Realism and Other Strange Events

Realism is my enemy. Every time I have doubts about this play, it's not about the characters or their lines, it's not even about the point which is delivered, I think, pretty clearly at the end. No: all my doubts exist because of the  stench of realism that emanates from this production, necessary for the story to make sense, but absolutely foreign to my internal landscape.

My stories and my plays exist somewhere at the intersection of various fantastical worlds. Not fantastic. Fantastical. The premise might be realistic, but the story evolves beyond the limits imposed by reality. When I chose to use Caryl Chessman and not just some random guy in prison who's paid to write his autobiography, I found myself assaulted by realistic elements: Chessman's narrative, his connection to Lapierre, his death, its aftermath and so on and so on. When I decided that the characters were to be connected not only by their relationship to Chessman and Habitat Radio, but by their location as well (they all live in the same apartment building), a certain physical reality emerged, and I've been fighting it since the moment I noticed it. And so the characters' minimalist furniture (a table, a chair) is all white and their "walls" are drawn in chalk on the black surface of the stage, and doors and windows are completely imaginary and distances (between the radio station, San Quentin, and the apart building) impossible. And, yes, there is a space marked "Fantasy" in the play where props are nonexistent and geography irrelevant (a room in the Louvre materializes next to Gabe's "wall," the bride from Larry's fairytale falls out of the Zeppelin, beauty pageants and scenes from a TV vampire show occupy the same space), but the problem -- my problem -- remains the same: the transitions between perfectly possible conversations and the strange stuff that takes place in the fantasy space seem forced. Usually, by now, the internal mechanisms of a particular production -- I'm talking mostly about choreography and rhythm -- would reveal themselves to me rather effortlessly. In this production, there's still a lot of work to be done: in the "realistic" moments characters do too much (do we really agitate ourselves constantly in our homes?) and in the fantastic scenes they don't do enough. Tomorrow I'm redoing the entire "bride falling out of the Zeppelin" scene. I've kept tweaking it and I've been trying to like it, but I don't. So it needs to change. I also need to bring some order in Dominique's actions (in her house) and in the relationship between Dominique and Chess.

There's also a moment before an Edith Piaf song that doesn't work: Larry is crushed that Gabe hangs up on him (GABE: Stop listening in on my conversations. You don't make me happy), but then relaxes peacefully as everyone else weeps mercilessly because of that song. I think this would be the moment he works out like a maniac, not later in the play.

I've been having trouble with Dan's voice. He seems to tire out by the end of the play and that very important monologue at the end sounds incredibly flat. Exhausted. Irrelevant. I fixed some of that today (mostly by insulting Dan).
Me:What's the point of all those workouts you do if you can't last more than 20 minutes? You have the stamina of a 5 year old.
Ellie: Actually 5 year olds have a lot of stamina...
I find that the people I work with for the first time are always surprised by my lack of kindness (kindness, finesse, tact). What annoys me is that I never make a secret out of it when I tell people what's involved in the staging of a play. I always say, "It's a lot of work, and the work will almost kill you, and unlike American directors (Darling, that was very very good. Now let's do it again completely differently), I don't have time for niceties. If a scene sucks, then it sucks and it needs work. If it's great, it's great, and I'll tell you that."

And they smile and say, yes, yes, they've always wanted to do that -- spend their weekends in rehearsals with me crushing their souls...And never believe it's really that bad, until we reach this stage, and things need to acquire a definitive shape, and a certain  rhythm needs to develop, and I'm running out of time. What surprises me even more is that once the play is performed and time passes, the majority of the people involved demand to do it all over again (another production, another four months out of their lives, more soul crushing). Masochism is alive and well, apparently, but I think there's something else too. This need for perfection, for precision, yields good work. Our plays don't look sloppy or improvised. That's mostly because behind every 2-3 minute scene there are hours and hours of rehearsal. Perhaps this is the advantage of the experimental production: precision work takes the place of realism.

Susan took some photos today. The stage looks good, the spaces the characters inhabit seem a little less chaotic. But there is much work to be done and those transitions need to be resolved. Realism demands these types of resolutions...The only thing I'm happy with at this moment is the poster. There are two versions of it, the one attached to the Happiness Machine event on facebook and the one attached here.

The poster captures the play perfectly, this mixture of lala land and misery. Now all I need to do is repair the damage caused by realism, transpose onto the stage the possibility of this strange juxtaposition...and make it beautiful.