The Rewards and Perils of Eavesdropping
This is a sort of continuation of yesterdays post, dealing with some of the musings I've had over my recent theatre experience. It was also an excuse to go back and edit about 100 typos from that post. But come on, it was 5am, I was tired, and I'm barely literate as it is.
Anyways...
This might say more about my own insecurities as a writer than anything else, but after the play, after the applause and the whistles, I couldn't help but... try to listen in. You know what it's like when you leave a show, or a movie, and the dispersing crowd forms back into its component clans, friends talking about what they liked, what they didn't, what's for dinner, etc etc. Not knowing most of them, and most of them not knowing my connection to the play, it was easy to mingle, overhear, interject and feel smug. Vaguely dishonest, but easy.
I'm sure it can be the same for any artistic-type folk, when at a launch, or a convention, even an online writing forum. There's that urge. Maybe I'm projecting, but I sure feel it. To know what they really think. Again, most of that talk was about the spider, but sometimes it steers to what you *really* want to hear. The text. The story. You have keep a sharp ear out for a word, a phrase almost lost to the rumble, then maneuver through the throng.
My ears are apparently not that sharp. I failed. It paid off much better on the shuttle-bus ride to the railway station.
A couple of girls on the seat behind me spent most of the ride talking about Pope Paul, and it's what they said that has prompted this musing. Keep in mind, this first night was mostly students in the audience, a lot of them creative arts and performance students. One of them liked these sorts of "open" texts. What she meant was, scripts that allow the director to easily bring in their own interpretation for performing and staging. And that's true, Pope Paul didn't dictate scene, props (beyond the bottles), actions. Such a play could probably be staged many other ways, carrying with it a different energy, a different mood. The monologue could be broken into multiple actors, of any age and sex. There might be interaction with the audience, or not. I provided a character, with his own hopes, regrets and secrets. Some of those I shared, some I didn't. I provided his words. The rest was up to them. I love that.
If I sound like I'm rambling it's because I am. I'm still trying to figure this out for myself. I'm sure it's all very basic, entry-level theatre stuff. It's stuff I should remember, at any rate.
I also loved to hear them speculate on some of those secrets I alluded to. How Paul got the way he is. One imagined that his daughter, briefly mentioned in the play, might have died. That was cool. Not what I intended, but it was cool.
But yes, those perils of eavesdropping... you also get to hear things you wish you hadn't. Like someone saying "The problem with Pope Paul was-" with the rest of the sentence lost to the groan of the bus. That bugged me all the next day.
Anyways...
This might say more about my own insecurities as a writer than anything else, but after the play, after the applause and the whistles, I couldn't help but... try to listen in. You know what it's like when you leave a show, or a movie, and the dispersing crowd forms back into its component clans, friends talking about what they liked, what they didn't, what's for dinner, etc etc. Not knowing most of them, and most of them not knowing my connection to the play, it was easy to mingle, overhear, interject and feel smug. Vaguely dishonest, but easy.
I'm sure it can be the same for any artistic-type folk, when at a launch, or a convention, even an online writing forum. There's that urge. Maybe I'm projecting, but I sure feel it. To know what they really think. Again, most of that talk was about the spider, but sometimes it steers to what you *really* want to hear. The text. The story. You have keep a sharp ear out for a word, a phrase almost lost to the rumble, then maneuver through the throng.
My ears are apparently not that sharp. I failed. It paid off much better on the shuttle-bus ride to the railway station.
A couple of girls on the seat behind me spent most of the ride talking about Pope Paul, and it's what they said that has prompted this musing. Keep in mind, this first night was mostly students in the audience, a lot of them creative arts and performance students. One of them liked these sorts of "open" texts. What she meant was, scripts that allow the director to easily bring in their own interpretation for performing and staging. And that's true, Pope Paul didn't dictate scene, props (beyond the bottles), actions. Such a play could probably be staged many other ways, carrying with it a different energy, a different mood. The monologue could be broken into multiple actors, of any age and sex. There might be interaction with the audience, or not. I provided a character, with his own hopes, regrets and secrets. Some of those I shared, some I didn't. I provided his words. The rest was up to them. I love that.
If I sound like I'm rambling it's because I am. I'm still trying to figure this out for myself. I'm sure it's all very basic, entry-level theatre stuff. It's stuff I should remember, at any rate.
I also loved to hear them speculate on some of those secrets I alluded to. How Paul got the way he is. One imagined that his daughter, briefly mentioned in the play, might have died. That was cool. Not what I intended, but it was cool.
But yes, those perils of eavesdropping... you also get to hear things you wish you hadn't. Like someone saying "The problem with Pope Paul was-" with the rest of the sentence lost to the groan of the bus. That bugged me all the next day.