The play's the thing...

The purpose of this blog was to record all the theatre-related things that I find myself involved in. So the reason I haven’t posted for almost a fortnight is slightly ironic: actually doing a play.

But that’s also been a reminder of the fact that trying to be a writer means much more than just ‘the work’. And perhaps theatre, more than any other literary form, is about process rather than product. Not only because a play script is on some levels a blueprint for performance; that it doesn’t become ‘theatre’ until rehearsals with actors and a director bring it to life. But also because it’s an intense and emotional social experience. Rather than being a means to an end, writing sometimes just feels like a way to live.

It’s exhausting though. The play (‘Through the Night’) went well. It was, as always, a learning experience. There’s nothing more exposing that putting your words into the mouths of actors – they won’t let you get away with a single inconsistency. And then you have to accept that the audience reaction is completely out of your hands. It’s nerve-racking, and a bit of me is glad to be back to some kind of normality today. But I’ve never been able to resist the addictive qualities of the theatre, and in no time I’ll be itching to get involved in the next project. Ultimately, I know that it’s only when I’m standing in a rehearsal room that I’m in my right space...

But there has been some other activity in the last few weeks, not least the end of my first MA playwriting course. That has been an incredibly enriching experience, and together we’ve interrogated some fascinating questions about the internal dramaturgy of plays, and how that can reflect or resist content. Our discussions about ‘London Road’ and ‘Jerusalem’ have been particularly interesting. The former explores the nature of community, marginalising, almost to the point of eradication, the ‘outsider’ figures – the prostitutes whose lives have been threatened, or taken, by the murderer Steve Wright. And ‘Jersualem’s two productions (in the West End and in the Occupy London encampments) have raised compelling questions about the radical (or otherwise) impulses in the storytelling.  In the last class of the semester, I also revisited a paper I wrote at the beginning of the year about presentations of ‘the apocalypse’ in modern drama. There, I argued that it is only the plays that break form with the aid of lyricism, metaphor and poetry that can hope to provide a truthful glimpse of such a catastrophic rupture.

I’ll also give a quick mention to another play which deals with a different sort of breakdown. ‘Haunted Child’ at The Royal Court is about a husband who announces one day that he’s found a new spiritual path, in the form of a bizarre, quasi-scientific cult. It’s a strange play, which seems to have left a lot of reviewers puzzled. Personally, I thought it was quite beautiful and moving. The way it presents a kind of mania as endlessly self-fulfilling was frightening, and the play addresses the nature of fundamentalist philosophies without losing the sense of a deeply personal tragedy for the family…

Opera and muddle...

On Monday night, I had the more unusual experience of going to see a production of Verdi's opera La Traviata - and for all that some people dismiss opera for being overblown or melodramatic, what struck me was the simplicity and subtlety of the storytelling. A friend once told me that they loved drama because it was just about human beings getting themselves into a muddle. I was reminded of that when I realised that (in this interpretation at least) the opera lacked anyone obviously villainous. Instead, characters just make wrong choices (although right, at the time, from their own points of view). There’s a particularly moving scene between the heroine and her would-be father in law, in which he tries to dissuade her from marrying his son (her past as a courtesan is wrecking the family honour). There’s no malice in the interaction, just determined positions. But the fallout is as great as in any tragedy.

The opera is in four acts, and each one has an entirely different energy, which was beautifully reflected in the aesthetics of the design. I left the theatre with a strong sense of the ‘colour’ of each phrase of the storytelling, both figuratively and literally. It reminded me that ‘structure’ in writing is much more than just ‘narrative structure’. Indeed, perhaps the most important thing about a story is that we see it from all angles, as if it were a three dimensional object. So, we witness all the central characters interacting with each other, revealing different aspects of themselves in the fresh permutations. And we need to see those same characters in different ‘universes’ too, to deepen our sense of them by observing their choices in these contexts. This kind of structural ‘patterning’ allows a story to be pulled along by the slightest of ‘plots’, giving us space to concentrate on the richer elements of characterisation. Many of Harold Pinter’s plays seem to operate in this way. In The Caretaker, for example, there are three very simple acts. In the first, Aston brings a manipulative outsider (Davies) into the house, where he is also exposed to Aston’s vicious brother Mick. In Act 2, Davies is established as the 'caretaker' and enjoys a fragile acceptance. In the third act, Davies overplays his hand and is ejected. These three sections sit at dramatic right angles to each other. I wonder if their elegance would be undermined by the kind of Robert McKee style ‘plotting’ that seems to dominate contemporary approaches to dramatic writing?

