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Mike Bartlett & I are on a writing retreat, working on Thrown, a play-with-music for the Royal Court.  It will have two rehearsed readings as part of the Court’s Rough Cuts season, for which you can buy tickets here.  Mike’s new play, Cock, opens at the Royal Court on 13th November 2009.

If you’re a regular reader of my thoughts [Hi mum!] you might have read that I’m not a big fan of musical theatre. However, as someone who both writes music and plays, I’m well aware of the power in both artforms; this all came to a head around a year ago, when Mike Bartlett asked me to collaborate on a play he was writing, called Thrown; it was still in development then (as it is now), and he was also interested in finding ways to allow dramatic action and music to interact and inform each other, without ending up with what we both perceived as the superficiality of musical theatre.

In true socialist fashion, the first thing that I did was to write A Manifesto.  As with nearly everything that sets itself up in opposition to something else, it’s a flawed statement of intent, but it did succeed in fixing a lot of the thoughts that we wanted to work on.  What with the usually hurried process of rehearsing for a reading, we had a limited time to get things together, and lots of my/our high-faluting ideas had to be left by the wayside, in order to get something performable ready in a couple of days.

So, fast forwarding to now- Mike and I are now in the town of Hunter, NY in the Catskill Mountains, courtesy of The Orchard Project and the Royal Court Theatre.  We’re here to work on the project some more and, in particular, make our links between the musical and theatrical elements clearer, bringing in some of the manifesto thoughts that we’d had to leave out of the play’s earlier incarnation.

What we’re striving for, while we’re here, is a piece of work in which the form and content inform each other- there should be a dialogue between the narrative of the play, and the structure we’re creating in order to tell that story.

Prior to coming here, I was a little baffled as to why the Court thought it was a good idea to send two English people, writing a play about England, and living within a 1 hour bus ride of each other, off to the Catskill Mountains, at great cost and inconvenience.  Having been here for a few days, though, it seems clear: what The Orchard Project have is a large number of artists in a small area, for a short period of time, all of whom are keen to talk about their practice, and to learn from the experiences of others.  Late-night discussions have become a commonplace, and it’s clear that there are a lot of extremely passionate theatremakers coming up through the colleges and universities.  I don’t think Mike and I would have been able to do the work we have so far, had we not been in this environment. It really is good not to have to be in London, sometimes.

I’m sure I’ll have more to say while I’m here; in particular, I’d like to talk a little more about how Mike and I are working on the play.  If, god forbid, you happen to have any questions about any of this, please do leave a comment and I’ll answer as fully as I can.

As it sounds: The Royal Court Theatre (of Sloane Square, London) are sending me, and playwright Mike Bartlett, off to a theatrical retreat in the Catskill Mountains in the north of New York State, so that we can work on a play together.

I’m not making this up.

Questions are arising in your mind, I imagine.  Questions like ‘Why are they sending you to New York, when you both live in London?’ and ‘Why now, when the project had seemed to be dead?’ and ‘How fucking lucky can you be?’.  I don’t know the answer to these questions, dear reader.  What I can tell you is that I’m going to be spending a lot of time writing music alongside Mike’s script, and that I’ll be taking lots of photos of a mountain, and quite possibly writing a lot of blogs about how totally sweet it is being up a mountain while you’re fed and watered and just expected to come up with some art.

It’s a hard life, eh?

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[A tiny caveat- I wrote this, it seems, exactly 2 years ago, and I've just found it again.  Clearly I'm trying to provoke discussion.  As I write it up, I'm sure I'll think of reasons why my thinking's flawed.  Perhaps you'd like to join in?]

As far as I know, naturalism doesn’t have a definition, in critical terms.  I’m not talking about Emile Zola and his ilk- I’m thinking of the mode of theatre that’s often classed as naturalistic. If you’ve ever taken part in a theatre-writing workshop, or been taught ‘how to write’, then you’re bound to have come across the term.  It appears to be one of those words that, because they are used so commonly, enter into the critical vocabulary without any concerted effort to define exactly what it is we’re talking about.

In short, it’s used to describe a form of theatrical presentation that attempts to mimic reality; almost analogous to photorealistic paintings, there’s never any suggestion that what you’re looking at is, in reality, the thing it’s pretending to be.  A spectator is never asked to believe that a painting is a photograph, or to believe that a play is reality; instead, the audience is asked to believe that what they’re seeing is an accurate representation of what might, or could, happen.

