Friday, March 26, 2010
My plan today was to think about reviews.
But I'm tired.
I did the final revision of the script, sent it off to my agent, and to someone who might possibly translate the play into Japanese, gave each cast member a copy of the published text (Nick Hern Books) saw the show, had some lovely conversations afterwards.
And now I'm tired.
So what I have to say about reviews must wait.
And there are so many of them!
Not just the press, but the online ones, too.
It's sad that so many of the online ones mimic the worst aspect of traditional press one - written in haste, without giving themselves the time and the space to think in depth, and - worst of all - aping the ridiculous and arbitrary star rating system.
But the whole point of writing online in that it gives you the opportunity to do something different.
I stumbled across one that does:
http://glasgowtheatre.blogspot.com/2010/03/every-one.html
and I would commend it.
The remarkable thing about this show, though, has been that I have received so much positive response from all kinds of different sources.
Sometimes from people writing out of the blue.
Like this one:
"Dear Jo Clifford,
I work at Samuel French's Theatre Bookshop and I read your play Every One today. I was just contacting you really to say thank you very much for writing such a great and moving play. I read the new plays when they come in because I like to know what we have in the shop but yours is the only one I have read that has provoked any kind of reaction in me or moved me so much.
I have only read the play so have not had the fortune of seeing it performed so can only imagine the staging and impact it must have.
After reading it I just felt I had to contact you, it had that much of an effect on me.
So once again, thank you "
That means more than all the five star reviews in the world.
But I'm tired.
I did the final revision of the script, sent it off to my agent, and to someone who might possibly translate the play into Japanese, gave each cast member a copy of the published text (Nick Hern Books) saw the show, had some lovely conversations afterwards.
And now I'm tired.
So what I have to say about reviews must wait.
And there are so many of them!
Not just the press, but the online ones, too.
It's sad that so many of the online ones mimic the worst aspect of traditional press one - written in haste, without giving themselves the time and the space to think in depth, and - worst of all - aping the ridiculous and arbitrary star rating system.
But the whole point of writing online in that it gives you the opportunity to do something different.
I stumbled across one that does:
http://glasgowtheatre.blogspot.com/2010/03/every-one.html
and I would commend it.
The remarkable thing about this show, though, has been that I have received so much positive response from all kinds of different sources.
Sometimes from people writing out of the blue.
Like this one:
"Dear Jo Clifford,
I work at Samuel French's Theatre Bookshop and I read your play Every One today. I was just contacting you really to say thank you very much for writing such a great and moving play. I read the new plays when they come in because I like to know what we have in the shop but yours is the only one I have read that has provoked any kind of reaction in me or moved me so much.
I have only read the play so have not had the fortune of seeing it performed so can only imagine the staging and impact it must have.
After reading it I just felt I had to contact you, it had that much of an effect on me.
So once again, thank you "
That means more than all the five star reviews in the world.
Labels: reviews
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Last night was one of those occasions when this strange self-imposed task of writing an entry each night felt like something of a chore.
So in no way did I do justice to the deep fear I felt before the press night.
Fear that manifested itself in the usual rather absurd ways - trying to find cards for cast and crew, worrying I had forgotten somebody - plus another one.
A new one, and not so welcome: anxiety about what to wear.
I managed to get my hair done in the afternoon, in its way a minor triumph; but the rushing about of the previous week had left me no time or space to buy a dress. Or even a new top or skirt.
I found myself in my bedroom doing the clasic thing of trying stuff on, taking it off, throwing it on the floor.. until finally opting for something very dull that I had worn often before but which throughout the evening seemed to continually come apart at the seams.
The skirt felt too narrow so I kept almost tripping, the topkept riding up, the cardi seemed to be all over the place.
It was one of those extremely rare occasions when I regretted not being able to present myself as a man.
That would have been so much easier.
And if I look back at where the far comes from... it's like being in love.
It's the vulnerability of self exosure. And the intoxication of it too...
So in no way did I do justice to the deep fear I felt before the press night.
Fear that manifested itself in the usual rather absurd ways - trying to find cards for cast and crew, worrying I had forgotten somebody - plus another one.
A new one, and not so welcome: anxiety about what to wear.
I managed to get my hair done in the afternoon, in its way a minor triumph; but the rushing about of the previous week had left me no time or space to buy a dress. Or even a new top or skirt.
I found myself in my bedroom doing the clasic thing of trying stuff on, taking it off, throwing it on the floor.. until finally opting for something very dull that I had worn often before but which throughout the evening seemed to continually come apart at the seams.
The skirt felt too narrow so I kept almost tripping, the topkept riding up, the cardi seemed to be all over the place.
It was one of those extremely rare occasions when I regretted not being able to present myself as a man.
That would have been so much easier.
And if I look back at where the far comes from... it's like being in love.
It's the vulnerability of self exosure. And the intoxication of it too...
Labels: first night revisited
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
When the play opened, it became something very different.
That is the wonderful things about theatre: that it is not a fixed entity, a dead commodity that can be bought and sold as such, but a living organism.
It's also why it has difficulty, sometimes, holding its own in a world that is totally at home buying and selling commodities.
The difference was partly in me, because I was less afraid; and partly in the actors, who I suspect were also less afraid and beginning to find their way of interacting with the audience.
This time I could see many people were listening; i could experience their attention; and I was able to receive their praise.
There was a lot of praise: and there continues to be.
And I know that what i have done, whatever its faults, is worth doing.
That seems so banal: but its worth saying.
I seem to have a new respect for my work that I am not sure I ever had before.
That is the wonderful things about theatre: that it is not a fixed entity, a dead commodity that can be bought and sold as such, but a living organism.
It's also why it has difficulty, sometimes, holding its own in a world that is totally at home buying and selling commodities.
The difference was partly in me, because I was less afraid; and partly in the actors, who I suspect were also less afraid and beginning to find their way of interacting with the audience.
This time I could see many people were listening; i could experience their attention; and I was able to receive their praise.
There was a lot of praise: and there continues to be.
And I know that what i have done, whatever its faults, is worth doing.
That seems so banal: but its worth saying.
I seem to have a new respect for my work that I am not sure I ever had before.
Labels: first night
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