I have been reading the first part of "The Importance of Being Earnest" and what a funny play it is with its clever, witty lines. But are they replete with meaning? I don't think so. I can't help comparing Wilde's sayings with those of George Bernard Shaw. Shaw strikes me as a deeper thinker than Wilde so his "sayings" are much more meaningful.
"The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibilty!" (Wilde)
"Liberty means responsibilty. That is why most men dread it." (Shaw)
"When one is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in the country one amuses other people." (Wilde)
"Marriage is popular because it combines the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity." (Shaw)
But when Lady Bracknell arrives on the scene who cares about meaningfulness?
"I'm sorry we are a little late, Algernon, but I was obliged to call on Lady Harbury. I hadn't seen her since her husband's death. I never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty years younger." (Wilde)
Friday, 29 February 2008
Thursday, 28 February 2008
Script Editors (sods)
You have to be careful when inserting a quote from a great writer in your work. I used a passage from "A View from the Bridge" in a play of mine but when I sent the play off to the BBC (it was turned down) I was told I should be aware that using others' words could infringe copyright - you are aloud to use only short passages (I don't know how long).
Another thing is that sometimes the passages you use are so good in comparision with the stuff you yourself have written, they make your words sound banal. This is true especially of using Shakesperean passages.
I wrote a play a long time ago and used a line of a Philip Larkin poem in it: a character quoted it to express his state of mind. "Why should I let this toad, Work, squat on my life."
Needless to say, when the play was duly returned (from ITV or BBC) the script editor wrote that the play was not something they were looking for at that present time (a sign, by the way, that they may be thinking of pinching the idea/story to use themselves) but thanks for sending it etc etc. Then - I knew it was coming - the bloke added "There is one very good line in your play though - the trouble is it's the one by Larkin."
The sod.
Another thing is that sometimes the passages you use are so good in comparision with the stuff you yourself have written, they make your words sound banal. This is true especially of using Shakesperean passages.
I wrote a play a long time ago and used a line of a Philip Larkin poem in it: a character quoted it to express his state of mind. "Why should I let this toad, Work, squat on my life."
Needless to say, when the play was duly returned (from ITV or BBC) the script editor wrote that the play was not something they were looking for at that present time (a sign, by the way, that they may be thinking of pinching the idea/story to use themselves) but thanks for sending it etc etc. Then - I knew it was coming - the bloke added "There is one very good line in your play though - the trouble is it's the one by Larkin."
The sod.
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
It's my job
I was on a cruise holiday a few years ago and there was a pianist who entertained the holiday crowd with songs, mainly standard stuff of old and some modern numbers. He could play and sing any song you requested. I was staggered by his ability to remember so much and just before the holdiday ended, I asked him how he was able to do that.
I was hoping for an illuminating answer but all I got was "It's my job."
Later, back on firm ground, I was at the funeral of my aunt and the vicar conducting the service showed a knowledge of my her that astounded me. When I was leaving at the end of the service I made a point of shaking the vicar's hand and saying "I was very impressed by your knowledge of the life of my aunt."
"It's my job," he said.
I was hoping for an illuminating answer but all I got was "It's my job."
Later, back on firm ground, I was at the funeral of my aunt and the vicar conducting the service showed a knowledge of my her that astounded me. When I was leaving at the end of the service I made a point of shaking the vicar's hand and saying "I was very impressed by your knowledge of the life of my aunt."
"It's my job," he said.
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Drinking
Years ago there was a place in Monmouthshire where you could drink beer pretty well all day (not many people drank anything else - wine? never heard of it - whisky? that's for alcoholics). The reason for this was that certain pubs in one part of the town were in one county, certain others were in another, and they opened at different times to accomodate the miners finishing work at different times.... something like that.
In those days Wales was "dry" on Sundays. So what were all those Cardiff drinkers to do? Well they could (and would) walk to Rumney which was then in Monmouthshire and which was not dry (can't recall why - was it in England?). Lloyd George said Rumney, on a Sunday evening, was a den of iniquity and drunkeness (or words to that effect).
In other towns and cities of Wales on "dry Sundays" people - men I mean since women did not habituate pubs in those days - would , if they wished to drink, join clubs which were not "dry".
So in many ways it was no different then than now when, it seems, there is so much binge drinking. What is different however, is that then girls, young women did not, unless they were beyond shame, go out drinking as they do now. Blokes always did and now do, so they say, though I don't believe it, drink to excess. They always did.
I remember a young man who had snow white hair, big frame, pit worker, who'd come off his shift and go straight to the pub to sink about 16 pints of ale. He'd go home, sleep it off and be up the next morning (about six o'clock) for work. Every day, year in year out.
Yeah, good old "Snowy White", the Falstaff of Pontllanfraith!
In those days Wales was "dry" on Sundays. So what were all those Cardiff drinkers to do? Well they could (and would) walk to Rumney which was then in Monmouthshire and which was not dry (can't recall why - was it in England?). Lloyd George said Rumney, on a Sunday evening, was a den of iniquity and drunkeness (or words to that effect).
In other towns and cities of Wales on "dry Sundays" people - men I mean since women did not habituate pubs in those days - would , if they wished to drink, join clubs which were not "dry".
So in many ways it was no different then than now when, it seems, there is so much binge drinking. What is different however, is that then girls, young women did not, unless they were beyond shame, go out drinking as they do now. Blokes always did and now do, so they say, though I don't believe it, drink to excess. They always did.
I remember a young man who had snow white hair, big frame, pit worker, who'd come off his shift and go straight to the pub to sink about 16 pints of ale. He'd go home, sleep it off and be up the next morning (about six o'clock) for work. Every day, year in year out.
