Notes on 'Strange Attractors'

Image by Lindsey Estep for the University of Idaho Department of Theatre Arts.

We started rehearsing this play sometime in mid-January, and it ran February 3-7 as the capstone for its workshopping process.

Synopsis

Brinn Greene, an amateur novelist from Spokane, Washington, is forward and firm but not confident enough in herself to publish her books or to flee her less-than-healthy relationship with Dillon, her current boyfriend.  Dillon has constructed not only a strict trip plan and budget, but also a list of actions Brinn has to take if she marries him.  When the play opens, Dillon is driving Brinn across the state to Bellvue in her camper to live with her bright, saucy mother, Louise.  While Brinn swats at a housefly in the moving camper, Dr. Layne Arvin, a motion-sick math professor and freelance chaotician, stumbles in from the camper’s bathroom.  He has, in a bizarre moment of severe disorientation, mistaken her camper for his motel room.  Brinn stops Layne from vacating the moving vehicle by discussing chaos theory with him.

At a gas station, Brinn convinces Dillon to drive Layne to Bellevue, where they can put him on a flight home.  Layne loses his wallet and laptop, however, and will have to stay at Louise’s house.  Upon arrival in Bellevue, Layne meets Louise, who has painted what he recognizes as a fractal on her ceiling.  Louise wants to pray over dinner, and Dillon tries to humiliate Layne by asking him to say the prayer.  Layne has no objection.  He simply says, “We are thankful for the events that accumulated in our safe arrival, and please help us not to mess anything up.  Amen,” and discusses with Louise his views on science and religion.  Dillon vies for Louise’s attention but is only able to get it when he asks her to leave the room with him.  This gives Layne the opportunity to dance with Brinn in the living room and talk to her about science, mathematics, Dillon, and societal phenomena.

The next morning the family wants to go out, but Layne can’t put his shirt on right-side-out because he still feels ill.  Brinn helps him with his shirt and he and she bond while he demonstrates chaos theory in spitting and telescopes.  Dillon walks in on Brinn and Layne together and is furious, but he is willing to forgive Brinn and asks her to marry him.  She says no.  This makes him even angrier with Layne, and he is determined to secure Brinn for himself by taking her on an outing.  While Brinn and Dillon are out, Louise tells Layne that he is the best person for her daughter, but Layne doubts himself and states that Brinn is too smart to want to be with him.  Louise gives him Brinn’s late father’s notes for an essay he was writing and asks him to add his notes about chaos theory to it.  Layne is honored by the gesture and enamored by the essay, so he puts on a music CD while he reads it.  After a moment, Layne discovers that Louise has died during the song. 

After Louise’s funeral, Dillon confronts Layne with his long-awaited plane ticket, but now Layne doesn’t want it; he wants to stay with Brinn.  Dillon starts a fight with Layne.  Brinn comes in and stops it.  She breaks up with Dillon again and he leaves.  Brinn tells Layne she has to move out because her brother has inherited the house.  She wants to move to his hometown.  Layne objects, saying he will be a burden to her because of his condition, but Brinn helps him to retrace the events that led him to her, solidifying their love for one another.  They repeat the prayer Layne said at dinner, and they embrace. 

The play ends.

The Writing Process

Strange Attractors relates to the fields of science and technology primarily through the significance of chaos theory in the script, story, and structure.  Not only do the characters discuss the basics of chaos theory, these basics become the foundation for the events that occur in the play as well as the existence of the universe and of the characters themselves.  I refrained from dividing the play into specified acts because I wanted to preserve the continuation of the action to show the relationship of events as appearing random but being connected by tiny variations in initial conditions. The play illustrates the technological age we live in, too, not only by showing our reliance on cellular phones and laptops, but also by its relation of chaos theory to computer science’s innovations.

The process of Strange Attractors has been scientific, artistic, and spiritual.  In late 2008 I directed a short play mentioning the Pioneer and Voyager spacecrafts.  Research for the play led me to a science symposium, where I was intrigued by the basics of chaos theory.  I soon found characters who could articulate what I found so profound about it; people who were parts of me: the unpublished author; the anxiety-ridden, motion-sick intellectual; the insecurely demanding human being; and the intrigued listener.  I had visited the Spokane and Bellevue areas that year, and I had nearly purchased a camper to live in, and in these events I found the settings for the play.  I wrote Strange Attractors in my Moscow, Idaho apartment, listening to a variety of music and reading through a stack of mathematics and physics books.  During the process I also directed the above-mentioned short play, which helped me connect emotionally to Strange Attractors.  Another emotional factor in the unfolding of Strange Attractors was the passing of Aunt Janis, one of the most enlightened people in my life.  After I finished the first draft, I was able to loosen my emotional attachments and enter the script into a workshop under the mentorship of Associate Professor Robert C. Caisley at the University of Idaho, where it received a staged reading directed by M.F.A. candidate Anthony B. Brinkley in April of 2009.  That June, Strange Attractors received a staged reading in the Play Lab at the Last Frontier Theatre Conference, coordinated by Dawson Moore in Valdez, Alaska.  From these readings to the present, I have performed further research and revisions.

