the ramble dump
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
The Play's the Thing, Sometimes
Last semester I took a module on playwriting. It probably isn't something I'd have picked had I more of a choice (we had to pick a 'drama' module), but I'm glad that I did it. It was interesting.
As part of our reading for the module, we were given Stuart Spencer's The Playwright's Guidebook, a very useful book that breaks down the challenge of writing a play with a few handy 'tools', under the condition that any or all of these tools can be cast aside if they don't work. If nothing else, it's a book that can help you figure out exactly what it is you're trying to write in the first place. Which is usually a good place to start.
The playwriting module was specifically about theatrical plays; plays that are acted out on a fixed stage rather than radio plays or TV episodes or film scripts. In modern times and culture, the world of the theatre and its audience is pretty small compared to some other media. In the popular mindset, a lot of people assume that the medium has been superseded by film or television in most areas, apart from interactive performances like panto and other such quaint (and usually Shakespearean) experiences. As such, it's not surprising that the first thing Spencer does in his book is try to justify the worthwhileness of the play. He does this by placing it in a spectrum, like so:
The basic idea is that film, or any such screen medium, is based upon our mostly passive experience of images (and sounds) with very little conscious processing required. Prose, on the other hand, necessarily entails a more active process on the part of the recipient and allows more analysis on the part of a narrator within the text itself. By Spencer's own admission, this spectrum is not the whole story. He grants that these are 'propensities' and that both media are able to do other things. And theatre, he seems to say, shares all these propensities.
But I'm not so sure about this spectrum.
First objection: in Spencer's conception of prose, no distinction appears to be made between the author's contemplation and analysis within the text, the reader's less-than-conscious mental intepretation as they are reading, and their contemplation following this interpretation. Spencer dismisses the relevance of the latter to his spectrum in his evaluation of film because it applies to all media, so that can be put aside for prose too. But Spencer is still lumping together two different kinds of 'analysis': the first (A) entailing how the text is engaged in the analysis of some subject, and the second (B) entailing how the reader is engaged in the analysis of the text.
A visceral/analytical gradient makes sense in terms of the latter: at one end, the medium always requires the brain to take an active role in interpretation (because language is used); at the other end, it does not. Spencer himself points out that only a film with no dialogue would be completely visceral; a film with speaking characters would be a little further along the spectrum towards the analytical end because we'd have to interpret what they're saying, but it would still not be like a novel where everything about the fictional world is presented through language.
Does the visceral/analytical gradient make sense when applied to the medium itself, rather than a person's interpretation of it? It would seem to, by Spencer's logic: the camera, the narrative eye of the film, can be pointed at something in a way that is suggestible, but it does not pull apart or evaluate the subject in the way that the narrator of a novel can. Even if a film had a voiceover, this would merely be a voice overlayed; in prose, this analysis exists on the same level--in the language--as everything else that is presented about the fictional world, so it permeates and moulds the fictional world itself. In this case, 'visceral' means, in terms of the role of the narrative eye, to be a direct link with the fictional world without the narrator's interference. Prose has an intrinsic narrating voice, whereas film does not.
It's probably safe to assume that A is always followed by B, as long as there's a recipient around. So what's the point in making the distinction? Well, the kind of analysis involved in B can apply without A, meaning that a medium can require analysis on the part of the recipient courtesy of language, without having that other kind of analysis courtesy of the intrinsic narrator. Like in theatre, for example.
We can call theatre, as a live audiovisual performance, immediate and visceral. The use of characters with speech also gives it an analytical element. But there are differences here: plays (and, for that matter, films with speaking characters) are only 'analytical' in the sense of B, in that the use of language requires an extra layer of active interpretation on the part of the recipient. But this is only the interpretation of the speech of one of the characters--it is not the interpretation of the whole presented world. The physical presence of characters flat-out prevents the world from being constructed entirely of language; their words automatically become either the speech of a character or that of a voiceover--a kind of narrator on top, rather than there being an analysis intrinsic to the narrative. So for all Spencer's discussion of the various ways in which he describes media as either 'analytical' or 'visceral', his 'spectrum' only accounts for this in a more limited sense than he lets on.
It also needs pointing out that Spencer's designation of 'both' does not suggest a gradient. It suggests that prose has some properties, and film has others, and theatre has all of the above. Taking his admission that each medium has its strengths over the others into account, we might say that prose is better for analytical stuff than theatre but that theatre still has some aspects that could be considered analytical, in which case his diagram is not incorrect, albeit only true in a limited sense. But then if theatre is not the best medium for being analytical, and it is not as good as film for the visceral, what exactly is there to commend it?
Spencer is clearly trying to use this 'spectrum' to suggest that theatre gives you the best of both worlds. Evidence, in case you have any reason to doubt this:
So what's theatre good for? Well, there are a few advantages I'd be tempted to mark out in favour of theatre; 'propensities', as Spencer might describe them, if not necessarily always true. For one, as Spencer points out himself, theatre offers a different kind of immediacy: that of having live actors before you, and potentially an interactive element. Issues of narrative form aside, you don't get that kind of experience in either of the other media. It can offer a much more lucid, insistent encounter than mere images flashing before your eyes.
