tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89808543379229860352024-02-08T13:30:10.035+11:00one playwright workingAn experiment recording the process of ideas and exercises into structured pieces of playwrightingMark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-15072845216420278782008-07-16T11:56:00.009+10:002008-07-16T12:18:43.222+10:00Scavenged Fragments of Conversation: The Pledge.As I was recently walking around the National Gallery in Canberra, I overheard a woman says to her friend:-<br /><br />"Damn, I think we should make a pledge tonight..."<br /><br />I was taken by the possibility of the line. Should play with this as an exercise conversation starter or ending.Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-40438882488177601902008-07-03T20:51:00.002+10:002008-07-03T20:55:45.234+10:00Quote of the day<em>There's only one compliment from a director that can mean anything to a playwright: </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>'I like your play and I'm going to put in on.'</em><br /><br /><strong>Richard Eyre</strong> (from Nation Service p 79.)Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-41476579096158629832008-07-01T20:37:00.002+10:002008-07-01T20:41:13.390+10:00Quote of the day<em>the difference between commitment and involvement: in a ham omelette the pig is committed but the chicken is involved.</em><br /><br /><strong>Richard Eyre </strong>(quoting Al Clark in '<em>National Service'.</em> p 60)Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-65127285884449667172008-06-30T17:03:00.002+10:002008-06-30T17:07:11.758+10:00Quote of the day<em>Words without actions are the assassins of idealism. </em><br /><br /><strong>Herbert Hoover</strong> (quoted on Richard Larter's painting 'First Hand Panoramo Way' 1970)Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-18184206078420257492008-06-29T10:21:00.002+10:002008-06-29T10:24:56.482+10:00Quote of the day<em>Whenever I did anything mainly because I thought it was going to be commercial, it was a failure, and whenever I did something only because I thought it was good, it turned out to be commercial.</em><br /><br />Jean-Louis Barrault (as quoted by Richard Eyre in 'National Service')Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-52035528435899575752008-06-28T00:07:00.006+10:002008-06-28T00:47:54.923+10:00Ledge Fetish: Play Script.<div align="justify">There are two characters: Andy and Bobby. Both can be played as either male or female.­­­­­­­­­­­­­­</div><div align="justify"><br /><em><strong>Fade up sound-scape of a city street. Snap lights up: Day.<br /></strong><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There is only a wooden crate (for portable shoeshine store) on stage.<br /><br />Andy is sitting on the crate. Andy eats lunch and watches pedestrians walking past. Andy is bored. Pause.<br />Bobby slowly enters and stops downstage. Bobby looks up over the audience.<br />Andy stops eating and watches Bobby for a moment.<br />Andy eventually moves to stand beside Bobby.<br />Bobby doesn’t move.<br /></span></em><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Andy: You okay?<br />Bobby: (smiles, nods) Thanks.<br />Andy: Okay (pause - moves away – stops - returns) You an architect?<br />Bobby: No.<br />Andy: I was only wondering… It’s just that you’re staring up.<br />Bobby: Yes.<br />Andy: At that building?<br />Bobby: Yes.<br />Andy: That you work in?<br />Bobby: No!<br />Andy: No? No...So you live there?<br />Bobby: No.<br />Andy: No?<br />Bobby: No. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been inside that building. Why?<br />Andy: Nothing. No Reason …That’s okay… And you’re okay?<br />Bobby: Yes, and I’m not an architect. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="justify"><br /><em>Pause</em> </div><div align="justify"><br />Andy: Are you a history student?<br />Bobby: (<em>smiles</em>) No.<br />Andy: A journalist?<br />Bobby: No.<br />Andy: A freelance photographer?<br />Bobby: No.<br />Andy: (<em>flirting</em>) How about a research assistant for a glossy mag?<br />Bobby: No.<br />Andy: A professional shopper?<br />Bobby: No. I wish.<br />Andy: A private investigator on a stake out? </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Bobby laughs. </em></div><em><div align="justify"><br /></em>Andy: Not a cop? </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Bobby shakes head.</em></div><em></em><div align="justify"><br />Andy: And you’re wouldn’t be a criminal casing out your next job?