Future Aspirations

As the author and an avid theatre practitioner, I envision Strange Attractors as one day being available to the international public both onstage and in script form so that it will reach as many people as possible and help them to further understand the sciences.  This is also why I plan to make sure that any scientific discrepancy in the script will be promptly resolved before production and/or publication in order to preserve accuracy, and why I plan to make the dialogue in the script more accessible to everyone.  Because science has always been my favorite area of learning, I strive to never willingly separate it from my artistic endeavors.  Therefore, I envision Strange Attractors as bringing to pass the collaboration of the arts and sciences in a way that invites and encourages everyone to appreciate the arts and sciences equally and more fully.  When I imagine the play’s future, I see Strange Attractors as telling the story, through theatre, of how art and science meet and fall in love every day.

The UI Workshop Production Process

The first drafts came about by a combination of factors that included camper shopping, a directing class, an apartment full of flies, a symposium on science and religion, a box of pecan cookies, and the passing of my aunt.  Yet I was looking for something deeper than cookies and symposia.  I wanted insights into how the universe works and how the individual fits into it.  Through the production process of this play, I have found it: Everyone who has contributed to this project is part of an equation, and human connection is what makes us who we are as individuals, an ensemble, and a species.  The combined effort and love of everyone involved in this play has renewed my faith in mankind and our potential.  

Thank you, everyone.  Thank you.




See our photos!
 http://www.uidaho.edu/class/theatre/productions/sa.aspx

Audiences

The snow on these trees will not look exactly like this next winter. It might look similar, but it won't be the same. It's also that way with live performance.


Introduction

I’m pondering theatre again and I felt a strong urge to write about what I believe is theatre’s most important element: The audience. The audience is not only a spectator, but a performer, because it has such a profound range of influences on the rest of the show. Notice that the more input the audience gives, the more output the performance gives. If you laugh, will the actors be louder? I had a recent opportunity to try this, and it worked! The audience is your most important factor. Aristotle’s six elements only help to build to a goal: the experience of performer and audience.

In order to set up my argument, I want to mention trajectory. My high school speech and drama teacher, Gloria Stumme, told us that an anonymous person said “The actor is forever carving statues of snow,” and it has always been something I have believed to be truth in live theatre. Every performance is unique. Tiny variations in performance result in major differences in how a spectator or performer reacts to the production as a whole. Theatre has the ability to change the way people see a situation. It can incite someone to action. It can teach. It can entertain. It can do all of these things and more, even simultaneously. There are smaller factors it depends on in order to achieve the desired result with the audience. Our choices during these small moments are vastly important in the final trajectory (outcome) of a production.

Something else that affects the overall reaction by a given person to a performance is each variation in how the spectator feels. His reaction is not only influenced by the performance but by factors we can’t control (whether or not he hasn’t eaten all day, if he’s having trouble in a relationship, the death of someone close to him, personal connections to the work, being tired, having an illness, et cetera) and factors we can control (the temperature in the theatre, the arrangement of the seats, the accessibility of the restrooms, et cetera). Of course we can’t control a spectator’s reaction to what we can control, but we can do our best to make the facilities work for the spectator.

Our responsibility as artists to the audience is, firstly: To defy expectations and give them an experience like no other artistic experience they have ever had or expected to have in their lifetime, and secondly: To inform them and educate them through what we present, whether it is meant to incite social change or chiefly to entertain. We’re not effective enough, and we can tell that because we’re losing our audiences. The theatre’s effect on the audience isn’t enough of an effect. In my essay “Just Quit Now” I emphasized ways in which theatre fails to draw audiences. In this paper I want to stress how we can hold onto our audiences, and how we can do it through factors we can control.

We can Hold on to an Audience with our Choice of Material

Your best chance at reaching your audience is to choose the best possible approach for what you desire to say to that audience. It isn’t the set or costumes. It isn’t the makeup design. It isn’t the script. It isn’t anything but what you are saying. Everything else just helps to build it up.

It’s common knowledge that the pre-evening lives of spectators influence their theatrical experiences. If the people in your community all work at emotionally-taxing jobs from nine to five and go to the theatre at seven-thirty, they’re probably going to want a show that takes their mind off of theirs and others’ problems. Seeing Arthur Miller’s All My Sons probably isn’t going to do that for them. In some areas, audience members who have children want to bring them to the theatre, so a lot of plays are eliminated from selection in that case. If you don’t want to cater to the audience in a given area, go find your audience somewhere else. Ann Bogart writes in And then, You Act that the audience does not come to you, so you can go to the audience; and that may be your solution.

Yet if you so have to stay in your favorite area, you can quit producing plays for the wrong demographic. For example, if you’re in an area full of people who like Golden Age musicals, they usually don’t seem to appreciate anything unlike a Golden Age musical. I once watched two women walk out of a blackbox performance of Dr. Faustus, saying “This isn’t theatre.” That was when I wondered if some people even wanted intellectual stimulation after a long, hard day. So give them what they want if ticket money or "putting butts in the seats" is your objective.

