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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