Elements that might be present in a naturalistic play include:

  • an attempt, by the writer, to capture nuances of dialect, pronunciation, stress and rhythms of speech, culled from observation of the real world.
  • an attempt, on the part of the actors, to portray a Stanislavskyan, well-rounded, believable character.
  • a realistic set, resembling objects and setting as close to a convincing version of reality as possible.
  • sound effects, to mimic the sounds of occurrences on, or off, stage.
  • an emphasis on believability of character action and plot progression.

So far, so obvious.  The first (and perhaps most obvious) problem with naturalism as a dramatic mode is that an accurate representation of real, actual life, as lived every day is not at all dramatic, in the textbook definition of the term.  Dramatic events are rare, and life-altering when they occur in real life, and yet they must happen frequently onstage in order, so we are told, to engage an audience.  This is precisely the reason why watching Big Brother Live is not interesting in the slightest: it’s non-event after non-event.

So, of course, in order to make something ‘interesting’ to an audience, dramatic situations have to be created: someone’s brother returns home after many years of absence, Big Brother turns off the water supply.  What we end up with is not all natural, but is naturalistic- it’s an awkward mode, balanced between wanting to seem real and wanting to be ‘dramatic’, and rarely succeeding at either.  An audience is presented with something that isn’t itself believable, but with something that they can imagine could be believable.  It’s an attempt to achieve a compromise between two modes that are basically incompatible.

Naturalism is, at the moment, the dominant mode of English-language-based theatre, for a number of reasons too many and various ever to know entirely, I suspect; one can make some sort of educated guess. though.  It is, of course, much easier to use an existing form of language than to attempt to define and use a new one, and it is much easier to find an audience for something that’s performed in an easily-recognised dialect or language.  From this (or, perhaps, in parallel with this), runs the concept of the realistic character who uses a familiar language, and behaves in a believable way.  The exact reasons why he does something may not be overtly stated, but they are present in some way.

So, we also come across the methods of acting currently en vogue and propagated by the various mainstream theatre schools.  These methods are all based on the same principles as the dominant thinking behind the writing of plays: the creation of believable characters who have reasons and motivations for their actions, and whose every statement is a result of his/her wanting something.  One feeds the other- writers create plays that actors will be trained appropriately enough to perform, and actors continue to be trained to perform the existing canon of plays.

It is only natural and perfectly ordinary that there should be a dominant mode of expression in any art form; it seems impossible to imagine a situation where all modes are equally present in the world.  It’s when a mode becomes ubiquitous to the point of monopoly that the art becomes stagnant and cloying.  As people, we have a subconscious tendency to view the passage of time as an improving and refining force and thus, in this situation, that we’ve been honing our approach to making theatre for thousands of years.  By extension, what’s happening now must be the best theatre that’s ever been made.  Looking around, though, that seems very unlikely, doesn’t it…?

The notion that naturalism and our current concept of dramatic action are what constitutes theatre itself is a dangerous one.  The end result can only be the circle of writers’ and actors’ intentions becoming tighter and tighter, smaller and smaller, until there is no looseness, no movement, no play in the play.  It will be a solidification and codification of an art form, based on the false idea that one mode of expression is that art form.  It’s a little like the idea that all songs should be in 4/4- it is the most commonly recognised time signature, but that doesn’t mean that an audience can’t understand others.  When Take 5 reached number 1 in the US, people were dancing to it quite happily, blissfully unaware that they were dancing to an unusual beat.

The dominance of naturalism can only be a bad thing.  It’s perpetuated by theatre producers, afraid that their imagined audience will be unwilling to watch something that differs from what they’ve seen before.  Writers are afraid (and justifiably so) that their work won’t be produced unless they write in this naturalistic mode that a producer will recognise.  Actors are afraid that they won’t be employable unless they know how to act in a particular way.  All of these are guilty of the horrific crime of underestimating their audience.  Once you start defining ‘audience’ as a single entity, interested solely in instant entertainment, with a short attention span, uninterested in anything more complex than surface glamour, then you’re not only patronising and underestimating the group of people you’re in the business of entertaining, but you’re also damning yourself to the role of a production line, reproducing work in the template of artworks that have come before.