<br />Bobby: No.<br /><em>Andy continues to stand next to Bobby looking up. Pause. </em></div><em><div align="justify"><br /></em>Bobby: Don’t you have some place you should be?<br />Andy: Oh yeah. There. That’s my box …I shine shoes, professional I mean. It’s actually quite a/<br />Bobby: Shouldn’t you be getting back to work then?<br />Andy: No. Quiet now. The rush is over… unless you’d like me to shine/<br />Bobby: No! No… No, thank you. </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Pause.</em></div><div align="justify"><em><br /></em>Andy: You know, I really do enjoy a good mystery.<br />Bobby: Ehh?<br />Andy: Somebody I can’t pick.<br />Bobby: Sorry!<br />Andy: My hobby! Helps pass the time during a lull in the shoes…Working out people…you… your story … You’re dressed kind of corporate like.<br />Bobby: Yes. I guess so.<br />Andy: And you’re not a property developer, are you?<br />Bobby: No.<br />Andy: Nor a real estate agent.<br />Bobby: No. I’m not. I’m actually a /<br />Andy: Ssssh. Please! No! Don’t spoil the game. I’ve almost got you picked. (<em>pause</em>) Do you know somebody who works or lives in there?<br />Bobby: No.<br />Andy: Okay. (<em>beat</em>) I give in!<br />Bobby: What?<br />Andy: So what are you looking at?<br />Bobby: Oh, the direct approach. Finally. I like that. </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Andy points up over the audience</em>. </div><div align="justify"><br />Bobby: I am looking at that building.<br />Andy: Well, yes, I can see that, but what I’m asking is why?<br />Bobby: Oh. Because I like that building.<br />Andy: (<em>slowly)</em> because you “like” that building, you spend your afternoon standing alone on a crowded city street, only staring up at a building but never entering it…Right… No…I don’t think I was never going to pick that one? That was a hard one! <em>(Pause. Smiles.</em>) And people think I’m strange?</div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Bobby shrugs.</em></div><div align="justify"><br />Andy: And this your hobby... like trainspotting?<br />Bobby: No. I just like to look at older building… and think.<br />Andy: About what?<br />Bobby: All matter of things. (<em>pointing</em>) Come. Look.<br />Andy: At what?<br />Bobby: It is a beautiful old building. They don’t make buildings like this anymore.<br />Andy: No? I suppose they don’t… It’s more glass and steel these days.<br />Bobby: (<em>starting to open up</em>) Stop! Really look at it! The architectural detail, the ornamentation, the windows. You could still open up those windows if you wanted to. (<em>now on a roll</em>) Sometimes you can feel trapped in these new glass towers they build! Sometimes, don’t you wish you had a window you could open? /<br />Andy: A window. Down here?<br />Bobby: / If you wanted to, you could stick your head outside the window and look up and down on the street. You could smell the city. You could scream out at the top of your voice, above the noise of the traffic below, and nobody would care.<br />Andy: I reckon the bloke in the next desk might care? </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Bobby laughs at the sudden passionate outburst. Bobby is feeling liberated. </em></div><div align="justify"><em><br /></em>Andy: You do really like old buildings!<br />Bobby: You like stories?<br />Andy: Yes.<br />Bobby: Look at that ledge. The one under the windows that goes all the way across the facade. It has a story to tell, if you listen.<br />Andy: Listen to what?<br />Bobby: You could still climb out on that ledge if you wanted to.<br />Andy: Why would someone climb out there unless they…?<br />Bobby: Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t seen some old black and white movie where a desperate alcoholic worker goes psycho about the state of filing cabinets, and climbs out onto a ledge, threatening to jump, demanding that someone brings his wife downtown, so she can witness his demise. The crowd gathers below, afraid to look away, in case they miss the moment of impact. There are always a couple of clowns chanting “jump, jump, jump”, but they get ushered away by the cops who have parked two or three cars across the street to block the traffic flow. And then, there is the detective on a megaphone, pacing back and forth, trying to calm the jumper down… whilst their partner runs aheads upstairs, to talk the nutter in from the window. Only, they always have to go out of the ledge as well, and they nearly fall. Before finally managing to drag the broken sobbing idiot back into safety.