Secondly, the view of the stage does not have to be like that of the camera; i.e. the eye of the camera is necessarily framed, whereas the eye of the audience is not. Even if the stage has a proscenium arch above, it can be ignored entirely and in my experience plays have used to great effect a kind of fluid fragmentation of the stage in an utterly engrossing way, even with irrelevant props from the last scene still visible. Specific directorial decisions aside, I think the David Glass Ensemble's adaptation of Gormenghast had a much better chance at being successful in the theatre than the BBC's version on TV because, though neither could hope to achieve exactly what Mervyn Peake's prose does in the novel, the stage leant itself to a much more effective translation of the castle's sense of dreamlike fragmentation, abstractness and related psychological despair. As the price of its brand of intense focus, the camera is always finding a view with definitive edges, which Gormenghast does not have.
And thirdly, the biggest lesson I learned from trying to write a play: the theatre encourages a certain kind of discipline where it can be very tempting to get distracted in both film and prose. Character-be-damned spectacle has its place in the arts and the world would be a dull place without it, but it won't work on stage. And there's nothing like the theatre for having two people sit down and talk--though, granted, it'd have to be one hell of a well-written play for me to take that for an hour and a half without shifting in my seat.
There may be more advantages to theatre. I've seen a dozen or so plays by now that I can remember, and tried my hand at playwriting only for a very short time, so my experience is pretty limited. But though Spencer's experience of theatre will vastly outweigh mine, to me he seems to make the same infuriating mistake that so many people seem to make with their medium of choice: he has to insist that this medium is unconditionally the best--even after conceding a hundred different ways that it...well, isn't.
As part of our reading for the module, we were given Stuart Spencer's The Playwright's Guidebook, a very useful book that breaks down the challenge of writing a play with a few handy 'tools', under the condition that any or all of these tools can be cast aside if they don't work. If nothing else, it's a book that can help you figure out exactly what it is you're trying to write in the first place. Which is usually a good place to start.
The playwriting module was specifically about theatrical plays; plays that are acted out on a fixed stage rather than radio plays or TV episodes or film scripts. In modern times and culture, the world of the theatre and its audience is pretty small compared to some other media. In the popular mindset, a lot of people assume that the medium has been superseded by film or television in most areas, apart from interactive performances like panto and other such quaint (and usually Shakespearean) experiences. As such, it's not surprising that the first thing Spencer does in his book is try to justify the worthwhileness of the play. He does this by placing it in a spectrum, like so:
The basic idea is that film, or any such screen medium, is based upon our mostly passive experience of images (and sounds) with very little conscious processing required. Prose, on the other hand, necessarily entails a more active process on the part of the recipient and allows more analysis on the part of a narrator within the text itself. By Spencer's own admission, this spectrum is not the whole story. He grants that these are 'propensities' and that both media are able to do other things. And theatre, he seems to say, shares all these propensities.
But I'm not so sure about this spectrum.
First objection: in Spencer's conception of prose, no distinction appears to be made between the author's contemplation and analysis within the text, the reader's less-than-conscious mental intepretation as they are reading, and their contemplation following this interpretation. Spencer dismisses the relevance of the latter to his spectrum in his evaluation of film because it applies to all media, so that can be put aside for prose too. But Spencer is still lumping together two different kinds of 'analysis': the first (A) entailing how the text is engaged in the analysis of some subject, and the second (B) entailing how the reader is engaged in the analysis of the text.
A visceral/analytical gradient makes sense in terms of the latter: at one end, the medium always requires the brain to take an active role in interpretation (because language is used); at the other end, it does not. Spencer himself points out that only a film with no dialogue would be completely visceral; a film with speaking characters would be a little further along the spectrum towards the analytical end because we'd have to interpret what they're saying, but it would still not be like a novel where everything about the fictional world is presented through language.
Does the visceral/analytical gradient make sense when applied to the medium itself, rather than a person's interpretation of it? It would seem to, by Spencer's logic: the camera, the narrative eye of the film, can be pointed at something in a way that is suggestible, but it does not pull apart or evaluate the subject in the way that the narrator of a novel can. Even if a film had a voiceover, this would merely be a voice overlayed; in prose, this analysis exists on the same level--in the language--as everything else that is presented about the fictional world, so it permeates and moulds the fictional world itself. In this case, 'visceral' means, in terms of the role of the narrative eye, to be a direct link with the fictional world without the narrator's interference. Prose has an intrinsic narrating voice, whereas film does not.
It's probably safe to assume that A is always followed by B, as long as there's a recipient around. So what's the point in making the distinction? Well, the kind of analysis involved in B can apply without A, meaning that a medium can require analysis on the part of the recipient courtesy of language, without having that other kind of analysis courtesy of the intrinsic narrator. Like in theatre, for example.
We can call theatre, as a live audiovisual performance, immediate and visceral. The use of characters with speech also gives it an analytical element. But there are differences here: plays (and, for that matter, films with speaking characters) are only 'analytical' in the sense of B, in that the use of language requires an extra layer of active interpretation on the part of the recipient. But this is only the interpretation of the speech of one of the characters--it is not the interpretation of the whole presented world. The physical presence of characters flat-out prevents the world from being constructed entirely of language; their words automatically become either the speech of a character or that of a voiceover--a kind of narrator on top, rather than there being an analysis intrinsic to the narrative. So for all Spencer's discussion of the various ways in which he describes media as either 'analytical' or 'visceral', his 'spectrum' only accounts for this in a more limited sense than he lets on.
