Magic Moments

I was going to go to the opera the other weekend (Tosca was on at the Nottingham Royal Centre), but events conspired against me. So, to console myself, I bought the Benoit Jacquot film version starring Angela Gheorghiu (catch me, I'm swooning).

And I watched it yesterday evening, blubbing like a big fool.

Anyhoo, several things struck me. So here are some random Tosca-inspired observations:

Time of Life:
At the beginning of Act III, Tosca is up on the ramparts with her lover Mario. He's about to be shot at dawn. However, Tosca has struck a bargain with the evil Baron Scarpia, and she explains to Mario that the executioners will be firing blanks; Mario must fall to the floor, feigning death, and then they can go off together. They sing of their love for each other and of the wonderful life they will share together.

Well, Scarpia wouldn't have been so evil unless he had lied to Tosca, and the executioners will be using live ammunition. BUT, the audience doesn't know this, and nor does Tosca, and nor does Mario.

Here, the audience is invited to project into the future, to embrace hope. Tosca and Mario really will spend their lives together in lovers' bliss! Without this moment, without this image planted into the audience's mind, without this context of rise and fall, Mario's death will have a much lesser impact.

As we write, we have a good idea of where we are going. This knowledge is often something that we do not want to share with the audience. We can misdirect the audience. We can place ourselves into our characters and believe what they believe and write with that conviction such that we might convince our audience that things will be wonderful.

It's a very powerful and easy to apply technique: it requires only that we forget ourselves as authors and enter the real-time world of our characters. Just as you sit there imagining that you have a future, there may well be a runaway truck coming for you as I type. Imagine the effects of gifting you with that knowledge now. Imagine the different effects upon the narrative and the reader's experience.

Response:

I don't know anything about acting: I can well imagine that it requires the same discipline and determination as writing to achieve well. And, like writing, the techniques often stay hidden from the casual onlooker until they are performed badly.

As Tosca explains to Mario about the bargain she has struck with Scarpia, the camera closes in on their faces, framing them cheek to cheek. What Mario does not yet know is that Tosca has murdered Scarpia (one of the greatest 'choices made under pressure' of all time, agonized through the magical Vissi D'Arte aria). So I'm waiting for the moment that Tosca mentions the blade, and watching for Mario's response: at the mention of that word, he should begin to understand what she has done.

However, and as we see above, an actor in character should not know anything that is in the libretto to come: at this moment, I would expect Mario's eyes to widen, for him to react to the word 'blade'. Whilst Roberto Alagna has a terrific voice, he often fails to respond as I would naturally expect him to. He, the actor, knows every word of this opera, and he knows how it will end. But the character Mario does not, must not.

Through our life's experiences, we have come to expect call and response, action and reaction. As authors, we should understand what our characters understand, we should read them as a reader will be reading them.

One Look:
The rifles fire and Mario falls to the flagstones and Tosca is well impressed with his acting. Tee Hee. At this moment, she (and the first-time audience) still believes that Mario is alive and he is going to stand up and brush himself down and take her away to some beautiful cottage in some peaceful part of the world.
As he leads the execution party away, Scarpia's also-evil henchman Sciarrone turns to Tosca and does this horrible leer thing, not far removed from the famous Voight leer from Anaconda. This is a purely visual moment; not something that you would normally discern in an opera. But that twisted smile makes a massive impact: it is the first moment the audience realizes that something is wrong. That leer made all my hairs stand up, not least because I'm used to Tosca only realizing that Scarpia has cheated her from beyond the grave at the moment when she tries to rouse Mario.

All three observations pertain to knowledge within a time frame. The author must understand that his knowledge is different to the reader's. As far as the reader is concerned, nothing exists beyond the moment. Even if the author is skilful at creating anticipation, the reader's knowledge still does not extend beyond the here and now. This is the time frame of the real world, of the audience, and it is very different to the time frame of the story. If we are to write for a reader, we must remember that this reader lives moment by moment.

There are moments when the reader begins to understand something, and these are very powerful moments; they can be created from the smallest of actions, the most economical of sentences, the tiniest of inferences.

