formulation came from Renaissance interpreters of Horace, not from Athens, and was retroactively applied to Greek drama. Greek tragedy had its own architecture: a prologue, the chorus's entrance, a series of episodes separated by choral odes, and a closing exodus. What the three great tragedians gave subsequent dramatists was not a template of acts but something more fundamental: the idea that drama should make suffering legible, that characters should be comprehensible in their choices even when those choices are catastrophic, and that an audience watching extremity of experience should come away understanding something they didn't before.

Theater in ancient Athens occupied a position that has no precise modern equivalent. It was not purely religious ritual — modern scholars dispute how deeply the festival context shaped the theological content of the plays, most of which had no particular connection to Dionysus — but it was not entertainment in the casual sense either. Attendance at the City Dionysia was a civic act. The theater seated up to 15,000 people. Performances ran across multiple days. Prisoners were released from jail for the duration so they could attend. The state subsidized admission for citizens who could not afford it. Generals, ambassadors, and priests sat in reserved front seats. The occasion was religious, civic, competitive, and communal simultaneously — a context in which drama carried a weight it rarely carries today.

Dionysus was the god of wine, ecstasy, transformation, and the dissolution of boundaries between self and other — between human and divine, between the individual and the group, between the living and the dead. The specific theological logic of performing plays at his festival, whatever the historical origin, was coherent: the very act of an actor wearing a mask and becoming someone else is Dionysian in structure. It is a controlled loss of self, a sanctioned transformation. The mask you put on to play Agamemnon is the mask that temporarily dissolves who you are in favor of who the story requires you to be. Whether or not tragedy originated in Dionysian ritual, it found its home there — in a festival devoted to the god who understood that the boundaries we draw around ourselves are not as fixed as we pretend.

The Oresteia Trilogy is the only complete trilogy surviving from ancient Greece — three plays that form one enormous arc. The story goes like this. The great king Agamemnon has been away for ten years, fighting the Trojan War. His wife Clytemnestra has been waiting — but not patiently, and not faithfully. She has taken a lover, Aegisthus, and harbors a deep, cold rage against her husband. The reason for that rage is this: before the Greek fleet could sail for Troy, the winds would not blow. The prophet Calchas declared that the goddess Artemis demanded a sacrifice — Agamemnon's own daughter, Iphigenia. Agamemnon made the terrible choice. He lured his daughter to the altar under the pretense of a wedding, and had her killed. The winds blew. The fleet sailed. And Clytemnestra never forgot.

When Agamemnon finally returns home, triumphant, dragging the Trojan princess Cassandra as a war prize, Clytemnestra receives him with elaborate ceremony. She rolls out a crimson carpet — an act of dangerous hubris, as only gods walk on such things — and leads him inside. As he steps from his bath, she throws a net of robes over him so he cannot escape, and hacks him to death with an axe. Cassandra, who has the gift of prophecy but the curse of never being believed, does not go quietly. In Aeschylus's telling, she delivers a long prophetic speech outside the palace in which she describes Agamemnon's murder before it happens, describes her own death, and traces the curse on the house all the way forward to Orestes's return. The chorus hears every word and cannot understand what she means until the bodies are found. She knows exactly what is waiting for her inside. She walks in anyway. The distinction matters: this is not resignation. It is fully conscious choice. The chorus wails. Clytemnestra stands over the bodies, unrepentant.

Years pass. Agamemnon's son Orestes, who was sent away as a child, returns in secret with his friend Pylades. He is commanded by the god Apollo to avenge his father — which means killing his own mother. He reunites with his sister Electra at their father's tomb. Together they grieve, plan, and steel themselves. Orestes enters the palace in disguise, pretending to bring news of his own death. Clytemnestra, hearing her son is dead, barely flinches — revealing the depth of her coldness. Orestes kills Aegisthus. Then he confronts his mother. Clytemnestra bares her breast — the breast that nursed him — and begs for her life. Orestes hesitates. Pylades, who has been silent the entire play, speaks his only three lines: Remember Apollo. Obey the god. Orestes kills her. Immediately the Furies appear — ancient goddesses of vengeance, invisible to everyone but Orestes, with serpents for hair and blood dripping from their eyes. They are the embodiment of the primal law that says: a man who kills his mother cannot go unpunished. Orestes flees, mad with guilt.