It also needs pointing out that Spencer's designation of 'both' does not suggest a gradient. It suggests that prose has some properties, and film has others, and theatre has all of the above. Taking his admission that each medium has its strengths over the others into account, we might say that prose is better for analytical stuff than theatre but that theatre still has some aspects that could be considered analytical, in which case his diagram is not incorrect, albeit only true in a limited sense. But then if theatre is not the best medium for being analytical, and it is not as good as film for the visceral, what exactly is there to commend it?
Spencer is clearly trying to use this 'spectrum' to suggest that theatre gives you the best of both worlds. Evidence, in case you have any reason to doubt this:
The fact remains that theatre is the most vigorous way of telling a story. How could it be otherwise? It is theatre that combines all the best parts of those other media we also enjoy.A strange conclusion for someone who has pointed out himself the kinds of things that prose and film can do that theatre cannot. The fact that film can hit us with an emotionally charged close-up is surely the best thing about it. The fact that in prose the whole world can be constructed from simmering, bubbling metaphor with an inconceivably subtle interplay between the meanings of every single word is surely the best thing about that. Those are the strengths of these media respectively. Theatre can do neither.
So what's theatre good for? Well, there are a few advantages I'd be tempted to mark out in favour of theatre; 'propensities', as Spencer might describe them, if not necessarily always true. For one, as Spencer points out himself, theatre offers a different kind of immediacy: that of having live actors before you, and potentially an interactive element. Issues of narrative form aside, you don't get that kind of experience in either of the other media. It can offer a much more lucid, insistent encounter than mere images flashing before your eyes.
Secondly, the view of the stage does not have to be like that of the camera; i.e. the eye of the camera is necessarily framed, whereas the eye of the audience is not. Even if the stage has a proscenium arch above, it can be ignored entirely and in my experience plays have used to great effect a kind of fluid fragmentation of the stage in an utterly engrossing way, even with irrelevant props from the last scene still visible. Specific directorial decisions aside, I think the David Glass Ensemble's adaptation of Gormenghast had a much better chance at being successful in the theatre than the BBC's version on TV because, though neither could hope to achieve exactly what Mervyn Peake's prose does in the novel, the stage leant itself to a much more effective translation of the castle's sense of dreamlike fragmentation, abstractness and related psychological despair. As the price of its brand of intense focus, the camera is always finding a view with definitive edges, which Gormenghast does not have.
And thirdly, the biggest lesson I learned from trying to write a play: the theatre encourages a certain kind of discipline where it can be very tempting to get distracted in both film and prose. Character-be-damned spectacle has its place in the arts and the world would be a dull place without it, but it won't work on stage. And there's nothing like the theatre for having two people sit down and talk--though, granted, it'd have to be one hell of a well-written play for me to take that for an hour and a half without shifting in my seat.
There may be more advantages to theatre. I've seen a dozen or so plays by now that I can remember, and tried my hand at playwriting only for a very short time, so my experience is pretty limited. But though Spencer's experience of theatre will vastly outweigh mine, to me he seems to make the same infuriating mistake that so many people seem to make with their medium of choice: he has to insist that this medium is unconditionally the best--even after conceding a hundred different ways that it...well, isn't.
Labels: films, gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, plays, shakespeare
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Titus Alone
Reviews of Titus Alone are usually prefaced with a note about Peake's decline in mental health at the time of writing, and the consequent deterioration in the quality of the novel compared to its predecessors. Thus, when I had finished the fantasticalness that was the first two books, I didn't really know what to expect of this third book. On the one hand, I wanted to save Titus Alone for later reading anyway because it would be something to look forward to; but on the other hand, the fact that many fans of Peake had seemed to treat it like some withered limb attached to an otherwise fine body of work, its mention tacked on to the end of their reviews as a hasty afterthought, made me slightly afraid that it had all gone horribly wrong. I know from experience that a bad sequel can taint the memory of a good original. But just as the year was coming to a close, in the face of all reasons to put it off, I succumbed to the urge to read it.
Is it, in my opinion, as satisfying, thrilling, fulfilling, lavishly detailed and imaginatively awe-inspiring as the first two books? In all honesty, no; it isn't.
But is it then, in my opinion, a horrible withered limb that ought to be discarded and forgotten? Not at all. In fact, in a trilogy of appallingly underrated books, I think Titus Alone is maybe the most underrated of them all.
The main problem many readers will have with Titus Alone, despite being published in a volume perhaps misguidingly titled the Gormenghast Trilogy, is its lack of Gormenghast: the scale and detail of the surroundings; the immersive gothic atmosphere, grand yet claustrophobic; and, above all, many of the denizens we've grown to love and hate. Titus Groan has left Gormenghast for a fresh start in a very different world, a jarring transition that might leave the reader feeling just as disorientated as the protagonist. Suddenly there are cars, planes, floating mechanical globes, death-rays, and fish-eye screens that allow long-distance communication. After living in the winding, dream-like rabbit-hole of the archaic Gormenghast, this intrusion of unspecifiably advanced technology is almost offensive to our corridor-dwelling sensibilities. Colour me Barquentine, but the change more than once left me grumbling and yearning for a return to the castle.
The new world that we are shown of cities and technology still has plenty of room for its own strains of the dark and macabre, especially in places like the Under-River, but it never achieves quite the same level of immersion. Above all else, the world in Titus Alone suffers from lack of detail. The level of technology is unclear, as are the intentions and explanations of the Scientist, his factories and his strange, gliding, helmeted men. Whether these were left deliberately mysterious for some reason or other is hard to tell. We are only offered small glimpses of this new cityworld. Peake had spent much time delving deep into the world of Gormenghast, never needing to explain every last technical detail but at least giving us the impression of the castle's expansiveness. The impression of the cityworld, on the other hand, is only vague and patchy.