On a completely separate note, I’m off to see Foxfinder at The Finborough tonight. It’s part of a festival of new writing that a play of mine is also appearing in. So apologies - the link below is really just a shameless plug…
http://www.finboroughtheatre.co.uk/productions/2011/production-papatango.php

Blogs on Blogs

A friend of mine’s just a done a bit of research to discover some of the blogs/websites playwrights find most interesting or helpful.

So, in an example of the blogosphere eating itself, I thought it might be useful to quickly re-post here…

-Lyn Gardner’s Guardian blog: http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/theatreblog
-Chris Wilkinson's Noises Off column/twitter feed: http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/series/noisesoff
-Aleks Sierz' blog: http://sierz.blogspot.com/
-BBC Writersroom: http://www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/
-Spread the Word (for Londoners): http://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/index.php
-Dan Rebellato’s website: www.danrebellato.co.uk
-Playwriting UK page on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Playwriting-Network-UK/116625928420542
- the many theatre websites – especially new writing companies (Theatre503, The Bush, The Arcola, Soho, The Royal Court, etc…)

From the West End to revolution...

In my MA playwriting class on Wednesday, we discussed Jez Butterworth’s play ‘Jerusalem’ and the extent to which it could, or couldn’t, be considered a radical text. As part of that conversation, we looked at the significance of the place of performance: although originally a Royal Court production, it’s now a sell-out West End hit. Although I’m a fan of the play, I asked why a story with such a subversive or marginalised central character should be so easily embraced by the mainstream (in a way that the residents of Dale Farm, for example, were not). Is there actually something conventional about the play - formally at least - that encourages us to engage with it from a position of safety? Is the character of Johnny Bryon romanticised; is there an element of voyeurism or ‘tourism’ at work? Such a debate has been made fascinatingly more complex, however, by the news that one of the Occupy the Stock Exchange protesters is now staging ad hoc readings at the foot of St. Paul’s. Here’s a link, via Jez Butterworth’s publishers, to ‘Bill’s’ incredible blog documenting these guerrilla performances:

http://nickhernbooksblog.com/2011/11/11/jerusalematstpauls/

Still on the West End, I also wanted to mention ‘One Man, Two Govnors’, which has recently returned to The Adephi. I wasn’t looking forward to this much, but it turned out to be one of the most enjoyable productions I’ve seen for ages – and perhaps the best farce I’ve ever seen. What impressed me in particular was the level of skill on display: the physicality, the comic timing, the improvisation, the music. Human beings love displays of virtuosity, and plays that embrace that can be a joy to watch. This thought also reminded of an old writing trick for building audience/reader empathy: if you want to make an audience like one of your characters, write the scene in which they do something they’re genuinely good at…

To research or not to research...

A couple of links to start the week. First, an interview with Jez Butterworth about his play ‘Jerusalem’:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/video/2011/nov/02/jez-butterworth-jerusalem-video-interview?newsfeed=true

I was particularly interested in what he says here about how he researches (or doesn’t research) his work. I certainly agree that researching a play is very different to researching a piece of journalism. And maybe this thought links back (see my post of 28 September) to a difficulty I have with plays that try to ‘prove’ certain political or scientific theories. Ultimately, I don’t think it’s helpful, or even legitimate, for writers to set themselves up as ‘experts’. I’d argue that great writers reveal truth by exposing the cracks between people’s value systems, rather than by proposing solutions of their own.