Orestes arrives at Delphi, Apollo's sanctuary, where the god tries to purify him. But the Furies will not let go. He travels to Athens and throws himself on the mercy of the goddess Athena, who does something extraordinary — she convenes a jury of Athenian citizens to decide his fate. Aeschylus presents this as the invention of civic justice itself — the founding myth of Athenian democracy, the moment blood vengeance gives way to reasoned law. Whether any actual trial of this kind preceded the play is unknowable. This is Aeschylus making an argument about what Athens believed itself to have invented, not a historical record. The argument is the point: the trial of Orestes is the birth of law as the Greeks understood it. The Furies prosecute. Apollo defends. The jury votes — and ties. Athena casts the deciding vote in favor of Orestes. He is acquitted. The Furies are furious. Athena gently persuades them to accept a new role in Athens — not as spirits of endless vengeance but as protectors of the city, honored and worshipped. They are transformed from the Furies into the Eumenides — "the Kindly Ones." The trilogy ends with a procession, torchlight, and celebration. Blood vengeance has given way to civic justice. The world has grown up.

The deepest theme of the Oresteia is not really about obedience to gods at all. It's about how justice itself changes and grows. The old system — the Furies' system — is blood vengeance. Someone in your family is killed, you kill the killer. Then their family kills you. Then your family kills them. It never ends. It is an infinite chain of righteous violence, each act justified by the one before it, stretching back forever. This is where the House of Atreus has been trapped for generations. Aeschylus shows this system destroying itself through the story. Every act of vengeance is simultaneously a new crime requiring new vengeance. Clytemnestra kills Agamemnon to avenge Iphigenia. Orestes kills Clytemnestra to avenge Agamemnon. Who kills Orestes? Where does it stop? It stops — and this is the extraordinary moment of the trilogy — when Athena invents something new. A jury. A trial. Evidence, argument, deliberation, and a verdict. The Furies are not destroyed or defeated; they are transformed into something new — protectors of civic order rather than agents of endless vengeance. Aeschylus is telling the story of civilization learning to replace the cycle of private revenge with the idea of public, reasoned justice.

The trilogy premiered at the Dionysia of 458 BCE, where it outperformed tetralogies by Sophocles and other competitors — marking Aeschylus's thirteenth and final win at the festival. He died just two years later, so it was essentially his farewell masterpiece, and he went out at the top. At the City Dionysia, playwrights competed against one another — each presenting three tragedies followed by a satyr play, a distinct burlesque genre featuring a chorus of satyrs treating heroic subjects irreverently. The full unit of four plays is called a tetralogy. Ten judges — one chosen by lot from each of Athens's ten tribes, sworn to impartiality — ranked the competing tetralogies. Five of the ten votes were randomly selected and counted to determine the winner, a system designed to resist both bribery and audience pressure. Victorious playwrights received a wreath of ivy. It was a massive public event — performed in the Theatre of Dionysus, a semi-circular open-air structure on the Acropolis slope seating up to 15,000 spectators.

Aeschylus won first prize at the City Dionysia thirteen times total. This compares favorably with Sophocles's reported eighteen victories — though his total across all festivals may be as high as twenty-four — and far surpasses the competitive record of Euripides. Euripides won four victories at the City Dionysia during his lifetime. A posthumous fifth is sometimes counted: after his death in 406 BCE, his son staged The Bacchae, Iphigenia at Aulis, and Alcmaeon in Corinth as a trilogy and won first prize. Whether that counts as Euripides's victory depends on the source. His lifetime record was four. That number is remarkable when you think about it — Euripides, whom many consider the most psychologically modern and brilliant of the three, was also the least popular with the judges in his own lifetime. The Athenian audiences found him too strange, too provocative, too willing to make them uncomfortable. History, however, eventually sided with him.

Of more than 300 known tragedies, only 32 complete plays have survived — seven by Aeschylus, seven by Sophocles, and 18 by Euripides. The Aeschylus figure carries a caveat: six of his plays are unambiguously his — The Persians, Seven Against Thebes, The Suppliants, and the three plays of the Oresteia. The seventh, Prometheus Bound, has been attributed to him since antiquity, but modern scholars have raised serious doubts. The style, meter, and philosophical content differ enough from his other six plays that some argue it was written by someone else — possibly his son Euphorion, possibly after Aeschylus's death. Both "six" and "seven" appear in reputable sources depending on whether Prometheus Bound is included. The precise total of surviving plays across all three tragedians is therefore either 31 or 32 depending on how you count it. We have more of Euripides than anyone else simply because later generations kept copying his work. Aeschylus's epitaph commemorates his participation in the Greek victory at the Battle of Marathon, while making no mention of his success as a playwright. The man who wrote the greatest trilogy in ancient theater apparently felt that fighting for Athens as a soldier was the more important achievement. That tells you something about how Greeks thought about civic duty versus artistic fame. More on this in the next post.

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