My biggest revision challenge so far is the overwhelming desire to NOT revisit most of what I’ve written. For a few of them, I would rather start over completely than open that file. It’s just painful. I don’t want to go back to that place. And those are, of course, the ones that merit the most revision... I just really don’t think there’s much there that’s viable. And even if there was, I think the gleaning would kill me. Opening those files will kill me. It’s not like Shaffer’s obsession with getting just the ending right--that would be tolerable (especially if it was already a widely acclaimed show). Some of mine are painful to think about revising because they require SO MUCH. I think they require enough that they just need to be put out of their misery. I can just adopt a new puppy, right?
I think the most interesting aspect of the Shaffer preface is his insistence that his play, and subsequently the final scene(s), “demand” something. I think it’s so impressive that he’s that in tune with the dynamic/feel of the scene that he knows what it demands. And that it isn’t a choice but a demand of the script-- that the audience and characters require a certain scene, a certain tension in order for the play as a whole to be effective. It’s interesting too, that after the first version was successful, he still felt dissatisfied himself. I don’t know if I’d go through all of that if my play was already hugely successful--but then again, it might make it more fun to revise if you already knew it was good. That’s the problem with mine that “demand” the most revision--they aren’t good enough to feel like it’s worth all the revision.
I think this is probably apt: “However, in the end, of course, the whole conceptual struggle remained what all such writing has to be: the rigorous, obsessed and solitary exercise of the Author.” I’m glad that he realizes that he was/is obsessed. And that it takes that kind of obsession to put yourself (and others) through all that hassle.
Another part of his revision story that’s interesting is how one scene can change a character. He talks a lot about how that crucial scene played one way or the other determines a lot of the characters’ motivation and therefore informs their character, It once again emphasizes that EVERYTHING in a play has to do something, has to be good--you don’t get any room to just write stuff.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
10 minute plays II
After reading this second batch of shorties, I think one of the biggest (if not the biggest) challenges of this format is not tanking the ending. I mostly bought Aimee, but then the end killed it for me. It’s probably a common symptom of this format cause you have to wrap it up somehow and try to give an instant payoff after only a few pages of set-up. But, really, I’ve seen the “convert-the-intruder-to-your-'crimes' ” bit before.
I think it’s also a lot easier to have a visible point, or lend the feeling of worthwhile in the serious/dramatic. I tend to feel ripped off in short comedic pieces because I feel neither all that entertained nor like I got anything out of it (really, I’m sorry for always being down on the “comedies”--they just in general do less for me). This lack of substance hindered my enjoyment esp. in Anything--that didn’t really feel like a play to me. I don’t feel like there was much character development, it was just completely reliant on the outlandish proposition of the affair. And then the “twist” that the one lady was actually in love with the other lady was a little too little too late to serve as the point. I felt the same way about Philadelphia-- “the opposite” shtick isn’t enough to sustain a play. Oh, I think that could be another danger of the 10-min play--relying on a “bit” to carry the whole thing, I think that belongs in improve or sketch comedy.
I’m having a really hard time coming up with something for my 10 minute play. I think, in general I have a hard time coming up with ideas for these projects, but in 10 mins... and I’ve critique these (and others) so heavily... but I don’t really know what endings I would suggest... man... Playwriting is the hardest writing ever. It’s more blood on the page than essays and those slowly take a lot of my blood, drop by drop. But playwriting...
I think it’s also a lot easier to have a visible point, or lend the feeling of worthwhile in the serious/dramatic. I tend to feel ripped off in short comedic pieces because I feel neither all that entertained nor like I got anything out of it (really, I’m sorry for always being down on the “comedies”--they just in general do less for me). This lack of substance hindered my enjoyment esp. in Anything--that didn’t really feel like a play to me. I don’t feel like there was much character development, it was just completely reliant on the outlandish proposition of the affair. And then the “twist” that the one lady was actually in love with the other lady was a little too little too late to serve as the point. I felt the same way about Philadelphia-- “the opposite” shtick isn’t enough to sustain a play. Oh, I think that could be another danger of the 10-min play--relying on a “bit” to carry the whole thing, I think that belongs in improve or sketch comedy.
I’m having a really hard time coming up with something for my 10 minute play. I think, in general I have a hard time coming up with ideas for these projects, but in 10 mins... and I’ve critique these (and others) so heavily... but I don’t really know what endings I would suggest... man... Playwriting is the hardest writing ever. It’s more blood on the page than essays and those slowly take a lot of my blood, drop by drop. But playwriting...