<br />(<em>beat</em>)<br />Andy: What movie did you say this was in?<br />Bobby: It’s in lots of old movies. It’s a common cliché. A Hollywood story device and there it is. A real old fashioned “Jumping Ledge”!</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="justify"><br /><em>Pause</em></div><div align="justify"><br />Now that is a story! </div><div align="justify"><br />Pause </div><div align="justify"><br />What do you say?<br />Andy: What did you say you do for a living again?<br />Bobby: I didn’t…I’m an accountant.<br />Andy: Ahhh… Fuck! That explains it?<br />Bobby: What?<br />Andy: Fuck. You’re a depressed accountant who wants to jump out of that window, to fucking commit suicide down here on my shoe shine block.<br />Bobby: What?<br />Andy: (<em>more to themselves</em>) Shit, I can pick them.<br />Bobby: Ehh.<br />Andy: (<em>to themselves</em>) Should I say don’t do it?<br />Bobby: No.<br />Andy: (<em>to themselves</em>) I guess there’ll be plenty of shoes for me to clean afterwards.<br />Bobby: No. No. Listen. It’s only a fantasy story.<br />Andy: (<em>a hint of sarcasm</em>) Oh, that’s okay, if you only fantasise about jumping off the ledge? Well, yeah, that’s okay then.<br />Bobby: I’m only saying that I love that the possibility of the ledge still exists. It’s risky and it’s dangerous. When everything else is so safe and regulated and boring and clean. Knowing that the ledge is still exists is comforting.<br />Andy: I don’t feel comforted by the ledge.<br />Pause<br />Bobby: How can you feel alive when there’s no dirt. No germs. No danger.<br />Andy: I have no idea what you’re talking about!<br />Pause<br />Bobby: I’m only trying to say I like to go for walks and find old building...<br />Andy: And you fantasise about jumping out windows.<br />Bobby: Not jumping. I imagine the adrenalin rush the cops must feel. Talking that nutter back in. Saving their life. I fantasise about that rush.<br />Andy: So you fantasise about other people jumping!<br />Bobby: About saving them!<br /><em>beat</em><br />Andy Why don’t you just become a fire-fighter or a doctor or something.<br />Bobby: (<em>Pause. Andy gives Bobby a look</em>.) My Dad’s an accountant.<br />Andy: (<em>nods</em>) And looking at old buildings helps you to forget how terrible being an Accountant is?<br />Bobby: A little. Sometimes. For a couple of minutes. </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Pause. Both stand looking up at the building.</em></div><div align="justify"><em><br /></em>Andy: How would you save them?<br />Bobby: Who?<br />Andy: The jump crazy nutter.<br />Bobby: Maybe…Talk to them…Reason with them. Show them that they have something to live for. </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="justify"><br /><em>Andy slowly drags the crate across and stands on the edge of it. Bobby watches</em>.</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="justify"><br />Andy: (<em>dramatically playing a role</em>) I can’t handle this anymore.<br />Bobby What are you doing?<br />Andy: (<em>breaking from role</em>) Show me! I’m the jumper. I’m ready to end it all.<br />Bobby: (<em>laughing</em>) What? Here in the street.<br />Andy: Yeah. They don’t care, People usually ignore me anyway.<br />(<em>back in role play</em>) The world’s gone crazy, crazy it’s gone.<br />Bobby: (<em>in role</em>) Wait. Please don’t jump.<br />Andy: (<em>in role</em>) Why not? You don’t understand? Nobody does!<br />Bobby:. (<em>in role</em>) No, I do understand. Believe me. My job sucks too.<br />Andy: <em>(in role</em>) I never said I hated my job.<br />Bobby: (<em>in role</em>) But you must.<br />Andy: (<em>drops role</em>) Why?<br />Bobby: (<em>in role</em>) You’re a Shoeshine Artist?<br />Andy: What’s wrong with doing shoeshine.<br />Bobby: (<em>in role</em>) I don’t know. I guess the hours are limited, and even you said there was a lack of respect from your customers, and I imagine the pay might be poor.<br />Andy: You can’t talk. You hate accounting.<br />Bobby: Yes. But I want to be a film maker. The accountancy is only temporary thing.<br />Andy: You’re meant to be talking me out of jumping to my death. Not into it. </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Pause</em> </div><div align="justify"><br />Andy: I’m sorry, but you really suck at this…and I’M STILL JUMPING.<br />Bobby: Noooo.<br /><br /><em>Andy falls forward off the crate onto the stage floor.