CultureHack

Recognizing the Patterns

Part three of an accidental meditation on writing
(and the limits of contextually useful "R" words) . . .

I'm sick of love but I'm in the thick of it
This kind of love I'm so sick of it
I see, I see lovers in the meadow
I see, I see silhouettes in the window
I watch them 'til they're gone and they leave me hanging on
To a shadow
I'm sick of love; I hear the clock tick
This kind of love; I'm love sick . . .
Could you ever be true?
I think of you
And I wonder
I'm sick of love; I wish I'd never met you
I'm sick of love; I'm trying to forget you
Just don't know what to do
I'd give anything to
Be with you
--Bob Dylan, "Love Sick"

This has been a week of substantial breakthroughs with regard to The Work: A newly deepened, newly understood resolution to Beatrice's story arc has occurred, along with a more clearly seen and portrayed connection between Tony and Beatrice (transformed into something both simpler and more complex--the usual result of true insight). Lastly, a minor theme--Beatrice's writing--has been elevated to important-motif status; portrayed in parallel with Tony's art, critical elements of their relationship are examined from the oblique angle of their respective art. (This has forced me to rough-in what will be a body of Beatrice's poems. Thankfully, all those hack-saturated years of putting words in other mouths and pens--speechwriting and ghost-writing--made me a very good mimic: As models, I had certain actual poems in mind, and I think I've pretty much nailed their voice and approach--similar to the Beatrice horoscopes, which nod to at the tone of a specific astrological series.)

Also on my Ah-Ha! List this week was a sudden, unexpected comprehension of the relationship between the theater piece and the novel. Conceptually, I'm dealing with a triptych--the same themes and characters seen through three different media and three different stories. Each,, will have stand-alone artistic integrity (fingers crossed), but taken as a whole--as a three-part-single work--larger truths emerge. (By way of explanation, here is my long-held theory about the Star Wars films: With enough installments, in a large enough fictional time frame, the main characters of the story become the robots, C3PO and R2D2. Whether intended or not, the 'droids will eventually become central in much the same way Tom Stoppard shifted the focus of Hamlet from the Prince to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. In a similar fashion, bigger truths are in evidence in my triptych--stuff not as obvious in any specific iteration.)

But having said this--having established three artistic "panels" and grouping them in such a way that each provides context for the others--what actually connects them? Pretend my project is like a Byzantine religious icon that folds up, providing portability for pilgrims. What functions as its hinges? Beyond juxtaposition, how do the panels touch each other?

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.