Over the weekend, my friend Samantha Ellis also drew my attention to this article on the BBC’s Writers Room website (an invaluable resource if you don’t already know it). As the author himself says, he’s really just restating the old idea that to succeed you should ‘write what you know’. But he brings a fresh clarity to that idea here, with respect to the commissioning of his first TV drama ‘Death in Paradise’: http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/writersroom/2011/11/death_in_paradise_my_first_bro.shtml

And still with TV, here’s a final link to an E20 episode, written by a second year Westminster student. Really impressive as a first piece of TV scripting - precise storytelling and characters drawn with maximum economy: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p00l5ymk/EastEnders_E20_Series_3_Episode_15/

Light and dark…

Just time to recommend a good Halloween film for anyone still trawling ‘best horror movies’ sites for inspiration. ‘The Village of the Damned’ was the one I plumped for (a little early) last night. It’s brilliantly grim and, with its opening scene of an entire community falling asleep at the same moment, it slightly reminded me of Mike Bartlett’s current play ‘13’ at The National Theatre. Anyway, I won’t spoil the story for anyone, suffice to say it’s a good antidote to anyone who thinks that children are the future.

Over the last few days, I’ve seen two other films worth recommending. ‘Midnight in Paris’ is the new Woody Allen movie, about a writer who finds himself transported back to the 1920s. It’s incredibly light, but also shows what you can do if you have the strength of your convictions. Just when you think the story’s backed itself into an impossible corner, it manages to raise things nicely to the next level. (Trying to make another link to ‘13’ here may be tenuous, but I had a sense whilst watching that production that it didn’t know quite how to do this. It has a similarly extraordinary premise, but ultimately retreats to safer territory, rather than fully expressing its potential.)

I also saw a screening of a fascinating new documentary ‘This is Not a Dream’ by Gavin Butt and Ben Walters as part of ‘Trashing Performance’ – a series of events looking at how artists and performers have explored the moving image. The film was at the Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, a great venue if you don’t already know it: http://www.timeout.com/london/clubs/venue/2:18800/bethnal-green-working-mens-club Amongst many of the revealing insights and bon mots provided by interviewees (including the likes of Dickie Beau and Scottee) was this, from American performance artist Vaginal Davis: ‘I prefer bad reviews. Especially the vitriolic ones. They really show that someone was paying attention.’ I’m not sure when this documentary will next be shown, but I’ll repost when I have more info…

Finally, a quick mention of April de Angelis’ new play ‘Jumpy’ at The Royal Court. Again, this felt very ‘light’, although there were lots of poignant moments. It’s a very enjoyable watch, and Tamsin Greig is great as the mother approaching 50, and meltdown, simultaneously. If you’ve seen it, though, it might be worth checking out Michael Billington’s Guardian review, which addresses the question of what sort of play a theatre should be producing... http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2011/oct/20/jumpy-review

All in the detail...

Over the last few days, the discussions I’ve had about drama seem to have revolved around precise, or 'authentic', detail’. With my Making Plays class, for example, we were looking at Conor McPherson’s ‘Port Authority’. For me (not everyone agreed!) it’s a very moving, and funny, meditation on missed chances (mainly romantic), and there are moments when an incredibly specific image seems to sum up everything important about a character. At one point, for example, Dermot - a hapless alcoholic who’s been given the job of his life thanks to a case of mistaken identity - wakes up to find a strange woman in his bed. Bleary-eyed, he rings his wife and overhears his kids playing in the background. As his gaze wanders back to the girl lying naked on his bed, he wonders, ‘if this funny feeling of the carpet under my feet was a feeling of remorse’. The thought is so precise it’s almost obscure. And yet, in the context of the play, it feels completely real: fully-imagined, by the writer.

McPherson’s most famous play ‘The Weir’ is full of such moments: the table-tennis table that Valerie’s daughter is placed on; the sandwich that the barman makes for Jack after the wedding of his former girlfriend… But ‘Port Authority’ is also notable for the way it's set out on the page. Each unit of thought stands separate, almost like lines of verse. Initially it makes for a slightly jarring reading experience, but it also draws attention to the deliberate choice that each line represents. It almost gives the impression of dialogue chiselled precisely from a single block of text.

This importance of respecting and investing in every single line struck me particularly forcefully as I’m currently co-translating a play from Italian into English. This process is throwing up many fascinating challenges (how to preserve the Italian-ness of the original, how to recreate images, as well as rhythms and cadence…) but what is becoming increasingly apparent is the absolute necessity of engaging with the text on a sentence-by-sentence basis. I think that’s a process that becomes more and more natural for writers as they develop. But it’s also scarily easy to let you eye race over passages that you think are unproblematic. In fact I’ve come to realise that, when I find myself skim-reading my own work, it’s usually a sign that something’s wrong, but I’m just not prepared to deal with it yet…