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
10 min plays
I actually like the majority of the dialog in these. I appreciated especially, from our class conversations, the subtleties of dropping information naturally. That’s probably especially important in this form as you don’t have time to change scenes lots of times (or at all) or introduce lots of characters. I noticed, in terms of structure, some of them slowly lay details, allowing the reader to piece things together, closing with a more overt explanation but no resolution (Rodeo, Soup), remain less mysterious and then end with a bang (Roads) or have a shift in a the middle that mostly resolves (Dance). I liked Dance in the beginning, when they were fighting, but I thought it got really annoying when he was talking about not being able to dance. That’s probably an important lesson: sometimes shifting into “the point,” the profundity can feel forced and therefore annoying. Same with a huge dramatic finish like in Roads--I was completely with that play until the dad blew up their cars. Lame.
I think writing a 10-min play would be really good for me. I think it forces a small focus and an attention to purpose. Every line has to be setting up the play from the beginning if you only have a few pages. I’m attracted to the simple plays, that are simple in plot and action, but I think I fall into the trap of trying to make it so heavy (like in Dance) that it stops being simple and is just annoying. I would love to write just a short little play that did what it was trying to do. I think I’ll need to change my thinking, deliberately conceive of an idea that fits within a 10-min play. I don’t think any of the ideas/projects I’ve submitted thus far could be made into 10-min plays without serious revision, esp. not my latest one (which maybe shouldn’t be forced into play format anyway).
I think writing a 10-min play would be really good for me. I think it forces a small focus and an attention to purpose. Every line has to be setting up the play from the beginning if you only have a few pages. I’m attracted to the simple plays, that are simple in plot and action, but I think I fall into the trap of trying to make it so heavy (like in Dance) that it stops being simple and is just annoying. I would love to write just a short little play that did what it was trying to do. I think I’ll need to change my thinking, deliberately conceive of an idea that fits within a 10-min play. I don’t think any of the ideas/projects I’ve submitted thus far could be made into 10-min plays without serious revision, esp. not my latest one (which maybe shouldn’t be forced into play format anyway).
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Amadeus
The first thing that I want to point out is sorta nerdy (cause really, I love latin), but maybe also obvious (I guess it depends on your knowledge of latin roots...). The name “Amadeus” comes from the latin verb amo, amare meaning “to love” and deus, dei-- “god” so Amadeus means “loved by god.” I wonder if Shaffer was partially inspired by his name--seems too happy a coincedence, that the Salieri’s anomosity stems from his revalation that God loves Mozart. Just a little something to think about...
I thought the most valuable aspect of reading this play in terms of playwriting was actually Shaffer’s preface. I read it after I read the play (I’m too impatience to read forwards first, if at all, and am wary of spoilers even though I’ve seen this play and the film). What a crazy revision process! I can’t imagine writing something, having it published, having it performed (to wide acclaim), but still be in the process of thinking about it and tweaking it for twenty years! I wonder if it wouldn’t have been so popular if he would have wanted to revise it or if he would have been allowed to. He was afforded lots of workshopping opportunities because people wanted to work on it with him. I just can’t imagine not letting it go after it’s published--I guess this is a counter argument to the “it’s out of your hands argument.” It’s out of your hands unless it’s crazy popular, performed on Broadway, made into a movie, and then remounted on Broadway again. If that happens, you can do whatever you want. On the other side of things, I was really impressed with, in talking about the process, how in tune Shaffer seemed to be about pace and creating this moment and “what the play wanted.” That’s probably why his play is so good in the first place-- everything is so intentional, thought out. I can’t imagine seeing my play performed on Broadway, to a packed house, but still be thinking “hmm, yeah, that scene feels just a degree off... a crutial degree which changes the whole play! It doesn’t matter that everyone is lauding my play with a stading ovation--it’s back to the drawing board for me!” That’s crazy. But I respect it.
