Filed under: FringeReview Blog Article, Uncategorized | Tags: blog, fringereview, inspiration, writing
After a couple of relaxing days of rest, I feel vitalised, refreshed and ready to tackle the projects I’m working on. I find this is how I best inspire myself: by letting ideas float around in the back of my head whilst enjoying myself doing something simple and enjoyable, be it meandering around an art gallery, cooking, or watching TV. I think I’m quite lucky in this regard; I don’t need to do drastic or expensive things to keep the creative juices flowing. However, my approach does also lead to easy distraction, and I can sometimes spend days on a new book or a new video game and completely lose focus. Where’s the middle ground?
I think part of the issue is my rather varied focus. I find I often skip between various thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, etc. in the course of a conversation, let alone a day, so I often need quite rigid and direct focus when I’m working on a particular project. That being said, if the ideas aren’t flowing, I do find switching off with a good book or by cooking a new recipe really keeps me going, but what if I then get distracted by it? The easy answer is intense work and banal distractions, but (from experience) I just get bored with the banal distractions, and look for more engrossing ones, leading to said issue. The obvious answer is in the variance: break up ‘brain’ work with something far more physical, ie. walking, but then laziness kicks in. Why go for a meander and let my brain power-nap when I could be watching the latest episode of whatever’s-popular-and-I’ve-been-following-on-TV?
I’ve found, in the past, that I can’t maintain a healthy balance either. Splitting my day into work and work-break doesn’t work, but neither does splitting my week. I think I’ve found a more natural rhythm, basically week on week off, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. So my days fall into relaxing, with occasional scribbled notes, whilst engaging with someone else’s stories and ideas (through any medium), or intense writing, broken up by walks, cookery or half an hour of TV brain-space. The trick is starting every day on the premise that it is the latter, but accepting that the former is not ‘bad’ or ‘unproductive’, but a necessary part of the process. I think the days where I spend an hour or two on browsing various online journals and wikis are where I get most of my ideas from, along with all of the other unavoidable cultural bumpf.
It seems hard to decide where inspiration comes from, as most of the elements are so varied. No doubt they come from what I read, what I watch, what I experience, but nothing beats just browsing the web about a topic that interests you. Luckily, I can do that on the go as well with my beloved Blackberry, so every moment can be a new idea, or at least learning about something random and strange. Which then, often, leads to one of those highly creative days, as described above… There is a system here, a method to this madness, all tied together by approaching every day like I’ll write something brilliant, and keeping a positive attitude if all I create is empty crisp packets and a new arse-groove in the couch.
Has anyone else tried to analyse their process as a writer, and where their inspiration comes from? I’d be interested to hear how others approach this peculiar job.
Filed under: FringeReview Blog Article | Tags: blog, comedy, fringereview, stand-up
I blame Danny Alder. One of my closest friends, and also a very talented bastard, Danny gave a presentation yesterday on comedy and stand-up at an event I organised, and has set my mind racing again. I always saw my place on the other side of the microphone, the reviewer, the spectator, the writer, but my ego always gets a say, and he wants to stand at the front and deliver. However, am I really good enough?
I know I’m terrible at stand-up comedy, but I also feel that I shouldn’t be. I’m more than comfortable delivering in front of crowds, I’m a good writer, I’m verbose and love the sound of my own voice, I have loads of ideas on how to present myself and what sort of material I should do, but it has never worked. My one experience behind the mike was awkward and terrible, although I was much younger. Also, while I love the idea of presenting my jokes and ideas to others, I’d hate having to change ‘me’ to perform, and I know I’d have to.
I think my problem here is shared by a number of stand-ups I’ve seen. I know I’m funny. My work is respected and well-reviewed. That being said, I’m not the one people laugh at/with, I’m the one in the background, deciding where everything goes. I’ll never be the one standing in front of the crowd, unless I’m working for someone else. There’s a part of my mind that can’t give up on being the performer, but I’m putting my foot down. If I perform, it’ll be on someone else’s terms, otherwise I’m relegating myself away from the stage. The moment I start performing my own work, I’m going to have to let go of that part of me that is critical and direct, and that would only diminish my own ability.
So, I know I shouldn’t, and won’t, try and get into stand-up. It’s one of those dreams that will never be realised, and maybe that’s a good thing. If you’re a stand-up now, stand back for a minute and think: is this the best place for you to be? Are you a stand-up? What do you think?
This is a basic attempt at a transcript of a presentation I gave on working as a writer. It’ll probably approach what I had in mind over what I actually said on the day.
Hi, my name is Chris, and I am a writer. I work as a writer, I have managed to reach a position in my life where I can live off my own writing, and that is a great thing. There is some acting and some directing in there as well, but mostly, my writing sustains me. I’m incredibly proud and lucky to be in this position, and I’d like to share with you what I have done to get there. With a bit of luck, you can get there to. I’m not saying this is the only way to make this sort of career work, but I will tell you what helped me get where I am today, and advise you on the choices that I made.