The other thing about this change is that it is sharp enough to seem like it's trying to sever itself from its prequels and to make room for a new series of characters and stories, but at the same time Titus Alone can't quite stand on its own. It isn't a withered limb, but it is very much a sequel, despite the drastic differences between the books. Much like Titus himself, and through his struggles to establish his own identity, Titus Alone is constantly referring back to the people and events of the previous two books, and Gormenghast plays an increasingly significant, almost overly contrived role in the preoccupations of not just Titus but of the new characters around him. The result is that Titus Alone is more of a 'Gormenghast' book than it first appears, but also that, while this apparent conflict in its intentions does a good job of mirroring Titus' own confusion, the third book in the series ends up as something of an odd creature.
Despite all this, however, the most important aspect of Peake's writing, the depth and complexity of the characters, is still there. While it felt like there were a few too many 'mysterious' characters who could have done with some elaboration, such as the Scientist, the Scientist's wife, the helmeted men and 'Anchor', the main featuring characters are described very fully. If anything, I found Titus to be a more interesting character than he had been previously, mostly because of the dynamic between himself and the other most notable characters: Muzzlehatch, Juno and Cheeta. As Titus enters their lives, we are given detailed insights into their idiosyncratic thoughts and feelings, emotions and drives in the same way that made the previous books so interesting, especially in relation to how these characters affect each other. Titus' complete bluntness with the other characters is fascinating to read, and to say that it gets him into a bit of trouble would be an understatement.
Muzzlehatch has to be one of the most compelling characters of the entire trilogy, and Peake draws his relationships with the others in a way that feels very genuine -- especially with Juno, through whom Peake creates a very dignified, sympathetic and human character. Cheeta, the Scientist's daughter, feels a little less real in her designs than the others, and her transition over the course of the story feels less believable and sometimes a little hurried. She does, however, set the stage well for the finale of the book, which serves as both a narrative and thematic convergence, and sufficiently satisfies the stories of the majority of the characters, giving some sense of closure even if we never find out what happens to Titus next.
As I already mentioned, the way the story revolves around Titus sometimes feels a bit contrived, especially when every character becomes strangely fixated with him, including some of the Under-River dwellers who hardly have anything to do with him. There is, however, a lot to like about Titus Alone, and although it does feel like an incomplete, sketchy work in some respects, Peake remains in top form in others. But for the bizarrely brief chapter breaks which can largely be ignored, there is actually surprisingly little to distract and give the impression that Peake's health was in decline at all. I'd say Titus Alone still definitely worth a read.
Is it, in my opinion, as satisfying, thrilling, fulfilling, lavishly detailed and imaginatively awe-inspiring as the first two books? In all honesty, no; it isn't.
But is it then, in my opinion, a horrible withered limb that ought to be discarded and forgotten? Not at all. In fact, in a trilogy of appallingly underrated books, I think Titus Alone is maybe the most underrated of them all.
The main problem many readers will have with Titus Alone, despite being published in a volume perhaps misguidingly titled the Gormenghast Trilogy, is its lack of Gormenghast: the scale and detail of the surroundings; the immersive gothic atmosphere, grand yet claustrophobic; and, above all, many of the denizens we've grown to love and hate. Titus Groan has left Gormenghast for a fresh start in a very different world, a jarring transition that might leave the reader feeling just as disorientated as the protagonist. Suddenly there are cars, planes, floating mechanical globes, death-rays, and fish-eye screens that allow long-distance communication. After living in the winding, dream-like rabbit-hole of the archaic Gormenghast, this intrusion of unspecifiably advanced technology is almost offensive to our corridor-dwelling sensibilities. Colour me Barquentine, but the change more than once left me grumbling and yearning for a return to the castle.
The new world that we are shown of cities and technology still has plenty of room for its own strains of the dark and macabre, especially in places like the Under-River, but it never achieves quite the same level of immersion. Above all else, the world in Titus Alone suffers from lack of detail. The level of technology is unclear, as are the intentions and explanations of the Scientist, his factories and his strange, gliding, helmeted men. Whether these were left deliberately mysterious for some reason or other is hard to tell. We are only offered small glimpses of this new cityworld. Peake had spent much time delving deep into the world of Gormenghast, never needing to explain every last technical detail but at least giving us the impression of the castle's expansiveness. The impression of the cityworld, on the other hand, is only vague and patchy.
The other thing about this change is that it is sharp enough to seem like it's trying to sever itself from its prequels and to make room for a new series of characters and stories, but at the same time Titus Alone can't quite stand on its own. It isn't a withered limb, but it is very much a sequel, despite the drastic differences between the books. Much like Titus himself, and through his struggles to establish his own identity, Titus Alone is constantly referring back to the people and events of the previous two books, and Gormenghast plays an increasingly significant, almost overly contrived role in the preoccupations of not just Titus but of the new characters around him. The result is that Titus Alone is more of a 'Gormenghast' book than it first appears, but also that, while this apparent conflict in its intentions does a good job of mirroring Titus' own confusion, the third book in the series ends up as something of an odd creature.