We don’t tell the truth in our plays, either. Not only do we fail to choose productions that speak to the audiences in our geographical areas or hold relevance to our time period, we don’t write these plays. We tend to write plays about the way we wish things were rather than the way they are or could be. Theatre is becoming a place where we put our thoughts on current issues out for everyone to see, and many of our audiences want us to be precise rather than speculative, so why don’t we take advantage of that? Our choosing to write material may be what our audience needs at a given time.

I remember when we went to a play and my father fell asleep. When he woke up he walked out of the theatre and slept in the car. When I asked him why he did that, he said he was too tired from work to sit through a play. Yet I’d never seen him fall asleep during a three-hour movie. I began to think perhaps movies captivate better than theatre does. Ann Bogart writes about the seven aspects of being compelling, and I agree with her. We’re not captivating enough. We let the action get away from us, or we take too long to change scenes, or the play isn’t important enough to individual audience members on a personal level. I recommend And Then, You Act for a discussion the of seven elements of magnetism that make theatre compelling.

It’s true, though, that sometimes the plays that appeal to the demographic don’t draw a crowd any more than other plays do. There are reasons to counter this, which I will explain here.

We Can Help Audiences Tolerate Being There

We should be able to keep our audiences physically comfortable (unless we want them to be uncomfortable in order to better take in a play’s message of unease). Earlier I wrote that small variations in the performance could affect how any given member of the audience reacts to the performance as a whole. We don’t pay attention to this, though. We let our buildings be either too hot (because we won’t turn a fan on—it sucks up electricity and money) or too cold (we won’t turn the heater on—it burns up electricity and money). It might occur to us that if theatres were as comfortable as living rooms, more people would go back to them, but we ignore that. Why? Why do we think we can’t have a heater or air conditioning? We’re afraid it would take away from our “spectacle budget”, but if in the final trajectory more people showed up to the theatre, our "spectacle budget" for the next show would be bigger. I wish we’d take the concept of investment into account.

We can take better care of our spaces. Why don’t we take as good of care of backstage as we do of the house? I know we don’t have the money to renovate the theatres in our communities, but why don’t we at least clean them? You don’t need to hire a janitor. Do it yourself. We didn't let the janitor into our high school auditorium, not that I remember, anyway, and the place stayed pretty much immaculate. Why don’t we vacuum? Do we not have time? We claim we don’t, and that we don’t have the money for cleaning supplies. As a result, our theatres look like something from Silent Hill. One theatre I know of has a good inch of dust buildup on a ledge against the wall in the house. It also has heaps of moldy sawdust and piles of mouse excrement in the dressing rooms. Another theatre has stalactites of dust and grime hanging from the ceiling. Many theatre restrooms I’ve peed in are a disgrace. All they need is someone to go through them with a mop, not a thousand-dollar cleaning job. Forget that the cleaning time and money can go toward your set and your costumes and your makeup. That is nothing compared to the audience you will lose. If messy theatres are the case too often, the audiences will tend to think “I don’t want to go back there because the bathrooms make me sick” rather than something about the new show the theatre had in there and how at a later date they might want to see another one that was just as inventive. We must be more responsible for our spaces, including the parts the audience doesn’t see during the show. Two years ago I argued with a designer about this. He would rather have had a flawless design and no audience than a full house and a set made of less-expensive wood. Yet aren’t we masters of illusion? Can’t we make something look expensive when it isn’t? Aren’t most designers great talents who can create whatever they want from a pile of nearly nothing? Isn’t that part of the magic of the theatre? I guess not according to someone who is a designer for the sake of spectacle alone. Bogart says spectacle is an aspect of magnetism, but I’m telling you that it is not the only aspect.

Yet we ought not to take necessities away for aesthetics. By this I mean the basic tools for lighting and sound. In one theatre I know of, they’ve ripped out the lighting in order to paint and carpet the house, even if it didn’t need to be re-carpeted. As a result, the theatre has been rendered nearly useless because the type of space it is does not allow for performers to be seen or heard without the aid of lighting and sound equipment. So it is possible to go too far.

We Can Avoid Neglecting the Audience’s Intelligence

By "neglecting" I mean both underestimating and not nourishing it. We’re not serious about our spaces and we’re not serious about the audience, either. I was mad at a community lightboard operator for turning the lights on and off rapidly instead of going house-to-half. That was before I was into theatre, when I was maybe thirteen years old. I as an audience member knew that the lights were supposed to go house-to-half. That was a lesson for me that audiences are a lot smarter than theatre people tend to think they are. When I think back on it, I feel that as audience members we want the artists to acknowledge our intelligence by not insulting it with baloney, either. Too many theatre artists might be thinking about physical reactions to a play rather than the audience’s internal reaction to it, so we as artists start acting like complete idiots with our writing or directing or whatever we’re doing in order to make the audience physically react (laugh, cry, pee their pants, gasp, have a heart attack, spew compliments, write hate mail, etc.) rather than pose questions the individuals in the audience can take out of the theatre and think about in daily life, even if perhaps they only think about them by accident while taking a pee or a shower or taking the dog out to pee or scrubbing out the shower. We don’t take into account that if spectators have these questions, whether they know it or not, they might come back to the theatre a second or third time because of the feeling they have when they go there, whether or not they are aware of it. We let mediocrity happen, though, and then say, “Oh, well, it’s just community theatre anyway.” Why do we treat audiences like they don’t know what we know? Too many of our new productions aren’t intellectual “conversations” with the audience. Rather, they’re lectures to the audience. We don’t treat our spectators as though we are on the same level, especially when our aim is to teach. We don’t do our research when we write plays, either, almost as though nobody in the audience is going to be smart enough to know whether or not we did our research. Getting the audience to come back to the theatre is going to take effort on our part to humble ourselves and not see ourselves as always right and the audience as toddlers.

