CultureHack

A Young Person's Guide To Formal Absences

In which the evolution of the
theater songs is amply displayed . . .

I'll root-toot-shoot myself to fame
Every kid alive gonna know my name
An overnight phenomenon like there's never been
A motivated supersonic king of the scene
I'll be a teenage idol, just give me a break
I'm gonna be a teenage idol no matter how long it takes
You can't imagine what it means to me
I'm gonna grab myself a place in history
A teenage idol that's what I'm gonna be
--Elton John/Bernie Taupin
"I'm Going To Be a Teenage Idol"

I'm beginning to worry about Bazz--he's been barricaded in the studio for weeks now, and his escalating requests for provisions and assistance have taken increasingly dodgy turns: Things like cases of Wild Turkey, the San Francisco City Ordinances, Eric Clapton (or Phil Manzanera, if Eric is out of the country), rough designs for a prospective Bazz Rulezz! tattoo (to be featured in finer tat parlors across the country), a complete 1957 edition of The Encyclopedia Britannica, and--most disturbing to me--Bernie Taupin's phone number. . .

Meanwhile, I'm down the hall in Atlas/Sheridan World Headquarters, simultaneously working on a libretto and a novel (and wisely sticking by my original and sole request for Tilda Swinton--circumstances to be determined). Dramatically, I'm facing all sorts of challenges--for example, having succeeded in making emotional blackmail danceable, can careful duplicity be played for Big Laughs--sort of A MidSummer's Night Dream, but with psychological scarring?

After yelling at Bazz through the wall, telling him to pipe-down about how crowded it is in there with the London Symphony Orchestra, it occurred to me that much has transpired theater-piece-wise over the past few months. So see this as a one-stop update on Formal Absences--not to be confused (yeah, right) with The Formal Absences of Precious Things, the CD, or Formal Absence, the novel.

Realizing the Resonance

Being the Author's writerly admission,
he's grown accustomed to his ways . . .

They were down for each other . . .
Something might have kept them apart at the party where they met--if he had left a little earlier or a little later--but it was just bad timing . . .
--Nicolas Roeg, on Alex and Milena
in his film, Bad Timing

Party doll, what's your game?
Do you move, or entertain
What people say
Well it don't mean a thing
It's a sin
Heads they lose
Tails you win . . .
Amen
--Bryan Ferry, "Party Doll"

Over the weekend I finally made the decision to use "Losing Ground" in the novel--it's the structurally demanded song written for the theater piece at a distance of seven months from the rest of the tunes.

While this might first seem an obvious conclusion, it must be remembered that the CD of the songs, the theater piece and the novel are all doing significantly different things--past divergent plots and right down to the choice and order of the songs that trigger the memories in the book. So no, there was no predestined need to use "Losing Ground" in the novel--in fact, there there was all kinds of good reasons not to use it if it simply served the same function on the stage and the page.

I'm not novelizing a theater piece, or making a musical out of a book--nor am I staging a previously recorded song-cycle. That's not The Point. Rather, I want to tell a cubistic story of the same fateful relationship (or perhaps that relationship as it happens in three parallel dimensions) that purposely leverages the structural conceits and unique advantages of three different mediums. I decided on a triptych because I naturally think in threes--but with more energy and a less-focused mindset, it ideally should have been a four-unit matrix, including a screenplay of the events. Recontextualizing the story a fourth time as a film would have forced me to rethink it in an aggressively visual fashion, forgoing the deeply interior lives of novel's characters and the end-all-be-all dialogue of the theater piece. And, at some point, who knows? Fates willing, I may tackle the screenplay version someday just to prove it can be done. Always say Never Say Never. Or something like that . . .

Back to the discussion at hand: Sitting in Ralph Lauren's restaurant in Georgetown (yes, there is such a thing; and yes, the food is very good; and no, polo ponies are not involved in any way), I finally work out how to use "Losing Ground" in a way consistent with the artistic intent of the book, rather than its function in the theater piece. So out comes one of the half-dozen Moleskines in my messenger bag--the thing that is now never out of my sight. (View it as an artist's version of the nuclear-weapon launch codes perpetually following the president around.) But see? This is why I drag that effing bag everywhere--ideas have their own sense of timing and propriety--the best I can do is be there waiting with my own kind of catcher's mitt.