I decided to become a writer six months ago, after my Brighton Festival Fringe shows made money and were poised for an Edinburgh Festival Fringe run. I needed to find ways to make money out of my writings, so I did what most people do: I overshot. I thought Edinburgh might be able to be a money-maker, so I started taking on other jobs around writing as work. This ended up being more of a psychological head-spinner than anything else, so my first piece of advice is, don’t try and multitask your writing. Do something else on the side, but separate your own writing from that work. I got them all tied together, and that partly caused a feeling of being unmade after the Festival.
I was lucky, in that a producer saw the show I co-wrote in Edinburgh, and offered me some work. I took it, excelled at it, and got a hefty cheque for the film concept he’d asked for. Suddenly, I was on track: I had a producer who liked my work, and through him met others who wanted me to write for them too! Which brings me to the second thing I’ve learned: make influential friends. If you can find one influential person who will care about your work and promote you, you’re on the right track.
So, now I write, that’s my job. Do I always write stuff I want to? No, but I try and give it my own flair and style. That’s the most common question, followed quickly by: how do you discipline yourself? How do you get jobs done. I always have a goal of writing x number of words a day, but I never do. I just write as much as I can, spend a lot of time blogging and on Twitter and Facebook, self-promoting. You need to self-promote to get anywhere with writing. See if you can write reviews, or articles for online publications, or god-knows-what-else, just put it out there.
There is plenty of work out there, even in a recession. Just keep writing. discipline yourself to write as much as you can whenever you can, publish as much as you can online, get yourself out there in as many ways as you can (online and off), and hope you get that lucky break! It worked for me; it can hopefully work for you.
Filed under: Scripts and Odd Writings | Tags: script, concrete, story-telling, act one
ACT I
On the floor sits IAN. He is naked. Spotlight from above.
IAN
This – is me. I am nothing but myself. Nothing else matters. No fashion, no job, no family. This is me, defined.
Pause.
IAN (cont’d)
I’m safe, defined. I’m just me, not them. They surround me, in crowds, in bundles, in – family units. They’re – everywhere. Bodies. Moving, breathing, pushing, pressing, crushing -
He presses his hands into his temples.
IAN (cont’d)
I… I don’t want to be with other people. It’s not who they are, it’s what they are. Lungs, snot, skin, heart, hair, nail, nerves. They are, and they deny it. They create identities based on theories about who they are and never concern themselves with what they are. Body parts.
He slowly stands.
IAN (cont’d)
I know what I am. I’m – body parts. But I want to be more.
He spreads his arms.
IAN (cont’d)
I want to be… a block. A granite block, arms spread. I want to stand at the apex of a pyramid, my arms flung wide, my heard turned to the sky. Exultant. I want to stand, and I want to tell them stories.
He has assumed a solid pose, his arms flung wide, his head skyward.
IAN (cont’d)
There was once a man called Actaeon. He was known far and wide as the best hunter in all the world. No man could run faster than Actaeon, or throw a javelin further or more accurately. He could track animals over hard ground, through moss, brush or shrubbery, over mountain high and through ocean wide. He was such an excellent hunter that all asked for his services. Kings of Macedon, Persia and across the sea hired Actaeon to hunt for them, and he always caught what they sought. He brought in deer and fowl, lion and bear… and human. Actaeon was not unaware of his gifts. He did not boast of them though, being a humble and honest man. One day, he was called before the King of Persia, who asked him to take part in his yearly Great Hunt, in preparation for the massive feast which took place the next day. The King of Persia praised Actaeon for his gifts, calling him the best hunter of all time, and Actaeon was pleased, leading his men into the forest to hunt deer all day. The King of Persia’s words travelled across the wind, and also reached the ears of Artemis, the Divine Huntress, Queen of the Chase, who was bathing in her hidden forest pool, and she was most angered. She also whispered to the wind, guiding Actaeon to her, and he stumbled upon her secret glade. As he stood before the naked god, she did not blush or hide her shame. She stood before him, female, curvaceous, glorious in the moonlight. Artemis smiled, and cursed Actaeon. He was instantly transformed into a stag, the greatest and finest that had ever walked the earth. Artemis vanished, leaving Actaeon the stag alone in the glade, free to tranverse the forest he had hunted through. But Actaeon’s men still hunted, and upon seeing a stag so beautiful, so graceful, they could not help themselves but hunt the mighty beast. They chased Actaeon through the trees, their javelins finding his sides, piercing his proud hide, and spilling his hot blood onto the forest floor. The hunters dragged the carcass to the King of Persia, where it was the centrepiece at his banquet. And as they feasted on the meat, it returned. And the revellers devoured the human flesh, tore it from the bones. And the head on the world reverted to that of Actaeon, staring blindly at the revellers.