Yeah, good old "Snowy White", the Falstaff of Pontllanfraith!
Monday, 25 February 2008
St David's Day
Every year on the 1st of March, St David's Day, the grammar school I attended held a mini Eisteddfod, the maxi version of which is held in a town or city of Wales where competitions are held - solo singing, choirs, poetry competitions and so on. The big feature of the Eisteddfod is the chairing of the bard, that is the celebration of the writer of the best poem in which he sits in a magnificently carved chair and, with a sword held over his head, he is "chaired" - the exact meaning of what takes place has always been a mystery to me, one reason being that it is all conducted in Welsh and I don't speak the language coming as I do from Gwent (or Monmouthshire) in the east of Wales where few people speak Welsh.
I was surprised when I won the chair poem in our school's mini version of the Eisteddfod (all conducted in English); and as it happened one of the teachers at the school was the actual sword bearer at the big Eisteddfod function. So when I was "chaired" I was given, as they say these days, "the full monty" - the sword held above my head and the official recitation of the words spoken when the poet is chaired properly.
It was an experience that has stayed in my memory ever since, not least because whenever I am asked, rarely now, to give a talk on writing I always tell the audience this story of how I was "chaired" by Trefin.
And then I always add this comment about my writing career since then: "From there it's been down-hill all the way."
I was surprised when I won the chair poem in our school's mini version of the Eisteddfod (all conducted in English); and as it happened one of the teachers at the school was the actual sword bearer at the big Eisteddfod function. So when I was "chaired" I was given, as they say these days, "the full monty" - the sword held above my head and the official recitation of the words spoken when the poet is chaired properly.
It was an experience that has stayed in my memory ever since, not least because whenever I am asked, rarely now, to give a talk on writing I always tell the audience this story of how I was "chaired" by Trefin.
And then I always add this comment about my writing career since then: "From there it's been down-hill all the way."
Sunday, 24 February 2008
Hamlet - the ballet
Many years ago I saw Robert Helpman in Shakespeare's "Hamlet" at Stratford on Avon; I can't remember much about it except that his performance was characterised by excessive balletic leaps and skillful sword fighting. Which is not surprising since he was primarilly a ballet dancer.
Now I read that he once adapted the play into a ballet. How on earth can that be done successfully when the play relies so much on the spoken word?
Or, as was written in a review in the Telegraph this week about a new version of "Hamlet - the ballet":
"On paper, isn't there something bizarre about adapting Shakespeare - the greatest linguistic genius - for the wordless medium of ballet? It's like investing in, say, a 1945 Mouton-Rothschild, tipping the contents down the sink, and keeping the empty bottle."
Agreed.
Now I read that he once adapted the play into a ballet. How on earth can that be done successfully when the play relies so much on the spoken word?
Or, as was written in a review in the Telegraph this week about a new version of "Hamlet - the ballet":
"On paper, isn't there something bizarre about adapting Shakespeare - the greatest linguistic genius - for the wordless medium of ballet? It's like investing in, say, a 1945 Mouton-Rothschild, tipping the contents down the sink, and keeping the empty bottle."
Agreed.
Saturday, 23 February 2008
100 Best Films
In last week's Sunday Telegraph someone made a list of their 100 best films under headings: Drama, Thriller/Action, Comedy, Animation, Horror, Romance, Kids, Musicals, Documentary, World Cinema.
No Westerns?
No "Shane" or "The Searchers" or "The Big Country" or "Stagecoach"?
No Chaplin?
No Welles?
Someone asked us all, in a group of holiday makers a few years ago, what were our favourite films. I said, without much thought, "Casablanca". But in retrospect I feel I should have chosen - with all its faults and it has many, and with its shovel-fulls (or should that be shovels-full?) of sentimentality - Chaplin's "City Lights".
I always marvel at the organisation of the plot and the choreography of the silent comedy routines. And there are scenes in it when I am swept away by the sheer brilliance of the details: the first time Chaplin meets the blind girl is superb because it is so well organised and so moving and so funny too; the end of the film when the girl has had her sight restored and sees, for the first time, the man - the down-at-heel, ill kempt tramp who'd paid for the operation (his having gone to prison for theft to pay for it) and realising he was not after all the rich, Rolls Royce owner she thought he was from an earlier scene. And when she offers him a coin which he first refuses but then accepts and on touching his hand she knows who he is.... and Chaplin's musical accompaniment rises to Puccini-like heights of rapture....
Pass the handkerchief please.
No Westerns?
No "Shane" or "The Searchers" or "The Big Country" or "Stagecoach"?
No Chaplin?
No Welles?
Someone asked us all, in a group of holiday makers a few years ago, what were our favourite films. I said, without much thought, "Casablanca". But in retrospect I feel I should have chosen - with all its faults and it has many, and with its shovel-fulls (or should that be shovels-full?) of sentimentality - Chaplin's "City Lights".
I always marvel at the organisation of the plot and the choreography of the silent comedy routines. And there are scenes in it when I am swept away by the sheer brilliance of the details: the first time Chaplin meets the blind girl is superb because it is so well organised and so moving and so funny too; the end of the film when the girl has had her sight restored and sees, for the first time, the man - the down-at-heel, ill kempt tramp who'd paid for the operation (his having gone to prison for theft to pay for it) and realising he was not after all the rich, Rolls Royce owner she thought he was from an earlier scene. And when she offers him a coin which he first refuses but then accepts and on touching his hand she knows who he is.... and Chaplin's musical accompaniment rises to Puccini-like heights of rapture....
Pass the handkerchief please.
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