Despite all this, however, the most important aspect of Peake's writing, the depth and complexity of the characters, is still there. While it felt like there were a few too many 'mysterious' characters who could have done with some elaboration, such as the Scientist, the Scientist's wife, the helmeted men and 'Anchor', the main featuring characters are described very fully. If anything, I found Titus to be a more interesting character than he had been previously, mostly because of the dynamic between himself and the other most notable characters: Muzzlehatch, Juno and Cheeta. As Titus enters their lives, we are given detailed insights into their idiosyncratic thoughts and feelings, emotions and drives in the same way that made the previous books so interesting, especially in relation to how these characters affect each other. Titus' complete bluntness with the other characters is fascinating to read, and to say that it gets him into a bit of trouble would be an understatement.
Muzzlehatch has to be one of the most compelling characters of the entire trilogy, and Peake draws his relationships with the others in a way that feels very genuine -- especially with Juno, through whom Peake creates a very dignified, sympathetic and human character. Cheeta, the Scientist's daughter, feels a little less real in her designs than the others, and her transition over the course of the story feels less believable and sometimes a little hurried. She does, however, set the stage well for the finale of the book, which serves as both a narrative and thematic convergence, and sufficiently satisfies the stories of the majority of the characters, giving some sense of closure even if we never find out what happens to Titus next.
As I already mentioned, the way the story revolves around Titus sometimes feels a bit contrived, especially when every character becomes strangely fixated with him, including some of the Under-River dwellers who hardly have anything to do with him. There is, however, a lot to like about Titus Alone, and although it does feel like an incomplete, sketchy work in some respects, Peake remains in top form in others. But for the bizarrely brief chapter breaks which can largely be ignored, there is actually surprisingly little to distract and give the impression that Peake's health was in decline at all. I'd say Titus Alone still definitely worth a read.
Labels: gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, literature, rabbit-hole theory
Friday, January 18, 2008
Battle for Literature, Continued (Part 2)
In fending off the accusations of uselessness, in talking about how literature can make you think and make important suggestions, I haven't really said much about the other side of it: the side that is where literature holds most of its power. That is the aspect of literature, and all art, which has that emotional connection. 'What it means to us' doesn't just involve what it means to us in a general, philosophical sense, but what it means to us individually and subjectively.
The art that has left the biggest impression on me has this connection. Titus Groan and Gormenghast, for example, are my favourite novels not just because of what they have to say or suggest about the world, but because, for whatever reason, I find that they resonate within this thing called my brain more than any other books. They are personally significant enough to have made their way into my dreams on several occasions, in the obscure way of many other personally significant things. It is likely that not everyone will experience the same connection as I did because they are different people with different lives. Literature can provide something useful in a general, academic way as I already argued, but so what if it doesn't? It can still be meaningful on a very personal level.
One of my physicist friends is still declaring literature useless, despite anything I say. His latest comment was specifically that poetry was pointless; after all, why not just say it instead of wrapping it up in poetic form?
This person, like most people, is very into his music. He likes heavy metal. Ironically, given the position he puts me in during these arguments, he gets very frustrated when people accuse heavy metal of being a load of rubbish. Firstly, they accuse the lyrics of being silly, to which he fiercely objects. Secondly, he claims something that I actually agree with, which is that heavy metal is more about feeling the music, feeling the drive and the energy of it.
To start with, lyrics are a form of poetry anyway, and by defending them as a good quality of the music, he is therefore (hypocritically) defending it as an expressive medium and as something meaningful about the music. How can he claim that poetry or literature is useless or pointless and then defend it as a good quality of something else?
But even if he was to admit that heavy metal lyrics are nothing more than another layer of sound, let's consider music itself. Music is a form of expression. Even if you're just creating music that drives, it's driving at something -- it's driving at a certain feeling. And when you listen to it, you're acknowledging that feeling; it somehow resonates with you. Why bother putting this expression in music form? Why not just say it? The answer to that seems obvious: if someone came up to you and tonelessly said, 'Feel my anger', not only would you suspect that he was not in fact feeling any such anger, but as the recipient of his expression, you would not be able to identify with it. It's much more effective if he starts characterising it through specific intonation and screams, 'FEEL MY ANGER!!'. It's then not hard to imagine how you could progress to music. Music, as a form of expression, is a vehicle for it.
Poetry, as a different form, is just a different vehicle, with different features that affect the recipient in different ways. It might be more effective as an expression of something if it's structured so that it sounds or reads in a certain way. Certain words are used for their phonetic properties, but also for their very specific meanings, which can then allow the poem to develop from a purely emotional expression to something more intellectual. Lyrics can add a self-reflective dimension to music.
Many of the specifically linguistic aspects of literature also involve the employment of these poetic techniques. A novel could be seen as an even more complex form of expression because it has so many layers to it, at the deepest level providing something that could be interpreted as music, while at the top level the author is dealing with various themes or ideas which can be expressed all the more effectively because delivered with all the elaborate techniques in which the prose consists. No matter how complex it might get, it's still fundamentally a form of expression. Everything 'artistic' about it is simply a method or a vehicle for this expression.
Music is an artform. Literature is, above all, an artform -- or even many artforms. Art is expression. Art is an attempt at communication, with yourself as much as with anybody else. And art resonates. I'm not going to be so misty-eyed as to claim that art is the salvation of humanity or anything like that; neither do I claim that it's anything divine or inherently special. But it's a part of us, and if you insist on viewing everything in the world through a 'scientific' lens, you're failing to acknowledge that, for whatever reasons, divine or evolutionary, this need of expression is a part of the mind behind the viewing eye. This expression, this attempt to communicate, is a way for us to try and make sense of the world on a personal level. And if the form aids the function, so much the better.