As he has told the myth, IAN has shrunk into a hunkered figure, hugging his own ribs.
Lights up on a dim stage. One back wall, with a window, city backdrop behind. CS a couch, with a book and a magazine on it, SL a large metal bathtub with a bucket next to it. Beyond that a desk and a chest of drawers, a lone typewriter and an empty bin. The desk and floor are covered with crumpled up bits of paper. SR a wide, empty stage, in which IAN stands, beyond a door.
MEG enters from the SR door. She is wearing a smart-casual work outfit, a handbag, a blouse and a skirt.
MEG
Ian? Are you alright?
IAN
Hi Meg.
He shuffles to the couch and sits on it. MEG bustles around behind him, picking up items off the floor, and putting some of the paper in the bin.
MEG
Sorry, I let myself in. How are things? It was so busy this morning, the traffic was murder.
IAN
Oh. No, I’m OK.
MEG
You really should be getting dressed, Ian, it’s well past morning. Are you going to leave the house today?
IAN
I don’t really… want to. There’ll be too many people.
MEG
OK, suit yourself. But do please get dressed. I don’t necessarily need to see your penis every time I come here.
IAN
(covering himself) Oh… I, I’m sorry, I didn’t think, I just-
MEG
You don’t have to explain, Ian. It’s fine. I understand.
IAN
I’m sorry.
MEG
Don’t worry. Have you eaten?
IAN
I’m not hungry.
MEG
Are you sure? I could whip up a cooked breakfast or something before I go-
IAN
No.
MEG
OK. Well, I’d better get going, work won’t do itself. I’ll see you this evening.
IAN
OK.
IAN does not move. MEG moves to the empty space, and performs a series of stylised movements, all relating to an average day, while a piece of music plays (something energetic with clock-like ticking). While she does this, IAN walks to the chest of drawers and takes out a pair of jeans, which he puts on, and slumps back into the couch. He idly leafs through a magazine. MEG finishes the dance, then acts like she’s just walked in.
MEG
Hello Ian.
IAN
Hi.
MEG
How was your day?
IAN
Fine, thanks.
MEG
Did you leave the house?
IAN
No.
MEG
Did you do anything?
IAN
No.
MEG
No writing?
IAN
No, there’s nothing there.
MEG
(sitting on the couch) Ian, you have to write something.
IAN
Why? If I keep living like this, my money will last me.
MEG
I didn’t mean it like that. I mean… you should write something. You’re so talented, it would be a waste.
IAN
(picks up the book) I copied down some ancient myths, then put them all into one book. I’m not a writer.
MEG
Yes, you are, you’re a very good writer, you’re just in a rut. Now come on, let’s go outside, get some fresh air, have a walk, maybe it’ll clear your head.
IAN
I don’t want to leave. And leaving won’t bring out any creative ideas. I’m not creative, I just took the words of others and combined them into one book. That’s all.
MEG
You used to write. And reading other peoples’ work must have sparked off some ideas.
IAN
Nothing worth writing down.
MEG
Fine. Let me help you, Ian, I want to help you.
IAN
Then leave me alone.
MEG is visibly hurt. She gets up and leaves. IAN picks up to book, leafs it open. He starts to read, then walks to the desk as the lights dim. He sits in front of the typewriter, his hands poised over the keys. He starts to type as he speaks the following lines.
IAN
He woke in a dark room. It smelled of minty sex and casual sweat. He was lost, yet instinctively knew where he was. He got out of the large bed, and put on a pair of corduroy slacks. He found the light switch, and flicked it on.
During the next lines, IAN’s delivery becomes broken. The lines jump, stop and start. As the next lines start, he is dimly underlit by a light from under the table, which gets brighter as he speaks.
IAN (cont’d)
Her body was still in bed. She had long left it, but her body remained, a collection of – parts. It still breathed, spasmed, contorted – but she had left it. She was in a world of dreams – a world without who, where – when or what -
IAN is in visible pain as he attempts to deliver/type the next few lines. The underlight is painfully bright.
IAN (cont’d)
She was dancing – in clouds – making them – twist and change – She spoke of sunlight – of happiness – She was free.
On ‘free’ he gives up, slumping over the desk, and the underlight snaps off. He drags himself out of the chair and flops into the bath. He picks up the bucket and pours it over his head, and a hidden microphone amplifies the splashing. Silence.
Lights snap up as MEG enters.
MEG
Ian!? Are you alright? What are you doing?
IAN
I don’t know.
MEG
Get out of the bath, you silly thing. And give me those, you’ll catch your death of cold.
IAN
(mumbling, taking off the jeans) Sorry.