Amadeus is bought a lot with the convention of Salieri’s relationship with the audience. It allows us to move seamlessly into flashbacks and then back into “current day,” it allows us to know when and where we are in those scenes in an explicit, not dropping hints way. Psychologically, it allows us to understand motivations driving the entire plot in a easy-to-connect with way--we not only can understand what is going on, but why. As we talked about a bit in class Tuesday, it also fosters a complicated audience relationship with Salieri as if we are hearing his inner thoughts, it’s much harder to write him off as the villan. It is much more interesting if we feel for Salieri--complicated audience/character realtionships are good. Mozart could just be seen as the victim and we could feel only pity for him, but he’s also an annoying child so it’s sort of nice for someone to shut him up, right? Don’t we wish too, that Salieri could write a smash-hit opera and feel like he was channeling a bit of God himself? You know that part when he’s all “I was born a pair of ears, and nothing else. It is only through hearing music that I know God exists. Only through writing writing music that I could worship...All around me men hunger for General Rights. I hungered only for music”(117). I mean, that’s tragic in a way that makes you care for Salieri, like maybe Mozart was being a little greedy with his talent. I guess this is moving from complicating characters through nurturing an audience/character relationship, but really at the heart of his is just that establishing complicated characters through any means is nessecessary. If characters aren’t complicated, than the audience cares less cause they don’t have to go through any personal struggle to figure out who they’re really rooting for.
I thought the most valuable aspect of reading this play in terms of playwriting was actually Shaffer’s preface. I read it after I read the play (I’m too impatience to read forwards first, if at all, and am wary of spoilers even though I’ve seen this play and the film). What a crazy revision process! I can’t imagine writing something, having it published, having it performed (to wide acclaim), but still be in the process of thinking about it and tweaking it for twenty years! I wonder if it wouldn’t have been so popular if he would have wanted to revise it or if he would have been allowed to. He was afforded lots of workshopping opportunities because people wanted to work on it with him. I just can’t imagine not letting it go after it’s published--I guess this is a counter argument to the “it’s out of your hands argument.” It’s out of your hands unless it’s crazy popular, performed on Broadway, made into a movie, and then remounted on Broadway again. If that happens, you can do whatever you want. On the other side of things, I was really impressed with, in talking about the process, how in tune Shaffer seemed to be about pace and creating this moment and “what the play wanted.” That’s probably why his play is so good in the first place-- everything is so intentional, thought out. I can’t imagine seeing my play performed on Broadway, to a packed house, but still be thinking “hmm, yeah, that scene feels just a degree off... a crutial degree which changes the whole play! It doesn’t matter that everyone is lauding my play with a stading ovation--it’s back to the drawing board for me!” That’s crazy. But I respect it.
Amadeus is bought a lot with the convention of Salieri’s relationship with the audience. It allows us to move seamlessly into flashbacks and then back into “current day,” it allows us to know when and where we are in those scenes in an explicit, not dropping hints way. Psychologically, it allows us to understand motivations driving the entire plot in a easy-to-connect with way--we not only can understand what is going on, but why. As we talked about a bit in class Tuesday, it also fosters a complicated audience relationship with Salieri as if we are hearing his inner thoughts, it’s much harder to write him off as the villan. It is much more interesting if we feel for Salieri--complicated audience/character realtionships are good. Mozart could just be seen as the victim and we could feel only pity for him, but he’s also an annoying child so it’s sort of nice for someone to shut him up, right? Don’t we wish too, that Salieri could write a smash-hit opera and feel like he was channeling a bit of God himself? You know that part when he’s all “I was born a pair of ears, and nothing else. It is only through hearing music that I know God exists. Only through writing writing music that I could worship...All around me men hunger for General Rights. I hungered only for music”(117). I mean, that’s tragic in a way that makes you care for Salieri, like maybe Mozart was being a little greedy with his talent. I guess this is moving from complicating characters through nurturing an audience/character relationship, but really at the heart of his is just that establishing complicated characters through any means is nessecessary. If characters aren’t complicated, than the audience cares less cause they don’t have to go through any personal struggle to figure out who they’re really rooting for.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Uncle Vanya
As far as page-to-stage, I definitely never pictured this play on a proscenium stage (I think, unless I’ve seen the show before I read it, I always imagine plays more cinematographically, thus I don’t picture them on stage at all) so I was very open to the intimate setting of UPS’ production (and the only production of it I’ve ever seen). I think, in terms of theatrical realism, it really bought a lot to have the show brought so close to us--it actually made it more like a film in the respect that we were afford close-ups of a kind. I saw a clip of some Vanya movie with famous actors in it (I can’t remember who produced it or who was in it other than that annoying doctor from Grey’s Anatomy) and it was shot really close-up with the actors just around a table. It seems to want this intimacy. I wonder if Vanya necessitates this closeness-- that without being right in the middle the audience wouldn’t as readily connect. Hmm. I can’t tell if I can’t picture in a proscenium setting because I’ve only seen it close-up or because it needs to be done that way. Hmm. I’m easily influenced though. I’m one of those people who after seeing a music video can only see that video in my head every time I hear that song or after seeing a book made into a movie can only picture the actors as those characters. Alas.
