Scriptwriter
This is it.
Props and uniforms are at the theatre.
A focus and plot was completed in record time this afternoon. (I’ve only just learned what focus and plot means: it’s apprising the theatre’s audio-visual technician of when/where to change lights, play audio, etc.)
Tomorrow’s the technical and dress rehearsals, followed by —
— opening night.
How hard can it be?
INT. REHEARSAL SPACE – NIGHT
ANDY, one of the actors, approaches our WRITER:
ANDY
Is the play turning out like you imagined?
WRITER
No.
Andy straightens fractionally.
ANDY
Really?
WRITER
What you guys are doing is heaps better.
Final rehearsal tonight.
Two sleeps and one day before it’s show-time.
This – this – is the point where I finally let go.
Where did the time go?
Here’s some pics.
Nit-pickers might point out the differing shades of green in the uniforms. Our historical excuse is that it was war-time and uniform manufacture and dye availability was a bit ad hoc.
Just the one session this week, due to actor availability. Meanwhile, there’s been a bit of Facebooking, and notification of media outlets and networks.
I exchanged some emails with Jenni earlier in the week and, as if out of the blue, she asked how I was feeling with regard to the script.
I began typing something along the lines of, I have to let go of my baby, I suppose but I caught myself in the lie: I’m not letting go – I’m sharing the script with Chris and the boys.
It was a weirdly empowering moment.
We have a Choir Mistress: Maureen Fepulea’i, a playwright to look out for.
The Producer and Director have names, too: Jenni Heka and Chris Molloy, respectively – I salute you both. Their bios are here.
And the cast, of course. Shadon Meredith, who was one of the voice actors in O le Samaria. The young ‘n’ hungry Samson Chan-Boon. And Andy Sani and Leki Jackson Bourke, both hot off The Brave. Cast bios are here.
As for the rehearsals… what can I say? They’ve started. Four weeks to go.
Read-throughs can be fun to attend as a reader or gopher but when you’re the writer, you can only gird your loins and approach it as an instructive exercise.
One of the nice things about a closed read-through is that the atmosphere is collegial: it’s okay to say, This dialogue sucks because it’s understood that the speaker will then say why it sucks, and maybe even suggest how it can be made to suck less, all in a thick fug of We’re here about the work.
A public reading – well, that’s a different kettle of hedgehogs. There’s the possibility – no matter how remote in these ever-so-polite South Pacific isles – that someone in the crowd will say, That sucks! and hide in the mass of unfamiliar faces. And I suspect that stalking up and down the stage eye-fucking every suspicious-looking audience member and yelling WHO SAID THAT? is not really the look I want to promote.
Saturday’s public reading had no such impromptu drama – all the drama was scripted, there was polite applause, and at the end of each reading, there were questions and comments that forced the writers to think and consider.
Ah, humanity: how I love thee at times.
With just over four weeks to go (30 days, to be precise), the production exudes a quiet confidence while the writer goes through 250 grams of cocoa product a day and worries at the script, desperately trying not to think that any day now, he will have to let go of it and trust in the director and actors.
For some reason – and it’s not just my usual laziness – the idea of revision has, of late, been quite a mountain to climb. As if it wasn’t bad enough circling a blank screen, approaching a draft with revisory intent always makes me think of that saying about dogs and their vomit.
A script doesn’t get better on itself, but.
So. I took the notes I was given from the read-through, some more from the director hisself, and some of my own, and tried to integrate those that were most applicable (ie., felt right) into the next iteration of the draft.
If nothing else, it’s making more sense. It’s jumped from 33 pages to 37 pages but that’s okay. The director is not afraid to cut lines and stuff whether I’m in the room sobbing or not.
I used to wonder what a “revised first draft” meant. I used to think it was virtually identical to the first draft – it just had all the typos ironed out. As far as feature scripts were concerned, the definition could vary, depending on the producer.
But with this project, my wearing the writer and co-producer hats means that a revised first draft is whatever I damned well say it is.
You want names? They’re right here and here. … Um, yeah: more to follow, obviously.
So, yesterday was the read-through and…. Read-through’s are always an heady, anxious, butterflies-in-the-bowels kind of experience. You’ve just emerged into the light with a draft that you think/hope/pray hits the mark. You anticipate the joy of hearing your dialogue sing and await the inevitable praise to be heaped upon you from your readers.
This read-through was no different.
The actors reading their lines sounded nothing like the voices I’d heard when writing the script. (Disclosure: this was a cold read.) Holes that I thought I’d papered over sufficiently stuck out like… holes don’t stick out, really, do they? The dialogue did not sing. Arcs I thought I’d artfully sketched turned out to be just sketches waiting some proper writing to define them.
Praise was not inevitable. Warm supportive noises were welcomed. Carefully phrased criticism was taken on board. No tears were shed. No pride was swallowed.
With an open reading less than a fortnight away, it’s about tightening and bridging and articulating and… writing.
Development continues apace.