MEG
It’s alright, I’m not angry. I was just worried. I thought you…
Pause. IAN speaks as he goes to the chest of drawers and pulls out some corduroy slacks, which he puts on.
IAN
Thought I what?
MEG
Well, you can imagine. The bath, the water, wearing clothes IN the bath… I just thought you’d… Well, you know -
IAN
No.
MEG
I thought you wanted to…
Pause.
IAN
No.
MEG
OK.
Silence. MEG walks away, tutting to herself as she hangs the jeans over her chair. IAN sits on the couch, and idly leafs through the same magazine. MEG comes back over to the couch.
MEG
How old is that?
IAN
Does it matter?
Silence. MEG sits down next to IAN.
MEG
I was worried about you.
IAN
I’m fine.
MEG
No, Ian, you’re not fine. What were you doing?
IAN
I was writing.
MEG
Really?
She goes to the typewriter. IAN looks away.
MEG
This is… good.
IAN
It’s not even a paragraph.
MEG
But it flows, it has style.
IAN
There’s nothing there to flow.
MEG
Keep going, Ian. Do you want to join me for a walk before work?
IAN
No.
MEG
OK, well, I’ll see you this evening.
IAN
Bye Meg.
MEG walks to the empty space, and performs the ’work’ movements. However, the movements have become more erratic, and SFX of police sirens and fire are now part of the piece of music. Meanwhile, IAN keeps leafing through his book. MEG acts like she has just walked in.
MEG
(a little flustered) How are you?
IAN
Fine.
MEG
What have you been doing today?
IAN
Not much.
MEG
No more writing?
IAN
No.
MEG is still standing. She is wringing her hands a little, and seems a little preoccupied.
IAN
Meg… Are you alright?
MEG
Yes… It was just… a busy day! (nervous laugh) A busy day.
IAN
Oh, OK.
MEG
It’s… things are changing. The world, you know? I just became very… aware of wars, and crimes, and, you know… all that today. The news just seemed to be full of… death and chaos.
IAN
If we pursue this way, if we are decent, industrious, and honest, if we so loyally and truly fulfill our duty, then it is my conviction that in the future as in the past the Lord God will always help us. In the long run he never leaves decent folk in the lurch. Often He may test them, He may send trials upon them, but in the long run He always let His sun shine upon them once more and the the end he gives them His blessing.
MEG
I didn’t think you were religious.
IAN
I’m not.
MEG
Oh.
IAN
Just a quote. That’s what I’m best at.
MEG
But you always choose the best ones, that was lovely. Who said that?
IAN
Hitler, 1937.
MEG
Oh.
Long pause. MEG sits down next to IAN.
MEG
Tell me a story.
IAN
What?
MEG
You always used to tell me stories. Late at night… They always used to calm me down. Please, Ian.
IAN stands and walks into the empty space. A moment’s silence.
IAN
The mighty Norse gods were aware of their fate. They knew that, when the time came, Ragnarok would occur, and all would happen as it is written. They were aware that some would die, and that some would live, and they knew their names. They knew that, when Ragnarok came, that the great war would rage, and the mighty war would recreate existence in its aftermath. Ragnarok would start with the Fimbulwinter, a winter lasting three-score years. During the winter, Skoll and Hati, the mighty wolves of the sky, would catch Sol and Mani, the brothers that are the sun and moon, and devour them. The stars would then vanish from the sky, and the earth would be plunged into darkness. In this darkness, the earth would be rent asunder, mountains torn from their roots, and Loki, god of mischief, would be released from his prison. Loki, the teller of lies, the murderer of Baldr, would then return to the land of the living, bringing with him Fenrir, his son, the wolf with the mouth that stretched from the sea to the sky. The splitting of the earth would also release Jormungandr, the mighty Midgard Serpent, who would roll and twist in the sea, sending huge waves to wash over the land, and spit poison into the sky, polluting the air. The Jotuns, the giants, lead by Hyrm, would be set free by the lashing waves, and would sail their grisly ship Naglfar, made up of the nails of dead men, to Earth. Garm, the hellhound who guards the gates of Hel, would be released, as would the fire giants, led by the horrible Surtr, wielding his humungous Sword of Revenge, which sets everything in its path alight. Together, they would cross the Bifrost Bridge, the great rainbow, which would crack and fall away behind them, as they march, and pillage, and destroy everything in their path. And Heimdall would see them, being alert and vigilant, and warn the other gods with his Giallar Horn, who would all assemble for the final battle. Odin, most powerful All-Father, would battle Fenrir, and be swallowed whole. His son, Vidar, would avenge him by ripping Fenrir’s mouth clean in two. Freyr, son of Odin, would fight Surtr, but be defeated without his sword, which his servaant Skirnir would use to vanquish many, many fire giants. Tyr would battle the great Garm, and both would slay one another, as would proud Heimdall and treacherous Loki. Surtr would then burn all of the earth, and the sea, and the sky and the air with his mighty sword, destroying himself in the process. Everything would burn to ash. Fumes would flames would burst, scorching the oceans with fire. The earth would sink into the sea.