We read Vanya in Theater History II last spring and I remember liking it I guess, thinking it was depressing, but on the whole not being very affected by it. It just doesn’t do much for me. I know its realism and so the play has very little in terms of plot--it is really just about common people, regret, love, mundane living. I both like this and am also distanced by it. But, really I’m attracted to this kind of play in general. I like plays that aren’t super plot heavy, but are more about complexities of people and their relationships. Or seem profound to me on huge scale within a story about a few people. But as far as words on the page--I always underline lines that I find poignant or with which I connect, and in terms of the actual lines, I seldom felt inclined to underline Vanya. All the dialog seems realistic and believable... but I didn’t... think it was... poetic? Nah, I don’t think it needs to be more poetic... maybe it’s just “too real”? I don’t know... I don’t know why this dialog doesn’t really speak to me because it really does seem to fit the description of dialog I would love. Maybe I’m not quite old enough to connect with the ideas of “a life wasted.” I connect with the unrequited love thing, surely. Or even more so, the being in love with someone you know you will never be with. I’m attracted to the tragedy there for sure.
Another plus for its life on stage: it’s so much easier to keep track of characters when you can just see them versus having to flip back to the who’s who confusion of names and relationships!
Has anyone read August: Osage County? If not, you all should. It’s really good. It sort of reminds me of Vanya as far as its ties to the family drama (I’m not sure I can call Vanya a “family drama” as I think it’s too early, right? or just belongs with the realists?). August: Osage County was written as a deliberate return to the earlier traditions of theater with huge ensemble casts and back to more Vanya-like explorations of just people and relationships and the tragedies present in the mundane. Read it!
We read Vanya in Theater History II last spring and I remember liking it I guess, thinking it was depressing, but on the whole not being very affected by it. It just doesn’t do much for me. I know its realism and so the play has very little in terms of plot--it is really just about common people, regret, love, mundane living. I both like this and am also distanced by it. But, really I’m attracted to this kind of play in general. I like plays that aren’t super plot heavy, but are more about complexities of people and their relationships. Or seem profound to me on huge scale within a story about a few people. But as far as words on the page--I always underline lines that I find poignant or with which I connect, and in terms of the actual lines, I seldom felt inclined to underline Vanya. All the dialog seems realistic and believable... but I didn’t... think it was... poetic? Nah, I don’t think it needs to be more poetic... maybe it’s just “too real”? I don’t know... I don’t know why this dialog doesn’t really speak to me because it really does seem to fit the description of dialog I would love. Maybe I’m not quite old enough to connect with the ideas of “a life wasted.” I connect with the unrequited love thing, surely. Or even more so, the being in love with someone you know you will never be with. I’m attracted to the tragedy there for sure.
Another plus for its life on stage: it’s so much easier to keep track of characters when you can just see them versus having to flip back to the who’s who confusion of names and relationships!
Has anyone read August: Osage County? If not, you all should. It’s really good. It sort of reminds me of Vanya as far as its ties to the family drama (I’m not sure I can call Vanya a “family drama” as I think it’s too early, right? or just belongs with the realists?). August: Osage County was written as a deliberate return to the earlier traditions of theater with huge ensemble casts and back to more Vanya-like explorations of just people and relationships and the tragedies present in the mundane. Read it!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
PLAYWRIGHT
I was thinking about Sarah Ruhl and her well-crafted plays and then the word playwright:
A year or two ago, a director (at Boise Contemporary Theater) was talking in a Q&A about playwritin/theater/acting/owning a theater company (I don't wholly remember the context), but he said that he really loved the word "Playwright" because it doesn't just mean "someone who writes plays." The word "wright," though seemingly a highfalutin way of spelling "write," instead implies a crafting, a molding of tangible things, like a shipwright, or a carpenter. I really like this concept: that by writing something on a page, you're crafting, building, wrighting something real.
