Play Time for the Weekend

So, this weekend I did something a little different then lazing around the house guiltily watching reruns of America's Next Top Model (a little fun game to play during the show: gay or European?). I signed up for a two-day workshop covering the topic of adaptation in the realm of plays and scripts. I first heard about it a week ago, and thought it might be somewhat valuable for me to attend seeing as summer school is beyond my means of affordability. This was an annual event put on by the Montana Actor's Theater, titled "Missoula Colony 15" (I'm gonna guess it's been going on for 15 years now). Anyway, it's a week long convention mainly targeted towards playwrights in Missoula and the surrounding area to meet and converse with some other bigwigs in the industry and maybe see one of their short plays produced. Since I heard about that last part later, I decided to attend the three seminar sessions about adaptation.


The first session consisted of a Q&A with some of the visiting playwrights (no names really jumped out to me, but then again, I don't carefully watch for that kind of stuff). They touched on some important things about adaptations which I've always felt should be considered when working with that particular medium: you don't have to transcribe every word and action from a literary work to the stage or screen as long as you capture the essence, or that special emotional connection fans have for the source material. And sometimes, simplicity is usually the way to go, particularly if you're trying to shrink a 500-page novel into a 120-page screenplay. They also talked about obtaining rights, and that if the author is dead, that's usually the best way to avoid any extraneous lawsuits. I could kind of follow them on copyrights, since Kirby and I had to arrange with our publishers to keep the copyright of "Shakespeare's Inferno." 


With the afternoon session, we dived into an actual workshop. I was probably one of the younger ones there; at least three quarters of the group were over the age of 50 and the rest were grad students in the drama department. I was feeling kind of nervous that'd we have to write something on the spot (which really isn't my strong point), but instead we just talked about how a plot needs to be developed, how a character functions, etc. The assignment we were given was to come up with a three-page play based on a photograph (the picture shows an artist painting a portrait of a woman, titled "Bela in a Green Dress," but of course if you try to look up the artist on Google all you get is a bunch of Twilight crap), while also using some of Pablo Neruda's poetry in our first and last line. So I guess that's where the "adaptation" part of it came in. After we bounced off some ideas and named the figures in the photograph (Richard and Celeste), we all went home to work on our plays to read the following day.

My creative process was kind of interrupted when I found out a ride I thought I would get to Billings next week fell through, and I spent most of the time trying to make other arrangements. But in a way, I think that sort of helped. When I dived back into thinking about my play, I was able to get some viable ideas. Of course, the obvious route to take with this would be to create some tortured love story between the artist and the model. I sort of went in that direction, but in a more comedic fashion: why doesn't the portrait "talk" to the artist and beat him up about not expressing his love for the model? I immediately had this whole Monty Python sketch in my head (which I think is the mode I get into when writing dialogue for plays). So I wrote it and reworked it until around midnight. The next day, I was pretty pleased with what I wrote, even if the final product did suggest a bit of a caricature. Unfortunately though, I wasn't able to present it during the two hour reading session. We just ran out of time, and I wasn't the only one who couldn't present their play. So that's why I'm posting it here on my blog. Constructive feedback and praise is always welcomed of course, since I didn't get a chance to hear what others thought of it. It's titled Still Life. Enjoy!

Scene 1

LIGHTS slowly come up to reveal RICHARD'S small, dumpy studio apartment in early 1920s New York City. In the center of some scattered books, papers and empty wine bottles sits RICHARD and CELESTE. Next to CELESTE'S poised figure is a large canvas of her nearly completed portrait. RICHARD takes a swig from a half-empty wine bottle before dabbing his brush onto his palette and continuing his painting.

RICHARD: The wine in the bottle prefers to continue yesterday.

CELESTE: Should you really be drinking this early?

RICHARD: I consider it a little pick-me-up in the morning. There! (He waves his paintbrush with a flourish). How do you like it?

CELESTE: Richard, I do hope this isn’t how you spend all the money my father gives you.

RICHARD: Only a small portion. Sometimes I can’t help it when your dad accompanies me to the speakeasy --

CELESTE: I don’t want hear it.

RICHARD: Look, Celeste. (RICHARD stands up and gently turns CELESTE towards her portrait. CELESTE’S mood softens.)

CELESTE: Oh my...

RICHARD: Well?

CELESTE: I adore it, Richard. It’s your best one yet. (CELESTE, beaming, turns to hug RICHARD. RICHARD holds on a little longer.) I can’t wait for Sylvester to see it when he picks me up.

RICHARD: Yes, about Sylvester, I was going to ask you --

CELESTE: (She holds out her left hand to RICHARD, revealing a large diamond ring.) Picking out the dress with mother was a disaster, and the catering people haven’t phoned me back yet, but...oh thank you Richard! Thank you for being the one stable thing in my life right now. I mean, Sylvester’s been a doll, but he spends most of his time at the office. You are coming to the wedding, right?

RICHARD: Well, I’ve been meaning --

CELESTE: Wait one moment! I need to freshen up in the ladies’ room. Sylvester should be here any moment. (EXIT UP RIGHT through door. RICHARD watches CELESTE leave before slamming his easel down in frustration.)