MEG has slowly dozed off. At the final line, she suddenly wakes and jerks up.
MEG
Thanks, Ian, that was wonderful.
IAN
It’s a myth about the destruction of the world.
Pause.
MEG
I must have dozed off. It’s your voice, it’s so… rhythmical. Like I’m being hypnotised.
IAN shrugs and sits back down. MEG stands quickly.
MEG
I should go. Dinner won’t make itself, and the kids’ll be hungry.
IAN
And Frank?
Pause.
MEG
Yeah, he will be as well. Good night, Ian.
IAN
Good night.
MEG leaves. IAN, with some trepidation, goes to sit at the typewriter. Again, he has trouble typing, and the light gets stronger from underneath the desk as his typing and speech become more broken.
IAN
She slept and traveled – far away, but he could only stand. He could – not – leave. He was – alone in the room. She had – left him alone and he had – nowhere to go. There was no door. He – would break down something. He hammered at the walls – he broke away concrete, steel – flesh – bone. He – snapped through the walls – and left but there was – nothing – there, only the ice – and the – shadow – and – the empty – white.
IAN again collapses in pain, and the light snaps off. He gets up and walks back to the couch, which he slumps into. Quick snap to brighter, morning lights as MEG enters. She says nothing, just cleans up absent-mindedly, looking upset.
IAN
You’re late.
MEG
What?
IAN
I mean, just… You’re normally here earlier.
MEG
There was an accident. On the motorway. Some man, he just… leapt in front of a car. There was blood everywhere.
IAN
Oh. Are you alright?
MEG
Yes. Yeah, I’m fine. How are you?
IAN
Fine.
Pause.
IAN (cont’d)
I wrote some more.
MEG
Hmm?
IAN watches as she goes to the typewriter and reads.
MEG (cont’d)
I don’t like this as much.
IAN
Why not?
MEG
The first bit’s more poetic. This isn’t as interesting.
IAN
Hmmm.
MEG
But it’s still good.
Pause.
IAN
Are we going on a walk?
MEG
Do you want to?
IAN
You normally ask.
MEG
(very quick) No.
Pause.
MEG (cont’d)
No, no, I should get going. I’m late already.
IAN
OK. See you later.
MEG
Bye.
MEG moves to the empty space and attempts her work routine, but the music has become almost completely overshadowed by police sirens, explosions, air raid sirens, etc. Halfway through, this cacophony reaches an apex, and MEG has to almost literally force herself away, out of the empty space. Meanwhile, IAN has been reading his book intently.
IAN
Meg? But it’s only lunchtime.
MEG
Something’s not right. The world is changing. Something’s not right.
MEG starts to shiver and shake. From the distance, the sound of bombs, slowly becoming louder.
MEG (cont’d)
Don’t go outside, they’ll kill you outside. Don’t drive, they put bombs under the hood. You’re just human, you’re not special. Don’t try to run, the whole world’s gone to hell.
These start to sound more and more like the lyrics to some demented song as the bomb sounds get louder and closer.
MEG (cont’d)
There’s nowhere to run, don’t leave the house, don’t run, they’ll gun you down, don’t leave the house!
A massive blast. Lights flare up, then short out. The back wall is blown open. MEG screams. Sounds of shattering glass, fire. Lights come up slowly. The floor is strewn with ragged pieces of concrete, girders protruding like ribs. A hint of smoke. Lights a hint of red. MEG lies on the floor, IAN on the couch. Both are smeared with dirt and dust, but no blood. IAN gets up, looks around, while MEG starts to sob, curling into a little ball. MEG starts to hum the work routine music.
IAN
Meg?
She keeps humming and doesn’t react.
IAN (cont’d)
Are you alright?
MEG, again, doesn’t react. IAN walks over to her, picking his way across the debris like a boy paddling in the sea. He picks her up, carries her back to the couch. He squats next to her and strokes her hair. She stops humming. Suddenly, she leaps up, and stumbles into the empty space SR, where the work routine was performed, bowling through the debris and scattering it as she goes. She stands, swaying unsteadily, and tries to perform the work routine, awkwardly, out of synch, and making mistakes.
MEG
No, no, it’s too cold. The life’s gone. I’m a little snapped, a little twisted. It’s all too much. Concrete shards. I’m singly snapped.
IAN watches her.
MEG (cont’d)
I’m a many mouthed monster of fear. Panic. I don’t know what I am anymore. What happened? What is happening? How are we where?
IAN
What do you mean?
MEG
I don’t know. I don’t know.
IAN
Do you know who you are?
MEG
No.