Edit 22/01/08: Coincidentally, when this ramble ventured into the idea of form, I hadn't looked at the lecture timetable which told me that our 'review' lecture today would be exploring just that. We were given a few quotes, but here's the most relevant:
The art that has left the biggest impression on me has this connection. Titus Groan and Gormenghast, for example, are my favourite novels not just because of what they have to say or suggest about the world, but because, for whatever reason, I find that they resonate within this thing called my brain more than any other books. They are personally significant enough to have made their way into my dreams on several occasions, in the obscure way of many other personally significant things. It is likely that not everyone will experience the same connection as I did because they are different people with different lives. Literature can provide something useful in a general, academic way as I already argued, but so what if it doesn't? It can still be meaningful on a very personal level.
One of my physicist friends is still declaring literature useless, despite anything I say. His latest comment was specifically that poetry was pointless; after all, why not just say it instead of wrapping it up in poetic form?
This person, like most people, is very into his music. He likes heavy metal. Ironically, given the position he puts me in during these arguments, he gets very frustrated when people accuse heavy metal of being a load of rubbish. Firstly, they accuse the lyrics of being silly, to which he fiercely objects. Secondly, he claims something that I actually agree with, which is that heavy metal is more about feeling the music, feeling the drive and the energy of it.
To start with, lyrics are a form of poetry anyway, and by defending them as a good quality of the music, he is therefore (hypocritically) defending it as an expressive medium and as something meaningful about the music. How can he claim that poetry or literature is useless or pointless and then defend it as a good quality of something else?
But even if he was to admit that heavy metal lyrics are nothing more than another layer of sound, let's consider music itself. Music is a form of expression. Even if you're just creating music that drives, it's driving at something -- it's driving at a certain feeling. And when you listen to it, you're acknowledging that feeling; it somehow resonates with you. Why bother putting this expression in music form? Why not just say it? The answer to that seems obvious: if someone came up to you and tonelessly said, 'Feel my anger', not only would you suspect that he was not in fact feeling any such anger, but as the recipient of his expression, you would not be able to identify with it. It's much more effective if he starts characterising it through specific intonation and screams, 'FEEL MY ANGER!!'. It's then not hard to imagine how you could progress to music. Music, as a form of expression, is a vehicle for it.
Poetry, as a different form, is just a different vehicle, with different features that affect the recipient in different ways. It might be more effective as an expression of something if it's structured so that it sounds or reads in a certain way. Certain words are used for their phonetic properties, but also for their very specific meanings, which can then allow the poem to develop from a purely emotional expression to something more intellectual. Lyrics can add a self-reflective dimension to music.
Many of the specifically linguistic aspects of literature also involve the employment of these poetic techniques. A novel could be seen as an even more complex form of expression because it has so many layers to it, at the deepest level providing something that could be interpreted as music, while at the top level the author is dealing with various themes or ideas which can be expressed all the more effectively because delivered with all the elaborate techniques in which the prose consists. No matter how complex it might get, it's still fundamentally a form of expression. Everything 'artistic' about it is simply a method or a vehicle for this expression.
Music is an artform. Literature is, above all, an artform -- or even many artforms. Art is expression. Art is an attempt at communication, with yourself as much as with anybody else. And art resonates. I'm not going to be so misty-eyed as to claim that art is the salvation of humanity or anything like that; neither do I claim that it's anything divine or inherently special. But it's a part of us, and if you insist on viewing everything in the world through a 'scientific' lens, you're failing to acknowledge that, for whatever reasons, divine or evolutionary, this need of expression is a part of the mind behind the viewing eye. This expression, this attempt to communicate, is a way for us to try and make sense of the world on a personal level. And if the form aids the function, so much the better.
Edit 22/01/08: Coincidentally, when this ramble ventured into the idea of form, I hadn't looked at the lecture timetable which told me that our 'review' lecture today would be exploring just that. We were given a few quotes, but here's the most relevant:
Had there been a clear understanding of Style as the living body of thought, and not its 'dress', which might be more or less ornamental, the error I am noticing would not have spread so widely. But, naturally, when regarded the grace of style as mere grace of manner, and not as the delicate precision giving form and relief to matter--as mere ornament, stuck on to arrest incurious eyes, and not as effective expression--their sense of the deeper value of matter made them despise such aid. A clearer conception would have rectified this error. The matter is confluent with the manner; and only through the style can thought reach the reader's mind.--George Henry Lewes, Principles of Success in Literature (1865)
Labels: dreams, gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, rabbit-hole theory
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Gormenghast: the Play
So, after intending to write a post about Gormenghast for, well, months now, I decided that this weekend would probably be a good time to do it after my sister issued from her sleeve a leaflet for a Gormenghast play, which we got last-minute tickets for and saw last night.
It was amazing.
It was done by the David Glass Ensemble at the Liverpool Playhouse, and it was my first real experience of the theatre. I think it might also have been their last performance of it this year. I can't compare it to other plays, but I was impressed. Really impressed. The more I'd thought about it beforehand, the more I'd realised that Gormenghast was the perfect novel for some bizarre physical theatre, but wow they did it well. There wasn't one weak bit of casting out of the handful of actors and actresses who did it. Obviously not all the characters made it into the play (Sourdust, Nannie Slagg, Keda, Irma Prunesquallor, the Professors...), but those that did all hit the mark. The most curious representation was probably Sepulchrave, who appeared as a short, dust-laden old man completely hidden away in his robes.