We must tell the truth in our programs. One lie we need to stop telling is using budget problems and saying it’s the “style.” That is weak! Audiences know the real reason your set is unfinished. If audiences think theatre people are full of crap, then they just might think twice about seeing a live performance again. If you had a million dollar budget and still did it in t-shirts and jeans on black acting cubes “because it illustrates the message that life is bleak,” then I’ll believe you. Otherwise, it is a weak excuse, and we’re going to know the real reason is the budget anyway. Never make an excuse. If you can’t tell the truth, say nothing. Saying nothing is by far the nobler thing to do than making excuses. Stop covering up the truth, stop being ashamed of your performance, stop thinking the audience will want some justification. Believe me. They know your work is needs-based, and oftentimes they don’t care. “Style” is no excuse. Never try to cover anything up with excuses involving the “style” or the “meaning” or the “metaphor.” When you do that, you are assuming your audience is stupid or infantile, and in reality they are anything but.

In Conclusion

One of my theatre books by a wise theorist (whom I do not remember at the time but will add later) asked the age-old question: “If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound?” (Meaning if there is not even the smallest insect ear to hear it). If there is nothing to hear the sound, in theory, there is no sound. It is that way with performance. Unless we are performing only for ourselves, we must remember that no part of our performance is as important as the audience. If they aren’t there, there is no point.

.

Just Quit Now

I'm going to be blunt on this: Theatre People Have a Problem!

Here are the Options: Market or Quit.

Community and academic theatre practitioners need to realize that their only hope to save their time, money, and sanity is to quit doing theatre. If we want to do art, it’s not working, so unless we can fix that, just quit now. I seriously doubt we can fix it, though, because we’ve ruined theatre. We’ve killed it. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves at what we’ve let theatre become: a cheesy, wussy, childish, hard-to-understand bore. We need to quit. We need to give up right now. Resign. We all need to retire, apologize to the world for killing one of its art forms, and go do something else with our lives.

Or we could fix it. Our responsibility as artists to the audience is to deliver to them something they did not expect when they came to the theatre and to give them an experience like no other artistic experience they have ever had in their lifetime. In order to do that, we have to get them to come to the theatre. If we can’t do that, we should just quit now because it won’t improve if we keep doing what we're doing. The primary reason we should quit is that we are losing our audiences, and the way to fix that problem is something we can sum up in one word: Marketing.

In The Empty Space, Peter Brook wrote: “All through the world theatre audiences are dwindling. There are occasional new movements, good new writers and so on, but as a whole, the theatre not only fails to elevate or instruct, it hardly even entertains” (10), and that was in 1968. If it was that bad forty years ago, we’re in big trouble today because we haven’t improved. The theatre’s effect on the audience isn’t enough of an effect. You’d think your best chance at reaching your audience would be to choose the best possible approach for what you are trying to say to the audience. You’d think wrong, of course. Audiences don’t like art. They like Golden Age musicals, staged Disney films, dinner theatre murder mysteries, and anything cutesy, “family-friendly” (meaning childish), tourist-friendly, or Shakespeare (just because it’s Shakespeare). They don’t go to see anything you produce if it doesn’t fit the description of something they’ve seen a thousand times before. Even then, though, not enough people are going to the theatre. The only way you’re going to make money is if you stop doing art. Go do something else. Go back to college and earn another degree. Quit being an artist and go be a cog in a corporate machine.

Or—and this is the solution—we can create our own little machines. We’re losing our audiences because we’re not paying enough attention to marketing our products. We’re producing plays for the wrong demographic, but we can counter it. Your average person might not want intellectual stimulation, but some people do. If we’re in an area full of people who like Golden Age musicals, they’re not going to appreciate something unlike a Golden Age musical. If the people in your community all work at emotionally taxing jobs from nine to five and go to the theatre at seven-thirty (I've yet to meet an Idaho theatre that starts at 8:40), they’re going to want a show that takes their mind off of theirs and others’ problems. Some young people might believe going to the theatre isn’t fun or a cool thing to do with their friends. How do we all solve that? We make the plays important. We advertise the plays like this: “You’ll be smart and cultured for seeing it, you’ll have a great time and forget your problems (maybe), and everyone else is going to it.” That way it appeals to the interests of more than one group within a larger group; in example, the intellectuals, those seeking entertainment, and those who want to feel like they’re part of the “in crowd.”

