This may be the only entry in the blogosphere to offer a creative comparison of the mega-blockbuster-smasheroony film Avatar and the economically more humble yet equally riveting French school docu-drama The Class. This is not a film review, though. It’s a consideration of high-stakes creative risk-taking.

Starting with Avatar, which I saw only last night, being surely among the last cinema-goers in the world to do so. A long New Yorker article published last year offers the best overview of the new film-making technology and processes invented–not adapted, invented–to create the wonderfully visceral world of the film. Of course, incredible sums of money were applied to making Avatar and we now know (as the article didn’t) that incredible sums of money were returned from adoring cinema-goers around the world. Fair play, really.

Say what you will about Avatar creator James Cameron, he took some remarkable risks to make the film, and to make it in such an uncompromising way. The New Yorker piece points out that Cameron hadn’t done a film in more than a decade, since the titanic Titanic. But that story, being practically legend, almost sold itself; by contrast, the eco-fantasy of Avatar was totally unfamiliar, with leaked early screening feedback making it sound like the extraterrestrial lovechild of Dances with Wolves and Mogambo (my favourite early review: ‘Smurf porn’). The money, the tech, the weird alien world with its decidedly terrestrial references…as a risk of, er, titanic proportions Avatar could have gone horribly wrong. It didn’t, but Cameron and his backers didn’t know that at the start.

And so, to The Class (warning: spoiler alert!), a risk-taking exercise not about technology but around narrative development. The film’s process began with a non-fiction book by former teacher Francois Begadeau, which chronicled a year in the life of a challenging school in the Paris suburbs. Director Laurent Cantet then worked with Begadeau to adapt the book into a fictional script to be filmed for the big screen So far, so Dead Poets Society.

But then Cantet decided that he wanted real students, without any acting experience, to play the part of students in the film. He engaged an average (meaning, not BRIT School) French high school in the project then ran devising workshops that riffed on the script…and of course, ultimately changed it. The students became, in the film, devised versions of themselves, hence the film’s enigmatic blurring of documentary film and high-quality fictional drama. Begadeau also played a version of himself, and the teachers in the film are teachers at the school…although not necessarily, in the film, playing themselves.

The Class didn’t earn Avatar‘s billions at the box office but it did earn the Palme d’Or at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival (the first French film to do so in 21 years) and has become almost required viewing for educationalists across the planet. It represents a different kind of cinematic thrill ride, a different kind of story.

Seeing both films recently reminded me that only by stepping off the creative ledge does one generate the potential for bringing something really new into the world. But stepping off the ledge isn’t enough: once over the abyss you can’t afford to look down, lest like Wily Coyote you realise just what you’ve done and proceed to fall painfully back to earth. In this sense, both Avatar and The Class are not only about risk-taking; they’re about total commitment to the risks taken.

 

We all know the reference, don’t we? It’s not about what you’re called but who you are.

And so it goes with Nimble Fish. While we do love sushi and consider ourselves to be pretty flexible thinkers, the name  ’Nimble Fish’ is apropos of nothing in particular: it’s a moniker that just came to us when we were pondering the launch of our grand enterprise, way back in the salad days of late 2006. We might have given our company any number of similarly fun yet essentially nonsensical names–Elastic Elephant? Supple Salamander?–and yet we hope that the work we’d have done, and have done, would have made us just as proud.

But describing what we do–the company equivalent of ‘who we are’–has always been more of a challenge. The conversations would often go as follows.

Q: ‘So, you create original performance work and produce new performance work by others. You’re theatre-makers, then?’

A: ‘Er, well sort of. Except that we mainly create work for grubby shop spaces, roadway underpasses, the back of container lorries, places like that. Oh, and we do most of our work in schools and community settings.’

Q: ‘So you’re Theatre In Education?’

A: ‘No, we’re not TIE at all. We don’t write plays for schools and we don’t perform plays in schools. And we don’t have a touring van.’

And so it would go.

So, we’ve changed our front-page ‘shingle’ to offer a new description of Nimble Fish as Cultural Producers. Traditionally, the term has been used fairly literally, a cultural producer being any person or organisation that ‘produces’ culture, as in arts, media, etc. But there’s an emerging idea around cultural producing that moves it to a more meta-aware level. Here’s a decent description, as found on the website of an Austrian university delivering an MA in this newly-defined field:

” ‘Cultural producer’ describes the new self-image of today’s cultural worker as producer, impresario, practitioner and cultural conveyer. Cultural producers are found within the traditional arts of music, theatre, dance, literature and painting and even more often in fields owing their development to new technological possibilities. They can be independent entrepreneurs or creatively active in cultural institutions, free thinking enterprises or private companies. They are, doubtless, producers possessing an uncanny sense of hyper-textual self-understanding, focused on the interrelationship to “users” and active proponents of narrative structures encouraging dynamic interaction with audiences.”