MEG slumps to the floor. IAN again steps across the debris as he comes and perches next to her.
IAN
Are you OK?
MEG
Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I need to see if Frank is OK.
She searches through the debris for her handbag, finds it, and tries to call her husband. After a few seconds, she throws it on the couch.
IAN
No signal?
MEG nods, mute.
IAN
We could go and look for them.
MEG
No, I can’t… I don’t want to go out there. It’s become…
IAN
What?
MEG
It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, it’s not safe. We’re not safe. Don’t leave the house, don’t leave the -
IAN
Meg? Why are you shaking?
MEG
I’m scared.
IAN
Describe it.
MEG
I don’t want to leave.
IAN
Are you scared of leaving here?
MEG
No. I’m scared of… outside.
IAN ponders this. MEG calms down a little, comes back over to IAN.
MEG
You’re scared too, aren’t you?
IAN
I was.
MEG
What’s changed?
IAN
Me. We can’t both be scared of outside. Of the world. I need to be the strong one, when you can’t. We can’t stay like this. We need to leave. I’ll go find help. This… feels like it’ll be easier.
MEG
Ian…
IAN
I can do it. I can find help. I don’t want you to be scared. Maybe if I’m not scared, you won’t be either.
Pause.
MEG
Thank you.
MEG hugs IAN. They hold each other. IAN starts to stroke MEG’s hair. They part slightly, and MEG moves in to kiss IAN. He pulls away.
IAN
No, we shouldn’t.
MEG
Please, Ian, I need you, I need someone. I need to be held.
IAN
We put this behind us.
MEG
Please, Ian, please. I’m yours again, hold me again. This is right, because it’s natural. Because it’s normal.
They come together, him more aggressive, her more accepting. The sex has to be guttural, natural, and as realistic as possible. Afterwards, IAN puts on his trousers again, and looks down at MEG for a long time. He stands. With solid stance, he walks towards the door, and, with a deep breath, steps through. After a pause, MEG wakes up, throws some clothes on. She stands and walks to the typewriter. She reads:
MEG
He woke in a dark room. It smelled of minty sex and casual sweat. He was lost, yet instinctively knew where he was. He got out of the large bed, and put on a pair of corduroy slacks. He found the light switch, and flicked it on. Her body was still in bed. She had long left it, but her body remained, a collection of parts. It still breathed, spasmed, contorted, but she had left it. She was in a world of dreams, a world without who, where, when or what. She was dancing in clouds making them twist and change. She spoke of sunlight, of happiness. She was free. She slept and traveled far away, but he could only stand. He could not leave. He was alone in the room. She had left him alone and he had nowhere to go. There was no door. He would break down something. He hammered at the walls, he broke away concrete, steel, flesh, bone. He snapped through the walls and left but there was nothing there, only the ice and the shadow and the empty white.
As she speaks, the lights flare up slowly, brighter and brighter, until they nearly blind the audience. On her final word, they snap off.
END OF ACT I.
Filed under: FringeReview Blog Article | Tags: acting, blog, ego, fringereview
After a couple of days, a couple of chats, and some very elaborate and excellent comments on my blog, I have come to some conclusion about the ego acting thing. I now know what I meant to say, and how it affects my life as an actor and director.
First of all, a big thank for all of the comments, keeping the issue alive in the old noggin, as I couldn’t let it go. It kept swirling around my head: was I worrying about something nonexistant? Was I trying to typify something that needed its own space to develop? However, yesterday, during a rehearsal, it dawned on me what the point of all this ego stuff was: the question isn’t whether, as an actor, you apply your ego to your work. The question is whether two people’s egos match, and it is the collaboration between the egos that makes the work so fascinating.
I realised this during a rehearsal for the current show I’m doing, and that I couldn’t align my ego with my director’s. I, as a director, like to work with big egos. I like the interaction, the ability to subsume my ego or to ask an actor to subsume theirs, and I have finally understood why: I have the self-confidence to accept live criticism. I like people questioning my thoughts and ideas in a rehearsal space, I like the discursive nature of such interactions, but can accept that not everyone does. The director I’m currently working with isn’t like that, and, although I had an initial sense of anger and disappointment yesterday, now that I’ve thought about it I do understand what this process is.
Does my method make me a better director? In my eyes, yes, but in real life and practically? Possibly. I don’t think I have the right to judge. At least I now know why I like interviews over auditions, a chance to know someone over a chance to see them act. However, I can also see how this approach can be dangerous: I’ve worked with actors before where I’ve liked their ego more than appreciated their talent, and all this ends me up with tight and powerful casts performing averagely. Just as my approach has flaws, wanting actors who will enter the rehearsal space and just do what you say is similarly constricting, and although the show looks and feels good, I feel underappreciated.