The next problem we have, though, is that we feel we can’t afford to advertise. We feel like we can’t take money from our budget and put it toward anything other than the spectacle. We’re wrong, of course, because that money would pay off in ticket sales. There are people in music and film that the general public idolizes, but there do not seem to be as many of these idols in the theatre. This is mostly because the film and music idols have better marketing. If we had proficient marketing, we would have actors the community looked forward to seeing, and we would have notorious directors whose work audiences liked to see. If we had radio and television interviews with theatre professionals, radio and television commercials for plays, reviews in newspapers, and other ads in addition to the posters and flyers we post in one or two windows rather than all over town, our theatre would seem important and worth attending. We don’t access every aspect of publicity we can. We don’t want to advertise. That means we don’t care about our work. If we don’t care about our work, let’s just quit now.

We have three choices: Market better, keep pretending theatre is still alive until we realize we’ve killed it and have to quit, or quit now. The second option is where we are. If we continue with it, we’ll keep losing our audiences until we have no one for whom to create our works. If we don’t take the first option immediately and set aside some of our budget for better marketing, then we might as well take the third option and quit immediately and save ourselves time, effort, stress, and money.

Have a nice day.

Work Cited: Brook, Peter. The Empty Space. New York: Macmillan, 1968.

You do not need a place like this to produce a play. Peter Brook wrote that theatre is NOT red curtains, chorus lines, aisles, fold-up seats, etc. All that is needed for an act of theatre to take place is an empty space, a performer, and a spectator. The sooner we get out of the rut we're in, the better.

What in the Harold Pinter Almost Happened?

By Mattie Roquel Rydalch

Did you know...The Birthday Party almost killed Harold Pinter's career?

It's true.  Check this out.

In 2009 I wrote a huge (it was huge to me) essay on a few Pinter plays, and while I was doing research for that, I read an article about Pinter’s play The Birthday Party, which today is often considered to be one of the most important and influential plays in Western theatre).  Here’s the source of the article I read.

Billington, Michael. “Fighting talk.” The Guardian, Saturday 3 May 2008.

<http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/may/03/theatre.stage>

The article was written prior to Harold Pinter’s death in December of 2008. Let me tell you what this article said about The Birthday Party nearly ruining Pinter’s playwriting career. You’ll pee your pants! Well, maybe not, but you’ll probably feel at least a tingle.

According to Billington, The Birthday Party opened on a Monday in 1958, and the producers pulled it that Saturday because the critics were confused as all-get-out. Pinter nearly quit being a playwright over it. He nearly stuck to writing novels.  

WA Darlington, Daily Telegraph, May 20, 1958: “The author never got down to earth long enough to explain what his play was about, so I can't tell you. But I can give you some sort of sketch of what happens, and to whom.” MWW, Guardian, May 21, 1958: “…although the author must have explained his play to the cast, he gives no clues to the audience . . . What [it all] means, only Mr Pinter knows, for as his characters speak in non sequiturs, half-gibberish and lunatic ravings, they are unable to explain their actions, thoughts or feelings.” Kenneth Tynan, Observer, May 25, 1958: “The message, the moral, and any possible moments of enjoyment, eluded me.” JC Trewin, Illustrated London News, May 31, 1958: “The Birthday Party is bewildering without being especially enjoyable . . . Mr Pinter has insisted on a beginning, a middle, and an end. Chronologically, I suppose, they are in the right order. Otherwise, all I can add is that your guess about the play's significance is as good as, if not better than, mine” (Billington).

Pinter told Billington, “‘The morning after the first night [of the play] […] I went to a cafe in Chiswick High Road, ordered a coffee, and sat down and read all the papers. I was shattered. I thought there and then that I’d give up writing plays and concentrate on novels and poetry. I came back to our flat and said to my wife, Vivien, “I’m giving up the whole bloody business. What’s the point?’” (Billington). This was only the second play Pinter wrote.  Keep in mind that this person was later a Nobel prizewinning playwright.  This is the moment where he almost quit before it ever happened. 

And why did his play get such a crummy review?

Billington wrote, “Pinter is notoriously reluctant to analyse his own work.  What shines through all the reviews is a baffled anger at Pinter’s failure to explain himself. Who is Stanley? What do Goldberg and McCann signify? And what is the mysterious “organisation” they represent? The persistence of these questions tells us a lot about the culture of the late 1950s, in which works of art were still expected to provide rational answers to clearly defined questions. Examine the popular novels of the period […] and you find they are working within an essentially realistic framework: one in which there are solutions to social and professional issues. […] Theatre had, in many ways, been beneficially liberated by Beckett and Osborne; but […] many of the old forms and customs remained intact. […] For proof, you need only look at the context in which The Birthday Party appeared in May 1958. In the previous month, critics had been confronted by drawing-room comedies and thrillers with titles like Breath of Spring, Not in the Book, Something to Hide and Any Other Business. Two weeks before Pinter’s play opened, Rattigan’s Variations on a Theme had also offered a conventional update of Dumas’s La Dame aux Caméllias. Significantly, the most formally daring and thematically adventurous play of the preceding weeks, Ann Jellicoe’s The Sport of My Mad Mother at the Royal Court, had been greeted with an uncomprehending hostility that matched that of The Birthday Party. In short, there was no 'revolution' in the late 1950s, merely a process of gradual change” (Billington).