<br /><br />Bobby watches unable to stop the action.</em><br /><br />Andy: SPLAT!</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="justify"><br /><em>Andy slow gets up, smiling.</em></div><div align="justify"><br />Andy: I guess that didn’t help?<br />Bobby: No. But it was fun. Maybe I’ll do better next time. </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Pause</em> </div><div align="justify"><br />Andy: So, can I get your phone number?<br />Bobby: Why?<br />Andy: So I can call you.<br />Bobby: You shine shoes!<br />Andy: Well. I deserve something after all that? </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Bobby exits. Andy stands dumbstruck looking at the audience. Snap lights out.</em></div><div align="justify"><em></em> </div><div align="justify"><em></em> </div><div align="justify"><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216567662130191026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 462px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 317px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="311" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGbqkI4yO_vp8xzbalp7hkBxF_gSqBaVSPSNKBPwrjfHJxu4lHSdp8JtsYLvnaTG86CJnMqR3nlGvObvt5aqmJRyJNxwZq2UcgwPGnaXE_PXFXJ3SSLBA_3X-bOPFDx6lq9Vvne_FUJI/s400/DSC_0023.JPG" width="446" border="0" /></em></div><div align="justify"><em>This script was first performed as part of the Singapore Short and Sweet 2008 season. Directed by Michael Wang with Julie Wee as Andy and Musa Fazel as Bobby. </em></span></div>Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-8049943576693257342008-06-27T18:10:00.004+10:002008-06-27T18:28:50.321+10:00Quote of the day<em>If you build a bridge to go across a river it obviously has to go from one point to another point. If it doesn't do that, it's not a bridge, it's something else, perhaps an art work of some kind. [Or, I would add, maybe an unfinished bridge. With a little work, it might still get to the other side,]. . . If you want to build an automobile, probably it has to have wheels, and if you hate wheels you should build something else, maybe a table.<br /></em><br /><strong>Arthur Miller</strong> (quoted in The Playwright's Guidebook. p123)Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-42728764322952485402008-06-27T17:58:00.006+10:002008-07-04T08:44:39.277+10:00The Comment Book: sculpture pics<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LiIasia1cl14HdLvkQaVxXbOFcjQ8v9jSyXVSXrsLKn1KtThVd7aGqCZeaT9yV8TcBUdLYdrmM_jq-G_magoa8ajvLeNenIQsT2zwnNTvCLeiIDk5ZANVsVajE7hf1AZEWBNQGzIpPg/s1600-h/Singapore+022.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218921841442739666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LiIasia1cl14HdLvkQaVxXbOFcjQ8v9jSyXVSXrsLKn1KtThVd7aGqCZeaT9yV8TcBUdLYdrmM_jq-G_magoa8ajvLeNenIQsT2zwnNTvCLeiIDk5ZANVsVajE7hf1AZEWBNQGzIpPg/s400/Singapore+022.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7_4pncI1peQlCxPJD2wam0TIuVyjDnOTm_vvpHoQCRIe8QphjxUvm1vIGn-Y3eGkennSm87_zgUFlVZf479ADQns1MhyHewJIZu4k7uUzqR26sL1-tORwaRAd22_iBd5bjp7fjVH1P8/s1600-h/Singapore+023.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218921856278740210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7_4pncI1peQlCxPJD2wam0TIuVyjDnOTm_vvpHoQCRIe8QphjxUvm1vIGn-Y3eGkennSm87_zgUFlVZf479ADQns1MhyHewJIZu4k7uUzqR26sL1-tORwaRAd22_iBd5bjp7fjVH1P8/s400/Singapore+023.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHlMRgpUHh4FJ6VUHuIzQvzmoLnNtDQ2dM0_VPQiQHqlt8jjkYozeKfnvR_NN2bNCne_ExSZaz6xYWi0ZmYNO9vWdj2DS14JH-hL1rbeEoiCZLeOk3G-MLCNNNy0hrbMLlDpiARWc-Zg/s1600-h/Singapore+025.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218921861278643698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHlMRgpUHh4FJ6VUHuIzQvzmoLnNtDQ2dM0_VPQiQHqlt8jjkYozeKfnvR_NN2bNCne_ExSZaz6xYWi0ZmYNO9vWdj2DS14JH-hL1rbeEoiCZLeOk3G-MLCNNNy0hrbMLlDpiARWc-Zg/s400/Singapore+025.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKEBxlTRC8boFdIjUl0lyfl0i4IrLuZs_UhhRScwEw6s6WeJ75p17N_JFME8xa0xZPLmL1RvsEz2TwIsq_CYnLpJ2cSiSHuK7UnU_6y-3nmEMsjoKd3xboAn-MUzeNKZZntUH727kXZA/s1600-h/Singapore+024.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218921871752796546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKEBxlTRC8boFdIjUl0lyfl0i4IrLuZs_UhhRScwEw6s6WeJ75p17N_JFME8xa0xZPLmL1RvsEz2TwIsq_CYnLpJ2cSiSHuK7UnU_6y-3nmEMsjoKd3xboAn-MUzeNKZZntUH727kXZA/s400/Singapore+024.