Every process has its flaws, and its good to know what you do, just as it is to recognise what others do. This is about ego, but its about everyone in a space collaborating, using their egos to make the experience inspiring and entertaining, while also working hard to create some exciting and fascinating theatre. I feel I’m more likely to want to create powerful and exciting stuff when I feel appreciated and understood, but maybe I just need to switch off and be an automaton for the master director. Does this make more sense? On which side of this metaphysical fence do you fall? Comments please!
Filed under: General Blog
All of my old pieces of writing, bar some of the bigger pieces, is now on here, as are all of my old reviews, interviews, debates, blog articles etc. Everything from now on is fresh and brand-spanking new, including the last review published.
I also took the chance to restyle the site somewhat, I was advised by a friend and read in fascinating article that white text on a black background is not as legible as black text on a white background… Interesting, eh? Anyway, thanks for reading, and please comment if anything catches your eye!
Filed under: FringeReview Review | Tags: 4 stars, brighton theatre, fringereview, review, shakespeare, the rape of lucrece
LOW DOWN
In The Rape of Lucrece, one of the darker of the Bard’s basket of delights, the reader is led into the dark world of forbidden desire and lust, and the aftermath of so shocking a horrifying an event. As it is a work by Shakespeare, many have attempted to turn it into a performable piece, and tonight’s offering was another such striving to make this piece watchable and entertaining, which it succeeded in doing admirably. Intensely and powerfully delivered by Gerard Logan, the audience was scarcely given a chance to absorb the immensity of the subject matter as lines were lashed upon us, and the result was powerful and enticing. A handful of small faults, unfortunately, allowed the much-needed intensity to linger and wain, but this is high-powered stuff, and very enjoyable to watch.
REVIEW
The story of The Rape of Lucrece is deceptively simple: Tarquin, a Roman prince, lusts after his friend Collatine’s wife, Lucrece. After stealing into her bed-chamber and committing the rape, he flees in shame. Lucrece, similarly shamed, calls her husband home, and commits suicide. Collatine and his friends vow revenge on Tarquin, who flees into exile. Within this simple framework, Shakespeare skips back and forth between the characters, allowing all sides of the tale to be told, as well as capturing Tarquin’s lust, his explanations of his atrocious act, as well as Lucrece’s shame and subsequent suicidal urge. The material is powerful and horrifying; psychological torment and lustful, erotic language are juxtaposed painfully well, and one cannot help but feel slightly shamed by what they are experiencing. Praise should be given here to Jon Tarlton, as his adaptation of the script carries all of these thematic elements, not skimping on the difficult or disturbing lines: these are what give the piece its horrid energy.
Logan’s job on stage is not easy. He has to portray a variety of characters, and deliver these base emotional lines with intensity and vigour, without sacrificing the needed cadence, diction and flow of the writing. He achieves all of these, to a degree. The lines are beautifully and excellently delivered, not a missed syllable or beat to be heard, although their directness, their crispness, lessened the emotional impact. Even when lustfully snarling or mournfully wailing, Logan didn’t let his diction slip, and thus, at moments of high emotion, the acting seemed to give way to simple storytelling. However, despite those highest of moments, the emotionality seething through the piece was presented well, and Logan had no problem involving the audience and making them part of the nightmare. My only other criticism would be his moments as Lucrece: his voice was pitched too high, and made some very haunting passages a little ridiculous. Otherwise, this is well-delivered, powerful, and an immense achievement for one actor.
The production of the piece is similarly crisp and clear, and worthy of praise. The music is haunting and powerfully, excellently composed by Simon Slater, although it was a little too loud on the night, occasionally drowning out Logan in its discordant glory, or fading into a little unfortunate feedback. What Logan was wearing and the simple cloth he was working with fit the piece very well, and brought to mind the elaborate story-teller of yore, passing from town to town and telling his tales; a shame it didn’t fit the venue at Upstairs at Three and Ten, with its slightly gaudy red material draped over red-brick. Although it is commendable that the piece relies on a single actor and a bare stage, a little dressing could have been done to make the space more neutral. Nevertheless, it only jarred a little.
In short, this is a powerful achievement. The script has been made performable and exciting, and it is delivered by a master of his craft. A couple of minor issues do haunt the heels of this production, and a little more attention to detail would not go amiss. Nonetheless, an evocative whole, and worthy of plenty of attention.
Filed under: FringeReview Blog Article | Tags: acting, blog, ego, fringereview
I was having a friendly conversation with a director chum recently, and we were weighing up the pros and cons of ego in actors. It’s undeniable that actors, directors, and other theatre-types are often overburdened with an excess of ego, but have the ability to sublimate it when it comes to work. However, is this sublimation actually a positive process? Is it good for the actor to lose all sense of ego onstage, to become a completely blank slate for the director to make his mark?