Releasing the Art

In which the Author asks,
"If this is wrong, why does it read so right?"

You've a certain sartorial eloquence
And a style that's almost all your own
You've got the knack of being so
laid-back
It's like talking to the Great Unknown
You've got a self-sufficient, swept-back hairdo
Pretty certain that you've got it made
Oh, your lifestyle shows in the clothes you chose
Sitting pretty in the masquerade
Don't you wanna play this game
no more?
Don't you wanna play no more?
Don't you wanna play this game
no more?
Don't you wanna play no more?
--Elton John/Tom Robinson
"Sartorial Eloquence"

I had an interesting book-related exchange with a potential editor yesterday. He wondered if the second draft would further clarify Beatrice as a character. It seems that her elusiveness bothered him—and, by implication, he assumed it was something I needed to attend to, as if were the the result of an oversight.

My answer was an immediate No—a reaction so quick, it had to have seemed more defensive than a response steeped in craft and my artistic certainty. Since the explanation that followed drilled down into the mechanics and vision of the book, I think it’s worthwhile also sharing here . . .

Let’s first look at Beatrice from the perspective of nuts-and-bolts writing. Didactic or not, there’s only one way to build a complex character—and that’s to create a plot structure that forces he or she to make increasingly important decisions under escalating pressure. In fiction, as in life, what we decide is who we truly are. Small decisions of little consequence just won’t work. It needs to be circumstances on the scale of “In the next five minutes, do I preserve my career by lying to the Feds, or tell the truth and risk going to jail?” The answer to that question yields a quality and depth of insight into the character that simply can’t be had with “Do I eat leftover meatloaf tonight, or should I stop by the store on the way home?” And, if I’m doing my job as a writer, some nice, evocative contradictions will emerge, creating plot-driving friction between surface-level characterization and the emerging deep character revealed by those important, pressured decisions.

However, the paradox of Beatrice, is that—critical to the story and indelible in her psychology—she has created a situation where she has very few decisions and almost no pressure.

Her drive to preserve comfort and the status quo has reduced what is seemingly the most important set of circumstances in her life to the level of the aforementioned meatloaf wonderment. She was already planning on leaving Jack (and when she does, she never tells him why, the cowardice enabling her to sidestep other decisions and other pressures), she is staying put in Portland, she is continuing at her job, she is keeping the Gray House, she is retaining her circle friends, and her close connection with her family remains intact. For Beatrice, the relationship with Tony don’t exactly trigger Bowie crooning Ch-Ch-Changes. It's less romance than accessorization--the seemingly right guy to go with the lifestyle equivalent of a little black dress.

Writer Redux

Too cynical to live, too dumb to die,
I'm still standing: Consider being afraid . . .

I've had it with these
motherfucking snakes
on this motherfucking plane!
--Samuel L Jackson, Snakes On a Plane

The sun shines high above
The sounds of laughter
The birds swoop down upon
The crosses of old grey churches
We say that we're in love
While secretly wishing for rain
Sipping coke and playing games
September's here again
September's here again . . .
--David Sylvian, "September"

Okay, it wasn't exactly serpents and the aircraft was metaphoric, but--yes--I, too, thoroughly (and motherfuckingly) had had it. For a while, at least. But now I'm back kicking ass and taking names. I guess everybody needs a hobby. Let's just say I was on a Business Trip and leave it at that. For the more melodramatically inclined among you, it turned out that only Moriarty plummeted into Reichenbach Falls--after which, I spent a long time in Tibet. Which pretty much brings us to this, The Return . . . Special thanks to what scholars of Elizabethan literature call "diverse hands"--they kept this place dusted and tidied while I was Elsewhere doing Other, Unfortunately Unavoidable Things.

It also should be noted that I lost a good friend along the way, demonstrating the extreme and unpredictable nature of this very peculiar trip. But if I have any advantage over Tony Dresden, it is the ability to say That was then and this is now. So onward . . .

At the top, let's be clear about this entry--given the amount of catching up that needs to be done, it is, by necessity, the Jagged Jump-Cut Edition of a post. So put aside any expectation of elegant thematic arcs--this is a reorganization meeting. Nothing more. Nothing less. I hope you brought a legal pad.