RICHARD: (to CELESTE’S portrait) Is it absolutely impossible for me to be straightforward? I just wish I could tell you...wish you could know that I would do more for you than that-that pretty-boy louse of a husband you’re about to have. Celeste...I love you more than what that ring on your finger tells you. (RICHARD turns his back to the portrait.) And if I have to sit here and pretend that I don’t love you, then-then...I’m just going to die.

PORTRAIT: Oh, is that the best you can do, darling?

RICHARD: Oh, Celeste I –- (RICHARD turns around expecting to see Celeste, but instead sees no one but the portrait.) Oh. Never mind then.

PORTRAIT: The pretty-boy louse of a husband was a nice touch. But you kind of overdid it from there.

RICHARD: (rubbing his eyes) I must be more hung-over than I thought...

PORTRAIT: Don’t talk to me about being hung-over. You can at least escape outside to get away from all these intoxicating paint fumes.

RICHARD: I’m-I’m sorry...I’m not used to having conversations with my artwork.

PORTRAIT: I forgive you. But my God, man! Let it go or say something.

RICHARD: I can’t dump all my feelings on her now. It would wreck her.

PORTRAIT: Not anymore than it’s wrecking you. I have to be the one listening to you in the dead hours of the morning sobbing into a bottle of Jack. It’s pathetic, that’s what it is!

RICHARD: I wouldn’t say “sobbing” –-

PORTRAIT: You’re a bum, Richard. A good-for-nothing bum. You can’t hold a candle to mister pretty-boy, and you know it. I’d say just give up on this bird if I didn’t have a good feeling she’d run away with you. You know, in a romantic, rustic sort of way.

RICHARD: You really think so? You think I should say something?

PORTRAIT: Sing it in a falsetto, I don’t care. Just end these 2 AM moping marathons. (A man with a cheesy grin, SYLVESTER, ENTERS through the door.) Well here comes mister pretty-boy now. Give him an earful bub!

SYLVESTER: (shaking RICHARD’S hand) Hey Richard, how the hell are you? Where’s Celeste?

RICHARD: Uh, she’s in the ladies’ room.

SYLVESTER: Taking a century, I’m sure. That dame sure knows how to keep a man waiting, if you know what I mean. (He suddenly notices the PORTRAIT.) Whoa, get out of town. You painted this? That’s a helluva portrait. I envy the man who marries that bimbo. Which reminds me -- if it wouldn’t be too much trouble –- could you photograph our wedding ceremony? That’d mean a lot.

RICHARD: Oh yes, of course.

PORTRAIT: You blew it, you meathead.

RICHARD: (to the PORTRAIT) Shut up.

SYLVESTER: Excuse me?

RICHARD: Uh, I-I sneezed.

PORTRAIT: Oh yes, just pass me off like I don’t exist. I knew you were never man enough to be straightforward with your problems.

RICHARD: (in a loud whisper) Can it, okay?

SYLVESTER: Uh, who are you talking to?

RICHARD: What? No, I was just –-

SYLVESTER: (chuckling nervously) You might want to cut back on the booze, Rich. I don’t like it when fellas get weird on me. I’m gonna see how Celeste’s doing. (EXIT UP RIGHT.)

RICHARD: (turning viciously towards the PORTRAIT) You wanna make me look like a fool?

PORTRAIT: Oh, that’s not very hard to do. (RICHARD picks up his paintbrush and easel and begins to draw thick black lines over the canvas.) Hey! Cut that out! This is a nice dress! (RICHARD continues to defame the PORTRAIT, fiercely marking up the PORTRAIT’S mouth until it can’t speak. UP RIGHT, SYLVESTER ENTERS.)

SYLVESTER: Well, we’re gonna head out Rich -- (RICHARD, upon seeing SYLVESTER, picks up the PORTRAIT and brings it crashing down over SYLVESTER’S head, knocking him out. A beat. CELESTE, hearing the noise, rushes into the apartment to find SYLVESTER lying unconscious on the ground. She and RICHARD stare down at SYLVESTER then look up at one another. Suddenly, RICHARD takes a knee and grabs CELESTE’S hand.)

RICHARD: Celeste, I love you. It’s been tearing me up inside, and I just...I needed to let it out. I don’t know what I thought would come out of this. Maybe I thought you shared something secretly for me too. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. But what I do know is that I want to be honest with you from now on.

CELESTE: Richard, I can’t even fathom why you’d bring this up now...now when everything is such a mess. And for what? Did you really expect me to run away with you? When I’m not even sure you can hold up the pieces of your own life without alcohol? You may get me right in these portraits, but you have horribly misunderstood me here. (CELESTE rips the portrait off of SYLVESTER’S head. She tosses it to the floor and EXITS. As the door slams, SYLVESTER regains his consciousness.)

SYLVESTER: (looking at the shredded portrait) What a shame. It must’ve been a fine portrait. See you at the wedding? (Getting up, SYLVESTER sticks out his hand towards RICHARD. RICHARD only stares back until SYLVESTER uncomfortably EXITS. After they’ve gone, RICHARD bends over the portrait and tears off a piece of the canvas where CELESTE’S hand was. He stands up and holds it over his heart.)

RICHARD: So I guess this is it. This is as close as your hand will ever get to touching mine.

THE END