Their use of white sticks and rectangular black boards was something mesmerising, which they choreographed and fluidly rearranged into different sections of castle and corridor, doorways, haunting symbols, boats and all kinds, with the actors dressed in black running around as anthropomorphised shadows to change the scenery. There were times when setpieces literally seemed to melt in and out of the darkness.
The opening scene was the creepiest thing I've ever witnessed. I actually nearly wet myself. It was some some highly abstracted version of Titus' birth scene, with the human shadows scuttling about and chanting like things possessed, stomping their white sticks to the accompaniment of oppressive, rumbling sound.
From then on it only got weirder. There are moments when you find yourself watching a tufty-haired woman sitting on a high platform swaying to a bizarre tune of synthesised cats that you begin to question your sanity and that of everyone around you. Other fantastically surreal moments include Flay's lengthy travelling through the shifting corridors as he makes unintelligible interactions with the shadows; and the appearance in a window of the two Aunts' sideways heads, launching immediately into a mindless drone about power, during Steerpike's break for freedom from Flay's prison. And, of course, there were the stuffed cats.
Flay was emphasised more as a comic relief character, but he was still true to the book and the play as a whole was so weird that it wasn't a distraction. It had an appropriately twisted brand of humour mingled with odd visual gags like Flay's arm extending behind the set to deliver a message to Steerpike at the other end of the stage, and during the interval, Satan the monkey appeared in the form of a plump stuffed chimp to wave at the audience, later swinging insolently in the background during a dramatic exchange between Steerpike and Fuchsia. The most bizarre visual gags were Swelter's prosthetic penis, which spouted all over Steerpike at the start and was later removed from his person by Flay's sword, and then when at the end of that fight he mournfully removed a string of paper intestines from his fatsuit, which he later swung about while appearing to Steerpike in a vision and singing to him.
Another nice visual touch was how they represented the deaths of characters with a long red ribbon issuing from their mouths, which a dismayed Titus or a disgusted Flay would then lift between their fingers like a string of blood.
The most dramatic scenes in the book were captured perfectly, such as the battle between Flay and Swelter and later Titus and Steerpike. The lighting, the music, the movements, were all perfect. During the flood of the story's climax, a vast, rippling sheet provided the stormy water while Gertrude stood with others on the high platform at the back of the stage bellowing commands over the intensely formidable live score. It was intense.
Anyway, I could go on and on and on. Suffice to say, I really enjoyed it and every member of the cast deserves an Oscar or something. The main thing that contributed to the success of this play was that it wasn't just a straightforward retelling of the books; it took all their mood and their fantastical imagery and with sound and lighting and amazing performances captured it perfectly, and then some, on stage, in a way that I don't think would have been nearly as effective on the big screen. It definitely makes me want to go see more plays in the future. The only downside is that I can't watch it over and over again.
It was amazing.
It was done by the David Glass Ensemble at the Liverpool Playhouse, and it was my first real experience of the theatre. I think it might also have been their last performance of it this year. I can't compare it to other plays, but I was impressed. Really impressed. The more I'd thought about it beforehand, the more I'd realised that Gormenghast was the perfect novel for some bizarre physical theatre, but wow they did it well. There wasn't one weak bit of casting out of the handful of actors and actresses who did it. Obviously not all the characters made it into the play (Sourdust, Nannie Slagg, Keda, Irma Prunesquallor, the Professors...), but those that did all hit the mark. The most curious representation was probably Sepulchrave, who appeared as a short, dust-laden old man completely hidden away in his robes.
Their use of white sticks and rectangular black boards was something mesmerising, which they choreographed and fluidly rearranged into different sections of castle and corridor, doorways, haunting symbols, boats and all kinds, with the actors dressed in black running around as anthropomorphised shadows to change the scenery. There were times when setpieces literally seemed to melt in and out of the darkness.
The opening scene was the creepiest thing I've ever witnessed. I actually nearly wet myself. It was some some highly abstracted version of Titus' birth scene, with the human shadows scuttling about and chanting like things possessed, stomping their white sticks to the accompaniment of oppressive, rumbling sound.
From then on it only got weirder. There are moments when you find yourself watching a tufty-haired woman sitting on a high platform swaying to a bizarre tune of synthesised cats that you begin to question your sanity and that of everyone around you. Other fantastically surreal moments include Flay's lengthy travelling through the shifting corridors as he makes unintelligible interactions with the shadows; and the appearance in a window of the two Aunts' sideways heads, launching immediately into a mindless drone about power, during Steerpike's break for freedom from Flay's prison. And, of course, there were the stuffed cats.
Flay was emphasised more as a comic relief character, but he was still true to the book and the play as a whole was so weird that it wasn't a distraction. It had an appropriately twisted brand of humour mingled with odd visual gags like Flay's arm extending behind the set to deliver a message to Steerpike at the other end of the stage, and during the interval, Satan the monkey appeared in the form of a plump stuffed chimp to wave at the audience, later swinging insolently in the background during a dramatic exchange between Steerpike and Fuchsia. The most bizarre visual gags were Swelter's prosthetic penis, which spouted all over Steerpike at the start and was later removed from his person by Flay's sword, and then when at the end of that fight he mournfully removed a string of paper intestines from his fatsuit, which he later swung about while appearing to Steerpike in a vision and singing to him.