Bigger Trees, No Sunsets

I think I'm safe to use this image: it's being posted across the globe.
David Hockney, one of the greatest living artists and probably best known for his pop art, notably his Splash paintings, has unveiled his new work: Bigger Trees Near Warter.
He constructed this work from fifty canvases and it is a continuation of his desire to move away from the photographic and towards the essence.
As we saw with Mondrian's trees, it's fascinating to observe how an artist begins to determine what is relevant and what is not, removing all trace of irrelevant clutter, leaving the essence as they perceive it.
Hemingway called this truth, and I would suggest that this search for the truth was by far the greater part of his literary journey.
From A Moveable Feast:
Since I had started to break down all my writing and get rid of all facility and try to make instead of describe, writing had been wonderful to do. But it was very difficult, and I did not know how I would ever write anything as long as a novel. It often took me a full morning of work to write a paragraph.
Time and again, Hemingway advised his mice (newbie authors) to look and listen, to cut away all the crap and to search for the truth.

Reading through Jack M Bickham's 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes (just to see how many fundamental mistakes I'm still making), I was interested in chapter 6: Don't Descibe Sunsets (which might be/probably is [having internal conflict with this] the fundamental mistake I am still making).
Jack discusses delivery systems and makes the point that descriptions stop the reader dead. He introduces us to the frustrated poet. He discusses and reiterates the need for clarity and obviousness (similar to Hemingway's truth and repetition) and the importance of continually moving the story forwards - always moving forwards towards a clear goal.

It's not that I distrust Jack (and, indeed, chapter 31 is entitled: Don't Ignore Professional Advice); it's that, in breaking down his years of experience into succinct chunks, he has allowed little exceptions to leak across chapters.
Whilst he repeatedly, and quite rightly, insists that the author keep the story moving, he also discusses pacing elsewhere. To this end, his disclaimer reads something like: Descriptions are fine provided that they occur at a 'valley' - a point where the momentum needs to sit on a rock and take a breath and watch the sun going down.

To my mind, Hemingway describes things more beautifully than any other author. He finds the truth. He studies the minutest components of his scene or character, and he decants the thing that moved him - the purest form that made him react.
This truth links Bickham's advice to Hemingway's: Descriptions come at a cost; every single word in that description is high premium; every single word must be perfectly cast, designed to 'make' rather than 'describe'.

You can be sure that my thoughts on this are ongoing :o)

Slimedrogley

Slimedrogley has claws in his eyes and fires lasers from his teeth. He has a fireplace in his chest which is filled with black dot creatures.

Removal

Had a very odd image as I was drifting to sleep last night.
Felt compelled to write it up.
What is most peculiar is the omission of an expected reaction.


‘You can show me now,’ whispered Lila, casting furtive glances from side to side.
Amongst the twilight shadows of spiced orchids, Redoute’s metal body blushed with the embers of scarlet sunbeams. At his side stood a tall, gilt-framed looking glass.
Redoute knelt before Lila, his Achilles pistons hissing as he lowered himself.
‘I really do have four hearts Miss.’
His clunky fingers fumbled at the latches on his chest plate until it came away and fell without sound to the dirt. Inside his chest beat four hearts: each was suspended in a cobweb of tubes and wires; each pulsated – delicately curved plates of wafer-thin platinum bound with springs and peppered with tiny rivets.
Lila gasped and reached a hand into Redoute’s chest, running a finger across the shining organs.
‘They’re wonderful Redoute!’
Redoute cocked his head.
‘May I see yours now Miss?’
Lila undressed, her clothes piling at her feet until she stood naked before the robot.
Redoute extended the blade on his index finger and carved a wide, sideways H into Lila’s chest from her clavicles to her belly button. He peeled open her chest and snapped away three ribs and pulled the looking glass before her.
‘You have one heart Miss.’
Lila marvelled at her heart’s reflection.
‘But I like yours best Redoute,’ she pondered.
Redoute cupped Lila’s heart in his hand and gently squeezed it.
‘And I prefer yours Miss.’