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-7597019106264051882008-06-27T17:23:00.007+10:002008-06-27T17:57:18.925+10:00The Comment Book: capturing an impulseAs part of the Singapore Arts Festival, I recently hunted down an outdoor sculptural exhibit which was advertised as next door to the Raffles City shopping mall. This piece is a series of columns formed a grid of towers - an architectural and transparent maze that the audience could walk around it, look through it and even move through it.<br /><br />Each column was constructed out of a wire beams approximately 3 to 4 metres high that had been wrapped in a clear plastic cord stretched around and around the column spiralling up creating a sense of tension. Between these clear columns, a black fabric tape had been seemingly randomly stretched back and forth to create another series of barriers and openings that directed the viewer into the maze.<br /><br />As I spiralled around the sculptural piece, slightly disappointed that this was all it was, I became aware that a young woman was watching me. She was a festival volunteer, a guardian of the sculpture, of university age, sitting at a collapsible table next to a banner advertising the festival delights. She waved a greeting and called out informing me that “you can walk through it, you know”.<br /><br />I accepted her invitaton and went to enter into the maze. She was surprised that I was actually going to do it. After I’d walked the maze and had taken a couple of photos, I approached the woman. We entered into a conversation about the piece, the artist and why / how she found herself there as a volunteer.<br /><br />She asked me whether I would like to make a comment in the comment book. She showed me an artist diary with black pages and a spiral spine. She had two thick artistic markers – one silver and one gold ink. I was surprised that this public artwork has a volunteer guarding it and a comment book.<br /><br />I ask the young woman who read the comments - Was it a part of the festival process, wound the artist read them or the festival directors or wound some be published or was it a way for the organisers to validate the expense of the piece to the bean counter – who would gauge the success of the piece on the nature of the comments. She was unsure whether anybody would actually ever look at the comments book after the festival<br /><br />We started to read some of the other comments and drawings together, delighting in the ecletic mix of ramblings. She realised that a lot of the work has been completed by the other volunteers passing their time and boredom doodling in the book. This lead to further discussion on the reasons why people volunteer. She attended a local university where she studied economics – Volunteering was a compulsory component of her course, but she liked the arts and had chosen to volunteer for this festival.<br /><br />Finally I added my own comment to the book.<br /><br />We discovered that neither of us were locals but both knew where the other had come from. The last thing we did was to introduce ourselves, say hello and parted ways with a smile.<br /><br />It is my conversation with this woman from Penang as a volunteer and custodian of the comments book that captured my attention for the rest of the day... Unfortunately, I’ve unforgotten her name.<br /><br />A few days later I entered another small art exhibition at Sculpture Square where the artist was attending to her own enquiry desk. She initiated another conversation about her comments book. I was starting to see a pattern. An idea started to take shape. Let's see where the idea takes me.Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-28136009917518376872008-05-25T18:29:00.005+10:002008-07-16T12:18:07.881+10:00Scavenged Fragments of Conversation: Devonshire TunnelIt's was a Saturday morning and I was walking down Devonshire Tunnel under Central Station in Sydney. I overheard two yound guys walking directly behind me.<br />I didn't look back but I couldn't help being gripped by the shread of their conversation that floated my way.<br /><br />1: I told the dude that I wanted a wallet that every time I opened it, there was a crisp clean $50 note - So I could take them out and stack them up in my bedroom!<br />2. Why only $50 notes?<br />1. What ?<br />2. $100's<br />1. You got to start your dreams somewhere.<br />2. Modest?<br />1. Anyhow, the guy looked at me like I'd raped his grandmother or something.<br /><br /><br />Not long afterwards, in the foyer of Belvoir Street Theatre, a woman carrying a tray of party snacks was heading somewhere - talking, encouraging, reminding herself:-<br /><br />"Warmily great and effectively engage".Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-8452022575737257432007-11-13T11:34:00.000+11:002007-11-13T11:50:16.769+11:00Quote of the day<blockquote><p align="left"><em>I like to create each production as a piece of theatre in a way<br />that has never been conceived or imagined before, as if there<br />had never been a theatre.<br /></em></p></blockquote><br /><strong>Steven Berkoff</strong>, <em>Free Association</em> p1Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-3530037522718908502007-11-11T10:48:00.000+11:002007-11-13T11:48:24.572+11:00Quote of the day<em><blockquote><p><em>Theatre can and should hold the mirror up to ourselves in the hope </em></p><p><em>that we will dislike the reflection sufficiently to wish to change it, </em></p><p><em>or else to show an image which is so desirable that we would wish </em></p><p><em>to become it.</em></p></blockquote></em><strong>Glenda Jackson.</strong>Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-89854364170658019172007-11-09T22:58:00.000+11:002007-11-13T11:49:14.870+11:00Quote of the day"<em>Even if we do not make theatre, we are theatre: To be theatre is to be human</em>."<br /><br />Augusto BoalMark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-86774914648196984202007-11-08T16:35:00.000+11:002007-11-09T23:38:03.850+11:00Writer's Block<div align="justify">After reading over an articles on <a href="http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com/2007/11/what-is-it-about-writers.html">Theatre Notes</a>, I composed this blurb as a reflection on the topic of writer's block. The original article was commenting on writer's writing about writer's block and whether such a cultural phenomenon really existed. Such a rant in response that deserved to re-appear here in a slightly edited version</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">I was wondering whether writer's block was more a matter of a personal psychological perception rather than a universal clinical condition. If someone identifies their predicament as writer's block, then is it not writer's block because they identity it as so and that is enough. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">I'm sure the term brings up different connotations for different people but is writer's block just one name for some one's struggle / inability to successfully express and communicate some unknown ideas or stories despite their desire to say something. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Whilst I've know some people who write / paint/ create/ like turning a tap on and off, I'm quietly jealous of this instant flow of creativity. I have "this friend" who finds the physical act of sitting down and starting to actually put pen to paper / fingers on keyboard the most difficult part of the writing process. "My friend" needs to get on a roll, to build up some momentum, get confident, to be in "the zone" before the writing flows. Sometimes "the zone" is just around the corner with a big flashing light and rock music blaring but other times, the zone has disappeared off the map and can not located despite the most aggressive and intensive search. Maybe, upon reflection "this friend's" inability to get into the zone is another way of saying writer's block</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Okay, to get back to my original thought, I was wondering about the possibility of how a play about a playwright could be engaging if you focused on the conflict and tension behind the writer's block - the reasons?. "My friend" often gets so worked up about the disappearance of the zone that he becomes afraid to look for it in fear of another disappointment. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">I reckon we could set a blog challenge to "wright" the good short monologue about a writer's block - a T<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ropfest</span> for playwrights?</div>Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-53890043633381841022007-11-07T17:39:00.001+11:002008-06-27T18:23:28.212+10:00Looking Back With Chubb Head<div align="justify">In one of my previous careers during "the recession that the country had to have", I spent alot of my "employed" hours engaged in the art of credit control (accounts receivable / debt collection etc) for a variety of organisation including a bank, a finance and an insurance company, two levels of government, manufacturing, and a little retail. After a series of quick transitions, most of this time was spend with an arm of multinational insurance firm. Now, I have to confess that these years of banility and boredom made an impression upon me, generated of a traditions and games that continue to inspired me.