It seems Pinter was excited about the play, and this could have added to his disappointment.  “What is clear is that Pinter himself was almost destroyed by the reviews. Buoyed by the initial success of The Room at Bristol University in May 1957, he sat down to write The Birthday Party that summer while touring in Doctor in the House. ‘I remember,’ says Pinter, ‘writing the big interrogation scene in a dressing room in Leicester’” (Billington).

Looking back on the incident, Billington surmises that “The reaction to The Birthday Party also proves something else: that the visionary artist is always ahead of the critics and, to some extent, the public. There is a consistent pattern in postwar theatre in which ground-breaking works are greeted with initial incomprehension. It happened with […] Beckett's Waiting for Godot in 1955, The Birthday Party in 1958 […] and Edward Bond's Saved in 1965. What is surprising about The Birthday Party is that, even if it leaves much unexplained, it still boasts familiar landmarks. It has a traditional three-act structure. It is also full of mystery and suspense (Billington)”. After reading this, I can't help but wonder if after the current conflict ends there will be plays that are met with confusion at first and revered later. I wonder who will write them. I hope it’s people who aren’t already winning Tonys and Pulitzers. I hope it’s “regular” people.

Though the newspaper writers were confused when the play was first staged, Billington is able to analyze elements of the play.  “I put it to Pinter, and he readily agreed, that if it were Smith and Jones, rather than Goldberg and McCann, who came through the door, the play would not work. Having forsaken religion at the age of 13, Pinter represents through Goldberg the patriarchal aspects of Jewish orthodoxy; and, having worked extensively in Ireland as an actor in the 1950s, he makes McCann an example of an oppressive Catholicism. But, in Pinter’s richly ambivalent world, the oppressors are themselves victims of larger forces” (Billington).  I wonder: Could the ability to analyze The Birthday Party have evolved since its first production?

Billington seems to think so.  “The ultimate paradox of The Birthday Party is that the same words will be spoken on the stage of the Lyric Hammersmith in 2008 as in 1958, yet they will have acquired new meaning. Our response to the play now is, in fact, informed by multiple factors: our knowledge of Pinter's politics; our love of drama that avoids narrative resolution; our awareness of intimidation techniques that continue up to, but certainly won’t end, with Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib. Virginia Woolf saw a shift in human sensibility in the early years of the 20th century. I would argue that an equally profound one has taken place in the past 50 years, and that we respond more readily to art that is finally unresolved, inexplicable and mysterious” (Billington).

Interestingly, not all reviews of The Birthday Party In 1958 were negative.  Harold Hobson with the Sunday Times was able to see what Pinter was trying to do with the play.  

May 25, 1958:  “‘Mr Pinter has got hold of a primary fact of existence. We live on the verge of disaster . . . There is terror everywhere. Meanwhile, it is best to make jokes (Mr Pinter’s jokes are very good), and to play blind man’s buff, and to bang on a toy drum, anything to forget the slow approach of doom […] The fact that no one can say precisely what it is about, or give the address from which the intruding Goldberg and McCann come, or say precisely why it is that Stanley is so frightened of them, is, of course, one of its greatest merits. It is exactly in this vagueness that its spine-chilling quality lies. If we knew just what Miles had done, The Turn of the Screw would fade away. As it is, Mr Pinter has learned the lesson of the Master. Henry James would recognise him as an equal’” (Billington).  

Just a side note about that: I’ve read James' The Turn of the Screw, and now that I look back on it, I think if I didn’t know it was written prior to Pinter, I might have described it as “Pinteresque.”

In the past, I've given up on my work too easily—it’s less complicated to just throw a script away and move on to another one—but I think from reading this article I’ve learned that although sometimes things don’t work the first time, second chances can’t hurt.   Whoever produced The Birthday Party after it flopped was probably taking a risk, but in the end, it helped an important work of theatre to survive and thrive.  Many thanks to whoever that was, and many thanks to Michael Billington, Harold Pinter, and to you (the reader).

Now go write something.

What is a Scenographic Model?

My old space at another website had a blog about it. I'll republish it here. Please forgive my use of passive voice in a few places...I wrote this in March of '05.

"Some people who visit this site are confused by the term 'scenographic model.'

"sceno-graph-ic=scene/draw/related to

"The above word-attack might help you. The purpose of the model is to create a picture of a scene.

"A scenographic model is a wonderful thing! Gary Benson from Brigham Young University-Idaho taught me how to build a scenographic model. These are scale models of the set for any given production. The models are most often built in 1/4", 1/2", and 3/4" scale. They include the sets and properties for the play. Furniture, walls, curtains, rugs--objects of all descriptions that are in the play can be fabricated to scale to be placed in the model.

"Why build a scenographic model? Well, that's easy! To give people an idea of your concept of the set. A scenic designer will present a model to a director and/or producer, and if the model is approved the designer will present it to the group that is to build the set. These models are an amazing and an exciting tool! One may move the objects to see what something would look like rearranged. One may tear it apart and rebuild it. One may use its parts in another model. They are versitile and often inexpensive.