I reject this naturalism, with this caveat- only an idiot discards a tool he may one day need.  Here, and now, I reject it.  The language of naturalism (by which I mean the entire construct by which theatre is produced, not only the written word) is inappropriate for contemporary theatre, as it has an inherent acceptance, on a basic linguistic level, of how the world is.  An acceptance of everyday language use implies an acceptance of everyday meaning, values, morality, and the status quo- in other words, the very things that a contemporary theatrical aesthetic should be challenging.

I reject naturalism because I don’t believe that entrenched values and concepts can be opposed solely by using the language that defines them and because, if there is one thing theatre should be doing, it is challenging these entrenched values.

Well, last night was the première (and, more than likely, the dernière) of a little thing I wrote for Paines Plough’s Later series of events, at Trafalgar Studios.  It was written for the lovely ladies of the Korova Milk Bar burlesque troupe, as you’ll know if you read my earlier post about it.

As seems traditional with these nights, we had next-to-no time to rehearse or choreograph anything, but the ladies really did do amazing things with no time and no resources.  This is, for the record, the first time that I’ve worked with dancers in this way (composing for them doesn’t count- you can just send dancers a CD, and then they bounce away to their hearts’ content…) and it’s a very enjoyable experience: as someone who has all the grace and poise of a Meccano giraffe, it’s really interesting to see people coming up with movement-based material off-the-cuff, as they did.  Anyway, they came up with something that really worked with, and offset, the spoken material very well, and I’m completely in awe of them.

And so, here we have a video; shot on my phone, it was never going to be professional quality, but it might give you an idea of what went on.  I think you can hear most of the dialogue if you listen carefully, but maybe you might like to follow along in the script. Or maybe not.

The ladies tell me that they’re going to be doing another Korova night in early 2009, and I heartily recommend that you go along to see them if you can.  More details when they announce it.

I’m only really writing this list so I can try to get my head around it- I feel like I’m precariously balanced on the verge of completely losing my mind.

  1. transcribing 4 new pieces for The Monroe Transfer‘s new album
  2. re-doing scores for Philippe Parreno’s new exhibition at Pilar Corrias’s new gallery (even though I have little idea what the scores are actually being used for…)
  3. trying to work out when I can meet up with a burlesque dancer to collaborate on a short performance piece for Paines Plough’s Later event on 22nd October.
  4. writing a 5-10 minute piece for celesta, ‘cello & double bass (for some competition or other)
  5. trying to work out how to play various showtunes for a musical this week.
  6. desperately looking for funding to make a short film I’ve adapted from a short play of mine: 10:16 – 10:19 (twice)
  7. trying to meet with director and producer, to work out when we can actually put heaven on in a theatre.
  8. arranging rehearsals for The Monroe Transfer.

And, of course, none of this is paid, so quite apart from scrounging a seemingly endless sum of money from The Lady, I’m spending craploads of time doing the most important thing:

9.  FINDING A FRIGMOTHERING JOB.

I have officially chosen the worst time in the economic history to attempt this.  Today will either be incredibly productive, or the most frustrating time I’ve ever had.  Pasta will help.

Over the recent Bank Holiday weekend, I was left at home on my own as The Lady was away; I had, as I normally do, a huge list of things I needed, or wanted, to get done.  None of them involved writing a new play but, as it turned out, that’s exactly what I did.

Now, my friend and one-time mentor Simon Stephens did exactly this with his play Motortown- his wife and family went away for a weekend, and he just wrote solidly.  In his case, as I’ve since found out from him, it was all planned in his head for months before, and the writing was just a matter of putting it down on paper.  In my case, it wasn’t quite so straightforward- if you’ve ever read or seen something of mine, you know that there’s normally a lot of weird stuff going on.  In the case of this particular play, all the strange things had been floating around in my head for a long, long time, and over this weekend it was a little like sticking a screwdriver into my head, and the accumulated pressure blowing all this stuff all over the page.  It’s not a pleasant bit of writing, and the writing of it wasn’t particularly pleasant, either; it was a lot like lancing some sort of infection- disgusting, but strangely satisfying.

And, of course, spending about 20 hours a day in front of a computer on the same task, listening to ambient music (William Basinski, Taylor Dupree & Christopher Willits, Brian Eno and Arvo Part, if you’re interested) can have a strange effect on the brain, especially if it’s spewing all all this disgusting stuff onto the page.  Going outside into sunlight and air was a little strange, on the Monday morning.  Quite an odd weekend, all told.