</div>Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-17870089825782389432007-11-05T19:16:00.000+11:002007-11-13T11:54:32.710+11:00PlaywrightingI have always loved the term "<strong>playwright</strong>" as a description for the process of writing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">play scripts</span>! The "wright" places an emphasis on the building and construction of the object as inferred in words like "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">cartwright</span>" and "shipwright".<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">"Playwright"</span> is evocative of this process of construction, of building a representation in some dramatic form, using an understanding a dramatic time, space and dialogue to shape character and action into theatre. The playwright is a builder of dramatic action and not just a writer.<br /><br />I continue to grow a cast of threads, loose ideas, half finished scripts, scribbled notes and failed attempts. These pieces physically turn over in my head, calling, haunting like ghost <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">beckoning</span> to be released from the purgatory of theatrical limbo. To be finished, killed off or polished off, for better or worse<br /><br />Therefore, I am taking a break for the nex year from directing other playwrights' work with the intention of developing something out of my own threads into a script that resembles a state of completion.<br /><br />This decision aside, I still need to elect which idea to pursue. Each one regularly calls upon me periodically, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">reverberating</span> and echoing into new connotations, reasons for revisiting. This regular of cast of working titles are fighting for attention amongst the pack, only to be occasionally overwhelmed by another, new exciting contender. Already, these projects beg, fight for notice as a I write"<br /><br /><ul><li>Crust</li><li>From Here</li><li>Hideous Hours Spent</li><li>Small Talk (and dirty knives)</li><li>Half Way House</li><li>Corpse on the Roadside</li><li>The Home Front</li><li>West to Whatever</li></ul><p>I think I'll try to introduce a couple of the script and go from there.</p><p></p>Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8980854337922986035.post-57781714648213726732007-11-05T18:56:00.001+11:002008-07-02T15:53:11.432+10:00Crust: Capture an impulse<div align="justify"><blockquote><br /><div align="justify">"<em><span style="color:#ff6600;">The dignity and value of a man is not in his labour or abilities, it is in his worth as human being</span></em>." </div><br /><div align="justify">from <strong>Bob Geldof - "<em>Is that it</em>?" (1986)</strong></div></blockquote></div><br /><div align="justify">I've been kicking this concept for a play around for nearly twenty years since I first started in theatre. It kepts changing as I incorporate new interests and draw on new theatrical experiences, but the general scenario has remained the same.</div><br /><div align="justify"><strong>The original seed: </strong></div><div align="justify">On a quiet night, a group of people in a bar decide that forming a band might bring meaning into their lives. With little talent and no experience, the idea of the band rises to heights of excitement before falling apart out of frustration all in the course of one night. The group finally breaks up sighting artistic differences as the reason for their break up, not being able to agree on a band name or music style to perform. Each character looking for different things from the band.<br /><br /><strong>Notes behind the idea. </strong></div><div align="justify">I liked the idea that people are often culturally identified or framed by their occupation or what they do for work? Take the quint-essential phrase, what do you do for a living? and ask do you make generalised observations or judgements on people based on their answer to this question. Do we categorise people’s intelligence, morals, values, dignity, ambitions, dreams through our knowledge and expectations of that job. </div>Mark Friendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02890489538595981362noreply@blogger.com0