"The models Gary Benson and his students made were fabricated from regular household objects. Some people did buy wood to mount them on, but I mounted mine on illustration board and cardboard. We cut cardboard and wood as well as other materials (foam, paper, foil, etc) to make furniture, but we also used wire, beads, bottle-caps, rubber bands, key rings, marbles, and heads sawed off of plastic animals (for taxedermy on the wall!)--there are infinite possibilities of what to use in a model.

"Then the model is usually painted the colors you designed it to be painted. Yes, it can be repainted, too.

"The characters in the play are also made. I like to draw mine and stand them up, but some people make their characters out of other materials.

"This is my new hobby as well as a tool I use to envision a set I am designing. I love it! If you've ever had anything to scale as a kid (doll houses, toy stages, army men, etc) you'll love this. I wished I had been introduced to it as a kid. It would be easy to teach a perceptive school-aged child (small parts, DO NOT let kids under three play with these things) how to build these and put on their own plays. My uncle had a "showboat" when he was a child and it ran on the same concept: it was a small stage to scale with characters and sets. He often tells me how much fun he had with it. However, you'd better help them if it involves cutting or glueguns. Make it as safe as possible. Simplify it for them.

"An excellent resource on the topic is Theory and Craft of the Scenographic Model by Darwin Reid Payne."

So now you know. Before I couldn't post pictures, but now I can. So I'll include some photos of my models. They aren't perfect, but enjoy!

My first model, from Gary Benson's class. It's of Endgame by Beckett, though Beckett is pretty adamant about having minimalistic sets, so I goofed up on that one (on purpose, though).

The bleak courtyard in How I Died.

The street scene in How I Died.

The waiting room in How I Died.

The forest in A Midsummer Night's Dream. My final project in Gary Benson's class.

The indoor scenes in A Midsummer Night's Dream would be here. I designed it for a stage with a turntable, the forest on the other side of this.

Grow Up! It's Just a Story!

Originally composed August 24, 2008

Every time you knock a fictional story for its untruth, whether you've read it or not, you're not thinking like a writer. How boring would it be if authors only wrote about things that could happen? Only wrote about our world? How sad. Just because it's a book doesn't mean the author expects us to believe every word it says. We see it's only a story and that those things (magic, for example, or vampires) only exist in the world of the story and the worlds of stories like it. We don't say, "Oh my gosh! Winnie the Pooh! Toys aren't alive! Shun!" So why should we have a problem with other stories with unusual elements? We need to not only read something before we bash it, we need to not freak out if something is scary or unnatural in the story.

Another thing: Just because a character says or does something the average reader wouldn't say or do doesn't mean the author says or does it or feels that way. Often an author doesn't share the views of all of his characters unless he says he does. We analize literature a little too much and we often get away from what the author originally intended. Ask Jack Harrell about his naming his character Lon Green and getting analyses about "the grass is always greener" when he just picked a name out of the blue. We don't name our children for what they'll be when they grow up, so why should we do that with our characters? Symbols in names are old and cliche. I only did it in Hole in the Floor to show how cliche it actually is (and get this; someone thought I didn't know what the names meant, so he wrote the meanings in the margins!). The big point is that our characters are not all versions of us. That would be boring. It would also show that our authors have a lot of conflicting personality traits. I admit that when I was younger I tried to write a story with all of the characters being versions of myself--many authors I have talked to have tried that experiment--but mostly our characters end up with attributes of us rather than being "versions" of us. If I wrote a story about a serial killer, that does't mean I have homicidal tendencies. If the killer had an affinity for cats, that would be an attribute I share with the character. The character is not a version of me. If I wrote a story based on my life, however, with a person who was supposed to be me, that would be another matter.

Jack Harrell said there are three sources for writers: Personal experience, borrowed experience, and fabrication. What's wrong with there being more fabrication? Not that experience isn't the best source for many people, but that fabrication is not as evil as some people make it out to be. It's not a lie. It's a story. Most authors probably understand that it's a story and that they're not trying to mislead you. They think you'll be smart enough and mature enough to understand that it's a story and not a manual for your life. Readers need more of an imagination, too. C.S. Lewis wrote about magic and yet so many supposedly religious people revere him because of his allusions and his life's work. Why not realize that even though other authors might not believe the in same things, they're doing the same thing, which is writing a story?

Willing suspension of disbelief is still willing, and if you're smart, it's only temporary.

So before you go off on how much you hate a story because it doesn't match your belief system, whether or not you've even read the dang thing, think about the fact that it's just a story. Like Cinderella was when you were a kid, if you were allowed to read or listen to that or watch a film of it without worrying you'd lose your religion. Twilight, Harry Potter, and The Golden Compass, to name only a few, are only stories. Grow up! 

LFTC Project Report, 2007

Project Report

Finding Each Other Dead, a play I wrote while attending Brigham Young University, was accepted by peer review for a staged reading at the Last Frontier Theatre Conference in Valdez, Alaska. Attending the conference proved valuable to my work and to my contribution to the field of theatre arts. I also learned that the conference would be beneficial to other students in all aspects of the theatre.

The conference, held annually, is open to theatre professionals, students, educators, and members of the general public. It provides unique, hands-on learning experiences through readings, workshops, performances, and featured artists.