So, taking Simon’s advice (and, indeed, doing what I would probably do anyway) I’m leaving it in a drawer for a couple of weeks, and then having a read through of it, seeing what occurs.  At the moment, my abiding thoughts are that it’s quite horrible, absurd and nasty.  It’s not a pleasant read, I don’t think.  At the moment, I like it.  Let’s see how I feel about it in a couple of weeks, shall we…?

Mike Bartlett & I are, intermittently, working on a project together, involving music by me and words by him; we’ve already performed a short version of the piece at the Royal Court, who seem to be enthusiastic about our taking it further. As part of the preparations for this, I wrote a little bit about why I cannot stand Musicals and, a little later, went on to set out a manifesto for a different way of combining music & theatre.

In a small way, I’m a musician, composer and playwright; I love theatre, and I love music. This is why I despise Musical Theatre. Musicals are an affront to anyone who cares one iota about the impact that theatre or music can have. They can never express anything deeper than the purely superficial, and can’t show anything interesting about the world. Here’s a, far-from-exhaustive, selection of reasons why:

The music is always trite, cliché-ridden, cheap and emotionally manipulative, and the narrative likewise.

No emotion is ever expressed that can’t be summed up in a rhyming couplet.

The entire premise is inconsistent- the idea of naturalistic acting being interrupted by a band, and by breaking into song, is an incoherent mess of a structure.

The idea that, as emotional intensity increases, the only way to express oneself is through song is flawed. a) people don’t become more expressive as they become more emotional; if anything, it’s the opposite. b) any attempt to become more eloquent through music is immediately frustrated by the need for rhyme, rhythm, singing range etc, which confines rather than liberates the character & performer.

Singing well is hard. Acting well is hard. Finding one person who can do both these things is very, very hard. Finding a cast who can do both very well is nigh on impossible.

Musicals are expensive, and thus have to make a lot of money to make it worthwhile; this means appealing to as many people as possible, challenging nothing and offering a cheap emotional sop to all.

Part of this need to make money results in the need to make something showy, glitzy and gaudy which, patently, the world is not.

Music, sound and song are never the product of the world they’re in- they come from some out-of-world decision that “we need some song here”, not from an in-world activity or emotion. The music is just layered on top of the narrative.

There’s no dialogue between the forms- one of the signs of something’s artistic worth is that the form and content inform each other. In the creation of the work, they should be considered equally; there should be a dialogue and interrogation between them that explains their relationship. In Musical Theatre very little, if anything, makes the musical and theatrical elements a cohesive whole.

“Hummable tunes”, easily achieved emotional gratification, a plot simply designed to string pop songs together, music and narrative composed by lumping together populist clichéd tropes like Lego blocks- these are fucking anathema.

Heaven

So, in terms of things I’ve written that may have some sort of future, it’s all looking quite quiet.  After some very positive feedback from the Film Council about a feature-length script called Lifted, I’m going to take another pass at it; I’m also slowly hacking through a pilot script for an animated comedy show called Soup.  Neither of these have any particular goal at the moment, but heaven (a play that’s had a reading at the Royal Court, directed by James Macdonald, no less) should be going on at a theatre somewhere in the future.  That’s about as precise as I can be at the moment but, at the very least, some people want to put it on somewhere.  The actual theatres themselves may have other ideas about it…

I’m sure I’ll write more about it sometime, but here’s a word cloud from Wordle – the words that appear most commonly are largest in the image.  I think it gives a pretty good impression of what the play’s actually about; have a click to see it a little larger…

Bam.

Well, after spending a few days discussing with my friend Ben Walker the merits of various different sites, in order to find an audience for your artistic outpourings, this seemed quite a sensible way of doing things. So, here we are. On the “About” page, it looks like you can find out more about me in general, and presumably I’ll be able to have a page where you can look at my CVs, and see if you’d like to employ me to do something for you. Lots of projects are nearing completion, and others are just kicking off, so hopefully I’ll actually have something to write about. But, of course, as with making music, writing plays, writing films, playing gigs etc. the real problem isn’t “doing the thing you want to do”- it’s “finding people who’ll want to be an audience” or, even more challenging “finding people who’ll want to be a paying audience”.

Let’s hope for the best, eh…?