A year or two ago, a director (at Boise Contemporary Theater) was talking in a Q&A about playwritin/theater/acting/owning a theater company (I don't wholly remember the context), but he said that he really loved the word "Playwright" because it doesn't just mean "someone who writes plays." The word "wright," though seemingly a highfalutin way of spelling "write," instead implies a crafting, a molding of tangible things, like a shipwright, or a carpenter. I really like this concept: that by writing something on a page, you're crafting, building, wrighting something real.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
this ain’t no clean house
God, I really like this play. I mean, it’s beautiful, right? I read the whole thing in one sitting and I was quite affected by it. Without analyzing the dialog or the plot or the character development--just taking it in as an experience--I was a little in awe. It was just all so romantic. And hopeless. And profound in surprising ways. And tragic in that satisfying way. Alas...
And the dialog is so poetic. Achingly poetic (I must be in a romantic mood...), but seriously, even the stage directions are beautiful. That got me thinking about stage directions as more (or equally) for the reader. Cause an audience member isn’t going to know that a certain sound is “a sound of forgetfulness” but the reader gets to imagine that. It def is a play that is an example of dramatic literature. It has a life on the page. It doesn’t require players.
I think this is an example of the how people really talk/how people sound real on stage crux. They don’t sound like people we’ve ever heard, and yet they sound real, right? But in some of our writing isn’t nearly as weird or foreign, sometimes verbatim conversations and it sounds far more foreign. Help us, Sarah.
The greek chorus of stones is cool. I like that it keeps with the choral tradition but is also just super weird. I like the note: “The STONES should be played as though they are nasty children at a birthday party. They might be played by children.” That’s so specific and weird... in a compelling way. I like that Orpheus and Eurydice are “a little too young and a little too in love” -- don’t you know those people? or have been those people? She’s good.
I like what she says in the preface too: “I’m interested in anyone who dies twice...I’m interested in mythic architecture. The architecture of myth--its structure, its bigness, its formal elegance--can frame stories that are smaller and more personal...I think that theater can connect our personal mythologies to stories that are bigger than us--that connection between bigness and smallness brings me back to theater again and again.” She touches on a lot of interesting ideas here. I like the idea that myth can frame smaller stories, that we come back to myths and find our world still inside them. I like the connection of bigness to smallness, gods and humanity. I think adaptations can be cool if it feels like you’re getting a secret back-story or a behind-the-scenes look at a well known story. I think that’s why people are often compelled by adaptations--it feels like you’re getting let in on the Real Story. I think Eurydice, as Ruhl has endeavored, is appealing partially for this reason--that it’s getting at a base humanity within a mythical world.
Sarah Ruhls?
(too easy.)
And the dialog is so poetic. Achingly poetic (I must be in a romantic mood...), but seriously, even the stage directions are beautiful. That got me thinking about stage directions as more (or equally) for the reader. Cause an audience member isn’t going to know that a certain sound is “a sound of forgetfulness” but the reader gets to imagine that. It def is a play that is an example of dramatic literature. It has a life on the page. It doesn’t require players.
I think this is an example of the how people really talk/how people sound real on stage crux. They don’t sound like people we’ve ever heard, and yet they sound real, right? But in some of our writing isn’t nearly as weird or foreign, sometimes verbatim conversations and it sounds far more foreign. Help us, Sarah.
The greek chorus of stones is cool. I like that it keeps with the choral tradition but is also just super weird. I like the note: “The STONES should be played as though they are nasty children at a birthday party. They might be played by children.” That’s so specific and weird... in a compelling way. I like that Orpheus and Eurydice are “a little too young and a little too in love” -- don’t you know those people? or have been those people? She’s good.
I like what she says in the preface too: “I’m interested in anyone who dies twice...I’m interested in mythic architecture. The architecture of myth--its structure, its bigness, its formal elegance--can frame stories that are smaller and more personal...I think that theater can connect our personal mythologies to stories that are bigger than us--that connection between bigness and smallness brings me back to theater again and again.” She touches on a lot of interesting ideas here. I like the idea that myth can frame smaller stories, that we come back to myths and find our world still inside them. I like the connection of bigness to smallness, gods and humanity. I think adaptations can be cool if it feels like you’re getting a secret back-story or a behind-the-scenes look at a well known story. I think that’s why people are often compelled by adaptations--it feels like you’re getting let in on the Real Story. I think Eurydice, as Ruhl has endeavored, is appealing partially for this reason--that it’s getting at a base humanity within a mythical world.
Sarah Ruhls?
(too easy.)
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