We came to the conclusion that there, generally, isn’t a right or wrong answer, but it is interesting how our thoughts differed. My friend wanted ego-less actors, actors who were happy to take on and do anything he asked of them, which was equated to acting professionally. I agreed with him that this was important, but not necessarily what was most important to me in actors: I want actors who will bring something to a performance, who will inhabit the characters they are creating with their own reactions, born of their ego, that cannot be replicated. The discussion then continued around whether this was actually ego, which may have had something to do with the fact that I am working for him as an actor and definitely showing too much ego, but nonetheless…
I find the whole concept of ego, in this context, fascinating. Are actors sublimating their ego to take direct orders from a director? Or are they using their ego to embelish their scenes, characters and projects? How does this differ from serious work to comedy? Do you need an ability to work with and use ego, as well as knowing how to shut it off? What does everyone else think? I certainly haven’t come to anything conclusive.
Filed under: FringeReview Blog Article | Tags: acting, blog, corporate acting, fringereview
With an acting career that’s finally paying off, it’s hit me how it is entirely not what I expected when I first wanted this sort of work. I always thought I’d need more training, or at least some sort of ‘big break’, but no; it’s just sort of happened. Jobs that pay a little have come up in dribs and drabs, and it’s all started to add up rather excellently. Interestingly, they’re not your little plays in back-water towns, they’re corporate gigs. They’re workshops and short pieces. They’re a side of theatre I didn’t really think about, or realised existed until I got involved myself.
Now, I have no idea how widespread these type of gigs are, but I do recommend them, not only for the steady work. I’ve discovered so much more about myself as an actor in these jobs than I thought I would, and the difference in audience reaction is really striking. People aren’t there to be entertained, they’re often there to learn, or understand, or gain something from the situation beyond a laugh and a nice evening. The attention they give is a huge step from what I’m used to.
Final note: Nearly all of my old writing bits and pieces (that are in any way worth reading) are now on http://chrishislop.wordpress.com, have a look!
A man and a woman, in a bed. MAN is smoking and reading the newspaper. WOMAN is lying under the covers, idly watching MAN as the pages turn.
WOMAN
Jim?
MAN
(from behind paper) What?
WOMAN
Can we talk about something?
MAN
(from behind paper) Sure.
WOMAN
Well… Have you noticed something… different about me recently?
MAN
(from behind paper) Er-
WOMAN
You know, something… different?
MAN
(from behind paper) Er… (puts paper down) I dunno, babe. Did you dye your hair?
WOMAN
No-
MAN
Oh. (pause) No, I have no idea.
WOMAN
Well, look at this.
WOMAN raises the covers. MAN looks down.
MAN
Oh! Oh.
WOMAN
D’you like it?
MAN
I dunno, babe. I mean… What is it?
WOMAN
It’s supposed to be a J and a D. For us. Jim and Denise.
MAN
Oh. (pause) Doesn’t look like a J and a D. It just looks like you did something different with it. (WOMAN looks tearful) Doesn’t look bad. Just… different.
WOMAN
I did that three days ago.
MAN
So?
WOMAN
So? We’ve had sex since then and you didn’t notice a thing.
MAN
Er-
WOMAN
Look, I just think that our sex-life has gotten a bit… boring.
MAN
Boring!?!
WOMAN
Look, it’s not your fault, I just feel like we always do the same things. That there’s nothing new.
MAN
Oh. (pause) What did you have in mind?
WOMAN
Well, I don’t know…. We could, like, eat stuff off each other.
MAN
Eat stuff?
WOMAN
Yeah, yeah!
MAN
Er, ok.
WOMAN
OK, cool! What do you like?
MAN
What?
WOMAN
Well, what do you like to eat?
MAN
Er, well. I like toast.
WOMAN
Toast?
MAN
Yeah.
WOMAN
Well… em. Toast?
MAN
Yeah. Nice, buttered toast.
WOMAN
Well… I could… balance a slice of toast on my, er (gestures at breasts) Would that… be… good?
MAN
Er… Well… I dunno babe.
WOMAN
Maybe we should think of something else.
MAN
Yeah. When you were thinking of, like, this whole food-thing, what were you thinking of?
WOMAN
I dunno… I wasn’t really thinking… I dunno.
MAN
Well, it doesn’t have to be toast. It could be… curry.
WOMAN
What?
MAN
I love a good curry.
WOMAN
Curry?
MAN
Yeah.
WOMAN
It was silly to bring this up.
MAN
What? No, babe, come on…
WOMAN
No, I’ve had enough. We’re just going to have sex the old-fashioned way.
WOMAN gets out of bed, she is wearing PVC gear.
MAN
Fine.
MAN reaches under the covers and pulls out a bondage mask, which he slips on.
WOMAN
The safe word is… toast.
MAN
Oh you bitch.
WOMAN punches MAN onto bed. BLACKOUT.