A play given a staged reading at the conference is subject to professional critique, peer review, talk-back sessions, and a one-on-one conference with a mentor. Feedback received during the reading and throughout the conference is useful for further revision of the play as well as application to new works.
In previous years the conference has featured playwrights such as Arthur Miller, August Wilson, and Edward Albee. This year I was privileged to work with such artists as Gary Garrison (executive director of the Dramatist’s Guild of America) and Marshall W. Mason (recipient of six Obie awards).

The workshops this year included The Social Politics of Theatre, How to Direct a Reading, The Playwright’s Bill of Rights (in which we constructed the Dramatists’ Bill of Rights, a document to become a basis of the new mission of the Dramatist’s Guild of America), Acting for the Camera, Directing, Writing the Rant (how to compose an effective stand-up routine), and a question-answer session about the Dramatists’ Guild (which outlined its risks and benefits). The workshops gave all those who participated the opportunity to freely express their views and ideas. We also shared our experiences outside of the workshops: I was able to talk to theatre professors and to address their concerns from a student’s standpoint. Other authors spoke of those with whom they had worked and of what they had learned and experienced throughout their careers. This aspect of the conference was one of many great opportunities to listen to other artists and to read their work.

My faculty mentor for this project, George Nelson, was correct when he told me that the conference was important for the advancement of my career and education. I plan to graduate from BYU in April of 2008 with a Bachelor of Arts in Theatre Arts Studies. At the conference I met several representatives of graduate schools that captured my interest. I am now almost certain that I will pursue a Master’s of Fine Arts in Dramatic Writing from one of the universities I learned about at the conference.

At the conference I learned from others in my field not only how to perfect my written works but also how to steer my career path in a more profitable direction. The insights I gained will, I believe, strengthen my contribution to the field. I feel I gained more of the necessary confidence to share important messages with audiences.

George Nelson told me that my experiences at the conference would help other students in my field of study and would remind them of the value in discussing their work and objectives with other professionals. I would recommend the Last Frontier Theatre Conference for other students as well as for instructors. I would recommend it not only for those interested in playwriting but for students in all theatrical endeavors. I would strongly recommend it for those interested in directing and acting (especially since there are directing and acting workshops as well as many positions for readers). I would recommend the conference to all theatre students because of the benefits it offers. It is considered a retreat; a chance to be with other artists away from the influences of the world. Gary Garrison told us something to the effect of “this week you get to be a writer rather than what you normally are […] you’re not a Dairy Queen manager […] or a college student.” He meant that while we were at the conference we would be able to focus on the theatre and on our contributions to it. He also told us, “It improves your own thought process about your work to give responses to other people’s work,” and in this other students would be able to benefit from the interaction with other artists.
If a student were to make this trip in the future I would recommend flying from Anchorage to Valdez rather than driving (round trip via rental car was over 700 miles).


Friday, July 20, 2007


Dear Fultons,

I would like to express my deep gratitude for the funds provided me by the Mary Lou Fulton Chair Student Support Grant. Because of your generosity I was able to attend the Last Frontier Theatre Conference in Valdez, Alaska, where I received valuable feedback on a reading of Finding Each Other Dead, an original play I had written at BYU. I was able to work with professional artists and to learn more than I had ever learned regarding my career path.

The conference was the first time I had ever had the opportunity to receive a professional review of my work. The conference gave me a more in-depth understanding of the art of playwriting as well as of the other theatre arts.

The conference was one of the greater experiences of my life so far. The best part of it was meeting and working with other playwrights. It was an experience I had never had before because of the wide range of opinions on subjects. The other artists’ feedback on the reading was more than helpful. Some of the people I met were Gary Garrison, the executive director of the Dramatist's Guild of America (for which, thanks to my attending the conference, I now qualify), and Marshall W. Mason, a playwright who has received six Obie awards. I also met many inspiring professors who answered my questions about my educational future. I am now almost certain that I will pursue a Master’s of Fine Arts in Dramatic Writing after graduation from BYU.

Not only did I receive career advice and helpful feedback on the creative writing process, but I also learned valuable life lessons. Honesty was a point well-stressed: that a person is able to be successful without being dishonest, and that one should never attempt to bend anything in his or her favor by using deceit. I learned that one should remember that others will follow his or her example. Another point discussed was that a playwright should know who he or she is and what his or her work is: that a person must know what his or her values are and what he or she values in his or her own work. I learned that every person must know what message he or she wants to give to others, and that every person must take responsibility for his or her voice. Another point made was to always advocate respect and generosity, that artists keep the theatre alive and therefore must respect one another as well as the audience.

Through the conference I also gained a new store of confidence in myself and in my work. I was able to see what other playwrights were writing, and I learned from the feedback given to them. I know I am a better playwright as well as a better student and a better person than I was before I attended. In one journal entry I wrote: “I think I am growing up on this trip.”

I plan to share all I have learned with the students and faculty at BYU. I am truly grateful for the funds I received for this valuable opportunity. Thank you for giving me this profound and wonderful experience that has changed the course of my future.

Sincerely,

Mattie Roquel Rydalch