Another nice visual touch was how they represented the deaths of characters with a long red ribbon issuing from their mouths, which a dismayed Titus or a disgusted Flay would then lift between their fingers like a string of blood.
The most dramatic scenes in the book were captured perfectly, such as the battle between Flay and Swelter and later Titus and Steerpike. The lighting, the music, the movements, were all perfect. During the flood of the story's climax, a vast, rippling sheet provided the stormy water while Gertrude stood with others on the high platform at the back of the stage bellowing commands over the intensely formidable live score. It was intense.
Anyway, I could go on and on and on. Suffice to say, I really enjoyed it and every member of the cast deserves an Oscar or something. The main thing that contributed to the success of this play was that it wasn't just a straightforward retelling of the books; it took all their mood and their fantastical imagery and with sound and lighting and amazing performances captured it perfectly, and then some, on stage, in a way that I don't think would have been nearly as effective on the big screen. It definitely makes me want to go see more plays in the future. The only downside is that I can't watch it over and over again.
Labels: gormenghast, plays
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Gormenghast
Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake, is a masterpiece. It is literary masterpiece and a work of art. I don't think I've ever read anything else in which the characters and the setting have been painted so vividly. And as most other reviews will tell you, the massive, sprawling stone castle in which it all takes place (in the two books that I've read) is a character in itself.
Each character, trapped in a strange world of meaningless ritual, is meticulously drawn in absurd and grotesque proportions, which only serves to make them more real. There's the ever-melancholy 76th Earl of Gormenghast, Sepulchrave; his huge and passive wife who seemingly cares for nothing but birds and cats until trouble afoot stirs in her a quick and powerful mind; their moody and passionate daughter Fuchsia who finds herself having to grow out of her beloved world of stories and make-believe; and their troubled son, Titus Groan, who quickly grows to hate the suffocating ritual he is forced to obey. The eccentric and witty physician Dr Prunesquallor and his sister; Sepulchrave's servant Mr Flay; Swelter the cook, the twins Cora and Clarice and the irritable, stump-legged Master of Ritual Barquentine make up some of the other denizens of the castle.
Peake spends a lot of time fleshing out each character and as a result the events that unfold take their time to occur, which means a slow pace that will not appeal to readers who want an immediate sense of direction to the plot. But while it takes its time, it's fascinating to see how each of the characters react and respond to each other, each with their own traits, grudges, interests and aspirations; and how Steerpike, the cold and cunning kitchen boy and perhaps the most interesting character of all, manipulates each in turn with the aim of his own ascension to power and the consequent destruction of those in his path. There is a persistent darkness to the story that festers and ferments until it reaches an extremely dramatic climax.
In many ways, the Gormenghast books could be seen as almost self-indulgent. But Peake is a master of the language to a mindboggling degree and seems to relish in the richness of it. He'll take an image or an aspect of a character or setting and spend as long as he needs to convey the exact mood, tension, atmosphere or emotion in a way that, while some may find it self-indulgent, left me with a deep appreciation of it.
Once you get into it, Gormenghast is an incredibly absorbing world and the books are an extremely satisfying read for those who are willing to lose themselves in its strangeness. I haven't yet read the third, Titus Alone, which departs from the castle and explores elsewhere in Peake's world, but when I do, I'll be sure to post my longwinded thoughts.
Each character, trapped in a strange world of meaningless ritual, is meticulously drawn in absurd and grotesque proportions, which only serves to make them more real. There's the ever-melancholy 76th Earl of Gormenghast, Sepulchrave; his huge and passive wife who seemingly cares for nothing but birds and cats until trouble afoot stirs in her a quick and powerful mind; their moody and passionate daughter Fuchsia who finds herself having to grow out of her beloved world of stories and make-believe; and their troubled son, Titus Groan, who quickly grows to hate the suffocating ritual he is forced to obey. The eccentric and witty physician Dr Prunesquallor and his sister; Sepulchrave's servant Mr Flay; Swelter the cook, the twins Cora and Clarice and the irritable, stump-legged Master of Ritual Barquentine make up some of the other denizens of the castle.
Peake spends a lot of time fleshing out each character and as a result the events that unfold take their time to occur, which means a slow pace that will not appeal to readers who want an immediate sense of direction to the plot. But while it takes its time, it's fascinating to see how each of the characters react and respond to each other, each with their own traits, grudges, interests and aspirations; and how Steerpike, the cold and cunning kitchen boy and perhaps the most interesting character of all, manipulates each in turn with the aim of his own ascension to power and the consequent destruction of those in his path. There is a persistent darkness to the story that festers and ferments until it reaches an extremely dramatic climax.
In many ways, the Gormenghast books could be seen as almost self-indulgent. But Peake is a master of the language to a mindboggling degree and seems to relish in the richness of it. He'll take an image or an aspect of a character or setting and spend as long as he needs to convey the exact mood, tension, atmosphere or emotion in a way that, while some may find it self-indulgent, left me with a deep appreciation of it.
Once you get into it, Gormenghast is an incredibly absorbing world and the books are an extremely satisfying read for those who are willing to lose themselves in its strangeness. I haven't yet read the third, Titus Alone, which departs from the castle and explores elsewhere in Peake's world, but when I do, I'll be sure to post my longwinded thoughts.
Labels: gormenghast, language, literature, rabbit-hole theory
