Come read these, you Monsterists

The Vital Spark

The Vital Spark at Moira Furnace, 2000.

I’ve been searching for community theatre plays. For the texts of these plays; for the scripts. And I have been very successful. So far fifty of them have been sent to me, or are on their, way via email and post. The quality of much of what I am reading is impressive. And as I read I realise just how important it is that these scripts don’t disappear out of view.

I want to stress that I am very aware, as is everyone who writes for this most collaborative art form of all, that a script is not the performance. But I would argue that the script, as well as being a stage in what will become a performance, is a performance in its own right. It is the performance of the writer completing an idea; of a journey through time of various stages of thinking and craftsmanship,  finally ending with a definitive work of art (at least until rehearsals begin) that is both blueprint for performance and a completed statement from the playwright of what this play should be, if performed solely through the imagination.

The playwright is lucky. We work in an art form that allows us to create two works from one idea. The performance is the one where we can hand over the work and join in with the team; making suggestions, changes, cuts, rewrites, so that the play comes to life in its embodied form, responding to the context of its performance but also the fresh understanding that comes from exploring its physicality and its inner workings anew. A wholly communal and collective effort which is in stark contrast to the initial process, without which the second could not follow (unless you are writing as part of a devising process). But, as most playwrights will tell you, it is usually the moment at the end of the first performance – the completion of the writing of the text – which is the one that gives them the most satisfaction. As the spellings and layout and pagination are carefully checked, and the pages pour out of the printer, the writer is at his most satisfied. The physicality of the text, the heft of the paper, is a work of art in itself, containing as it does a carefully crafted act of imagination expressed through precisely laid out written language. (How much attention is paid to that title page; to the font size, the spacing above and beyond the title).

And now this text will probably change. But hopefully not too much. And not many people outside of those engaged in the production process will see this script; this particular work of art. It may be handed over proudly to a number of family and friends, and at some point it may be used in the future to prove that the writer is able to actually write such plays. Now the script – unless it is published – will no longer, and is inherently unable to, exist in its original form – one where there is the possibility to pause time, to re-read, to flip between pages to investigate what may be a network of metaphors that are perhaps too finely hidden. Now the script exists as something else entirely, as part of a new art form that only exists in a linear fashion and in real time. It is absorbed into the performance.

Once the performance run is over there is still, however, a script. It may have changed now. And maybe the writer will have a copy of this Performance Script, or maybe they won’t. (It’s interesting how when I go through old scripts I seem to have a great deal of Rehearsal Scripts i.e. the final draft, the end of my first performance as a writer; and very few Performance Scripts. These generally exist as hard copy texts covered in writing and crossings out – I have directed a lot of the work I write – and I never seem to go back to the original digital documents to transfer these changes and create what should be the ‘final’ script).

But still it sits there, the script, just as it did before this whole process of actually making theatre began; before the actors and directors and designers and prop makers and technicians picked it up and started using it to make another work of art based on what its pages contain.

Sometimes the writer is lucky. Sometimes the script is published and now the script can exist in the form produced by the original, uncompromised creative act as well as existing as a blueprint. It can be performed in the imagination, an arena from which it sprung; or it can become once again the beginning of an embodied process. Only this time the writer’s involvement may be much less sought after than before. And the resulting piece of art that results from it may delight, surprise or horrify the writer, but at least they are aware that this is an ephemeral moment that will pass whilst the script will live on.

Which brings me to the community play texts that I have been reading. Because they are not printed, they do not become available to be experienced in the imagination or as blueprints for future performances. They are – apart from a very few exceptions – lost.

Many people would wonder why this is a problem. A community play, perhaps more than any other, is written with its performance and its context in mind. The writer usually has to deal with as many practical questions as she is writing it than questions of plot, structure and all of those others that face the playwright as they sit down to work.

I think there are two key reasons why saving these scripts, by having them available to read, by allowing them to exist as texts, is of value.

Firstly imagine that one day, as a writer, you are asked to create a script in which rather than a cast of two, three, four or maybe if you’re lucky (very lucky) ten performers, you can work with a cast of dozens, maybe hundreds. Imagine that you are asked to write a play where the possibilities for bold and inventive visual story telling is encouraged. Where the play itself may be performed in an outdoor space and so can respond to a physicality that is not confined to the dimensions of a theatre. Where you are asked to create characters of all ages and social classes; and where you are tasked with constantly moving between spectacle and intimacy.

This is an exciting brief. Above and beyond the technical challenges just think of the possibilities in this; the social worlds that you are able to construct; the levels of conflict that you can develop; the interconnection between the personal and the political, the individual and the social that are available to you. Of course, the fact that you are aware that you are an outsider and that you have been asked to create something that in many ways represents a community is a position of real responsibility. But maybe this is a liberating thing as well. Maybe having a much more specific audience in your imagination gives you something more concrete to play with and against. Maybe on some level the second work of art that comes from this script – the performance of the play – becomes a little bit more present in the completion of the first work of art; the script. Maybe the grappling with this context brings new ways of thinking and working to your craft. Maybe the scripts that are produced are full of new insight into writing for theatre because of these specific challenges and these specific possibilities.

Which brings me onto my second point. In 2005 a group of playwrights, bemoaning the state of British theatre, declared themselves part of a new movement which they called Monsterist.

In a Guardian article by the playwright David Eldridge, explaining their stance he writes:

“The moment someone decides to write for the stage,” says Roy Williams, “they should be encouraged to believe the limits to what they can achieve are only the limits of their imagination.” But this doesn’t always happen … I increasingly miss the opportunity to write a whole world, with its opportunities for great parts for leading actors and small, gem-like one-scene roles. Newer playwrights have been formed in a democratic culture that encourages equality for all the characters in a narrative and instills the notion that if you employ a performer you ought to give them a good amount to do. Nothing wrong with that but sometimes we want to write a different kind of play.

This dominant mode is reinforced by the critical culture. Script development people and reviewers always seem to note that any small part is “underwritten” – even if … that is a deliberate choice on the part of the playwright. Many argue that the minor characters should be cut – but imagine Macbeth without the Porter. No wonder so many playwrights are frustrated.

The article ends with a manifesto:

Monsterism is a theatre writers’ campaign to promote new writing in the British theatre. It is a positive, forward looking movement that aims to create opportunities for British theatre writers to create large scale plays, for large stages.

The key aesthetic tenets of a monsterist work are:

  •  Large scale, large concept and, possibly, large cast
  • The primacy of the dramatic (story showing) over storytelling
  • Meaning implied by action (not by lecture)
  • Characters caught in a drama (not there to facilitate a polemic)
  • The exposure of the human condition (not sociology)
  • Inspirational and dangerous (not sensationalist)

Although he is writing specifically about the creation of work for the major stages and buildings in the U.K. it is interesting that what is sought is readily identifiable as the opportunities and challenges offered to the writers of community plays, opportunities and challenges which we should be able to investigate in the many scripts that have been written for this specific theatrical form. Because with theatre budgets increasingly shrinking it’s hard to imagine that the trend of plays with smaller casts will change anytime soon; and so if and when it does there won’t be many other contemporary plays to look at to see how playwrights explored the world they live(d) in, even if these plays are often based on a previous historical period; plays with expansive casts and the panoramic visions that can result from this. But the problem is that these plays are not readily available; they are not published; they are not at hand to learn from.

So I am in a very lucky position. I am reading plays unlike any other that have been written over the last thirty five years; plays that I think the writers who are sending them to me are proud of. Both because of the works of art that were produced in response to them; but also because of the works of art that they represent in themselves, in their sentences and paragraphs and full stops.

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