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in media res
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Posted: Fri Feb 2nd, 2007 02:25 am |
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Collaboration covers a lot of things.
Here is a question. Anyone ever gotten true inspiration from a poem or a quote or a novel or a screenplay or anything such as a news article or editorial or ANYTHING that sent them off in a completely different direction from the original piece? Or as a response to/from the original piece?
For example: Ibsen and Strindberg had their "go rounds" by reading each others' stuff and replying through their dramas.
This goes along with something I posted earlier. "For every word you write, read ten thousand."
in media resLast edited on Fri Feb 2nd, 2007 02:26 am by in media res
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Poet
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Posted: Fri Feb 2nd, 2007 04:35 am |
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A year or so ago I 'met' a chap online on the forum of a comp, and although we'd never met or spoken on the 'phone we were obviously of a similar character, age and humour (he posts on here as 'Jack'). Then one evening on the screen one of us - can't recall who - half jokingly suggested we write a play by e-mail.
We decided on a topic - a play writing comp - only the topic, not even a plot - and that we could have 3 characters each. Then I set off and wrote the first scene, he wrote the second, and we e-mailled them to each other simultaneously. Although I had no idea where Jack was going with his plot nor he of mine, we then carried on - I wrote the third scene, he the fourth, and we swapped.
We did this for the whole play! Slowly I began to have an idea of how his idea of the plot and how his characters might mesh with mine, as did he, so I started bending my scenes toward where I guessed he was going, and he did the same with mine.
For the second act where his and my characters meet, we still stayed writing scene-by-scene and then he took over writing for mine in his scenes, and I took over writing for his in mine. We'd never met, never spoken, but I think it's good, and I'd defy anyone to detect the joins.
We finished the entire first draft in about three weeks (and it was 25% over length!)- then he and his family came up to stay with me and mine. We still haven't given it the final polish (work pressures on both of us) - but we will.
It was a fascinating way to write anything - fast, fun and way energising - although I think we got lucky in the match!
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theatralite
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Posted: Fri Mar 16th, 2007 01:07 am |
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Not quite sure if this is the kinda thing you mean.
My farce Father Knows Best was inspired, if that's the right word, by reading John Gabriel Borkmann (Ibsen) and listening to a recording of Antigone. The opening scene like the later play begins with a dead body the two sisters have got to get rid of. But the ex-prostitute has actually shot her lover in a quarrel, accidentally, of course. Father is inspired by the Ibsen play and the Borkmann character. How far from the original can you get?
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carlblong
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Posted: Wed May 16th, 2007 08:59 pm |
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I played Creon on Jean Anouilh's version of Antigone when I was in high school. It's a play that's meant a lot to me over the years, and has had enormous influence on my own writing styles.
One question that came up was: where did it go from there? Sure, Antigone died, but her sister lived. Creon is forced to go forth after having lost a son. . . . I saw Ismene as a character of hope, and thought I'd write a play about her. That never really happened. I was doing too much in high school, and I don't think it was truly inspired.
Then, in September of 2001, I was trying to figure out what to do for a monologue-writing competition. After the planes flew into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, I suddenly found myself revisiting the character of Ismene, and in the last days of that month, I wrote 'Sphinx':
ISMENE
There are no children in Thebes. Not anymore. After the tragedies – after you died, they all stood up, no longer crawling, no longer four-legged mornings. Everybody’s older now. Everybody needs a crutch, a third leg to keep them up, but none can be found. Even Uncle Creon seems to falter. It’s funny: when you were still alive, he tried so hard to unite the city. Everybody cheered when Eteocles was buried. They came with wreaths and prayers for him, and Creon smiled.
After you buried Polynices and the rebellions started, he tried to keep the city together. I think that’s all he really wanted – stability. But Thebes is more unified in the wake of your death than it ever was behind Creon’s speeches and celebrations.
And when you died, everyone grew up. I saw a girl on the other side of the palace gates, looking in. She couldn’t have been more than five years old. God, Antigone, the look in her eyes! They were so empty. They were looking for meaning in what had happened. Looking back at her, I nearly cried. Here was a girl who should be playing in the streets with other children, and instead, her empty eyes tore into me as if I had the answers. And none of this would have happened if you –- No, I don’t blame you. No one does. You did what you had to do. It’s just, I don’t know whom to blame. I don’t have the answers.
It’s not just the little girl, either. Everyone looks at me like that. I don’t know if it’s because I’m your sister, or because I’m Creon’s niece. I can’t be their crutch. How do you hold up an entire city, Antigone? I’m just one woman!
(pause)
I’m not strong like you were.
Creon can’t handle it, either. He’s trying, still being king, still trying to be strong in the eyes of Thebes. I don’t envy him in the least. How do you shoulder a nation after a tragedy? I don’t think he really knows. At night, an old man peeks out from underneath the crown, his eyes tired, not from a hard day’s work, but because he doesn’t know what he’s working for. Then he’ll look up at me, and he’ll smile. He never says a word.
I try, too. I try to be the third leg that Thebes needs to stand. I try to do something to lift the kingdom out of the tragedy, but it’s right in our faces, every day. Eteocles’ vault, with all the decorations of a hero; your tomb. I find I don’t have the fortitude to be taken by all this. If you were here, and it was I in the tomb, you could have helped Thebes. But I’m not strong like you were. God, I wish I was. You could have made everything better. All I can do is hope. I do; I do hope. I hope that the children of Thebes will crawl again. I hope that the men and women will stand once more without a crutch. So we don’t all fall into the night.
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theatralite
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Posted: Wed May 16th, 2007 09:32 pm |
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Sincere thanks for sharing that piece with us.
I will print it off and hang it on my cork board in order
to savour it.
It's amazing the power the Greek plays still have.
A few years back I managed to get to a performance at Epidarus.
My Greek friend was disappointed that it was a below par performance.
I was entranced by the whole thing and it's still one of my foundest
memories.
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