I had a surprising and wonderful conversation with Claytie Mason tonight outside of the Shubert while waiting for the house to open for Memphis. Claytie is in the playwright concentration of my grad class. She and I didn't get a chance to get to know each other more than a passing, "Hello.", during collaboration week, so much of the conversation was centered around the getting to know you questions that a person asks when she meets another person.
"What do you want to do (after graduation)?" came up, as it always does, and surprisingly, this time, I had an answer that didn't involve any of the smoke and mirrors that I usually employ to get myself out of the question (I do so hate speculating where my life will be in three years time). We invested ourselves in a conversation about the state of modern society and it's entertainments. I have lamented for years, what I perceive to be, the declining state of the human propensity to socialize; my central fixation with the theater has been as a tool to return to our primal state and orally share proverbs and fables and faerie tales and to commune with the larger whole of what it is to be human. I have also nurtured a sense that most modern plays are full of ambiguity and a very facile, choose-your-own-adventure sense of interpretation. I feel it's intensely lazy and when a writer, or a director, or an actor (all through a lack of focus and clarity) give up interpretation to the audience, not only are they not doing their jobs, but they do the audience a grievous disservice and traipse, ego-first, in to vanity.
There is one, and only one thing, that I need from a text: the intent. What was the point of writing this? What are we trying to lead our audience to face? What do we want them to debate? What injustice, or peril, are we bringing to light? If we are working on a piece about, say, pride, I need to know this so that every choice, every action, every moment needs to lead back to pride, everything else is off-topic and will serve nothing but my own ego and sense of cleverness. The intent is fundamental, and I feel that many plays these days lack this, either by design or through exterior meddling. Even classic texts can be usurped. A Midsummer Night's Dream, for instance (and please argue this), is about free will versus the obligation to the greater whole. Read it and tell me that there is a single plot-thread that doesn't go directly back to this root. I had an argument my senior year of undergrad with my director because she told me that I, as Theseus, was to secretly (without the aid of Mr. Shakespeare's words) instruct Hermia and Lysander to flee Athens. I argued my point that it flies in the face of the intent of the play... there are no secrets, we tend to say, very beautifully and clearly, what we mean. I lost the argument, because I was an undergrad; an injury that continues to plague academia, I'm sure.
The train has careened ever so gracefully off the track... I apologize. Vanity.
I told her, that I wish to go back to California and work in film (and television) and continue to write and hopefully produce pieces of theater that agitate the status quo; that shake things up; that inspire debate and introspection; that might actually change something, or, better yet, someone. That, to me, is art; that's purpose. I could lull about and engage in projects that exist merely to display, "Look what happens when relationships go wonky! Isn't that funny!? Haven't you been there?" Without examining the why of how these people got here and where they go from here and the options and opportunities missed, or another mish-mash production of Midsummer where the fifth act is cut because it's extraneous, but filled with magical jazz/modern/ballet numbers for fairies because, "Dancing is pretty." That's mindless entertainment, which is about as fulfilling as a series of one-night stands; the buzz wears off.
Our conversation, so pregnant with endeavor, was sadly cut short as the house had opened it's doors, which is a terrible shame because we had begun to really unravel our shared distinction between art and entertainment.
"How can anybody learn anything from an artwork when the piece of art only reflects the vanity of the artist and not reality?"
- Lou Reed
There's always next time.
-R
"What do you want to do (after graduation)?" came up, as it always does, and surprisingly, this time, I had an answer that didn't involve any of the smoke and mirrors that I usually employ to get myself out of the question (I do so hate speculating where my life will be in three years time). We invested ourselves in a conversation about the state of modern society and it's entertainments. I have lamented for years, what I perceive to be, the declining state of the human propensity to socialize; my central fixation with the theater has been as a tool to return to our primal state and orally share proverbs and fables and faerie tales and to commune with the larger whole of what it is to be human. I have also nurtured a sense that most modern plays are full of ambiguity and a very facile, choose-your-own-adventure sense of interpretation. I feel it's intensely lazy and when a writer, or a director, or an actor (all through a lack of focus and clarity) give up interpretation to the audience, not only are they not doing their jobs, but they do the audience a grievous disservice and traipse, ego-first, in to vanity.
There is one, and only one thing, that I need from a text: the intent. What was the point of writing this? What are we trying to lead our audience to face? What do we want them to debate? What injustice, or peril, are we bringing to light? If we are working on a piece about, say, pride, I need to know this so that every choice, every action, every moment needs to lead back to pride, everything else is off-topic and will serve nothing but my own ego and sense of cleverness. The intent is fundamental, and I feel that many plays these days lack this, either by design or through exterior meddling. Even classic texts can be usurped. A Midsummer Night's Dream, for instance (and please argue this), is about free will versus the obligation to the greater whole. Read it and tell me that there is a single plot-thread that doesn't go directly back to this root. I had an argument my senior year of undergrad with my director because she told me that I, as Theseus, was to secretly (without the aid of Mr. Shakespeare's words) instruct Hermia and Lysander to flee Athens. I argued my point that it flies in the face of the intent of the play... there are no secrets, we tend to say, very beautifully and clearly, what we mean. I lost the argument, because I was an undergrad; an injury that continues to plague academia, I'm sure.
The train has careened ever so gracefully off the track... I apologize. Vanity.
I told her, that I wish to go back to California and work in film (and television) and continue to write and hopefully produce pieces of theater that agitate the status quo; that shake things up; that inspire debate and introspection; that might actually change something, or, better yet, someone. That, to me, is art; that's purpose. I could lull about and engage in projects that exist merely to display, "Look what happens when relationships go wonky! Isn't that funny!? Haven't you been there?" Without examining the why of how these people got here and where they go from here and the options and opportunities missed, or another mish-mash production of Midsummer where the fifth act is cut because it's extraneous, but filled with magical jazz/modern/ballet numbers for fairies because, "Dancing is pretty." That's mindless entertainment, which is about as fulfilling as a series of one-night stands; the buzz wears off.
Our conversation, so pregnant with endeavor, was sadly cut short as the house had opened it's doors, which is a terrible shame because we had begun to really unravel our shared distinction between art and entertainment.
"How can anybody learn anything from an artwork when the piece of art only reflects the vanity of the artist and not reality?"
- Lou Reed
There's always next time.
-R
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