OK. You're right (re play-writing): I can see that there may be a
back-and-forth process between inspiration and intention.
And, no doubt, much money has been made by someone intending to cash in on
something that was a big "hit" by producing something intended to be like
the "hit".
Geoff
From: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Artists and intentions
Date: Mon, 1 Sep 2008 17:12:31 EDT
In a message dated 9/1/08 4:20:35 PM, [EMAIL PROTECTED] writes:
> In a message dated 8/30/08 9:28:36 PM, [EMAIL PROTECTED] writes:
>
>
> > . I might not
> > value an inspired work but I would mistrust an intended work.
> >
>
> It is very rare that you can tell whether a specific work is intended or
> inspired .
> Kate Sullivan
>
When one writes a playscript, as distinguished -- perhaps; you guys tell me
-- from creating visual works, the finished work feels a kind of
combination of
inspiration and a cerebral working out of what one intends this or that bit
to do. Sensibility and common sense dictate the need for certain
craft-elements.
That probably needs an example. The prototypical example in theater
involves
a gun -- either justifying its being available when needed by a character,
or
satisfying the expectation it excites if it's hanging on the wall at
curtain-up. Everything must be "prepared for" as the story unfolds or the
later
moment won't "land", often because it will be non-credible.
The inspiration often comes in the form of how to prepare the audience for
what's to come, without giving away what's to come. In the movie "An
Officer and
a Gentleman" there's an ingenious bit of preparation early on. We're given
a
flashback to the boyhood of the Richard Gere character. It serves to show
what
a lousy boyhood it was. For example, he's motherless, and his father, an
American sailor, grudgingly takes him along when he's assigned to the
Philippines.
The father ignores the friendless boy. The boy takes up with local thugs
he
want to think are his friends, but eventually they beat him up, using the
karate blows all the locals learn at a young age. We accept the quick event
as a
stand-alone example of how isolated and unwanted he was as a child.
Years later, Gere is challenged by some local thugs who despise these
white-uniformed officers-in-training who steal all the best local girls.
Gere tries
to beg off, "I don't want to fight." The thugs won't let him go, they want
to
embarrass him in front of his girl. They taunt him and then start pushing
him
-- whereupon he destroys the biggest bad guy with one ripping karate kick
to
the face. We're both startled and yet satisfying prepared for it -- by an
event
we never identified as a "plant" when we first saw it. (The karate training
then comes into play again later.)
The playwright often senses generic needs. "Bren has to demonstrate smarts
early on, and a sense of humor." That's the intent of the playwright; he
is
the craftsman realizing the form of what the storyline needs. Now he needs
to
come up with speech and action for Bren that does exactly that -- and
that's
where the inspiration comes in. Perhaps the most satisfying giddily
pleasing
moments for a writer are when he finds himself wondering, "Where did that
come
from!"
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