“Hyper-textual self-understanding”….love it! But we wouldn’t be a “free thinking enterprise” if we didn’t offer our own definition of Cultural Producing. Here it is:

“Cultural Producers establish, implement and manage a self-generated creative vision, typically outside the purview of traditional performance or gallery spaces. Cultural Producers are rarely restricted to a single artistic form, preferring instead to work with whatever combination of forms best suits a particular idea or theme. Cultural Producers often seek to animate or re-interpret public spaces in the context of the communities they serve, and consequently their work often has a strong component of community participation or co-creation.”

In the spirit of being, ahem, “active proponents of narrative structures encouraging dynamic interaction with audiences,” we would like to offer this definition as a work in progress, and invite your input, objections, amendments, etc. We think we’re onto something quite special here and we’d like to build on it, in the Nimble Fish spirit.

Lest this all sound too arrogant, we’re not making out like we’re the only cultural producing company on the proverbial block. But even if we’re not trailblazers, we like to think we’re on the trail while it’s still new enough for the surrounding view to be fresh, and the possibilities thrilling.

 

Posted 16 March 2010 to http://reauthoring.wordpress.com

Even as the literary world laments the erosion of attention spans in the digitized world (see previous post), it seems that the theatre world is demanding epic new levels of concentration from its audiences, as underscored most recently in this New York Times article describing a 12-hour-long, single-showing adaptation of Fyodor Doestoyevsky’s novel The Demons as part of a summer theatre festival in the Big Apple.

This kind of marathon theatre (not a bad genre tag…you read it here first!) is not necessarily new, in that multi-part sagas like Angels in America and The Kentucky Cycle have been demanding hefty commitments of both time and money from audiences since the ’80s. If you count Shakespeare’s history cycle (Richard II through Henry VIII), the trend is an old one indeed.

But ye olde Bard certainly didn’t intend his grubby fans to sit, or stand, for more than a few hours in the presence of his work (even seeing the three Henry VIs back to back, which I did once upon a time over two days, requires Herculean stamina). The new Doestoyevsky play, while offering meal and potty breaks, is a one-shot deal: no coming back tomorrow, no ducking in and out. Enjoy the show…all of it at once, or none of it at all. There will be a mere two performances, meaning that for those so inclined (and there will be many) it is already a hot and surely expensive ticket.

I missed the last theatrical epic of this sort to plow through London, Robert le Page and Ex Machina’s nine-hour Lipsynch. Friends who did see it gave it mixed reviews, in some cases because…well, it takes an awful lot of patience and energy to take in nine hours of anything in one fell swoop. Apparently, even the great le Page  couldn’t pull off that kind of focus for everyone. But Lipsynch could be experienced in pieces, with no requirement to down it in one draught.

One wonders, then, what the producers of The Demons are hoping to prove, let alone achieve. Doestoyevsky is not light fare in the best of circumstances, and the producers admit that The Demons is even denser than many of the novelist’s works. It begs the question, are the producers doing the book justice? Only time and the show itself will tell, but it does seem a strange thing that while I can’t think of anyone who’d try to consume a Doestoyevsky novel in a single sitting, there are audiences who will be scrambling to do exactly that come this summer in New York.

Given the dense, time-consuming nature of reading a Doestoyevsky novel, maybe this production of The Demons represents an exercise in foreshortened attention spans after all. What’s next, a 24-hour-long War and Peace?

 

You might argue that everything that 4-year-olds do is site-responsive: what do any of us do at that age but respond, viscerally and playfully, to the world as we find it? And at that tender age, we have no particular concerns about health and safety, no worries about risk assessments (not even by instinct, yet), no concerns about whether or not our work will withstand aesthetic meta-interpretation. As has been said before (and probably more eloquently), those are the days in which we inhabit a kind of creative Eden, unaware that adulthood will soon gradually erect fences of inhibition that we will then spend the rest of our lives hiding behind and, if we’re both brave and lucky, gradually tearing down so that we can return to the place we started from.

None of this new, none of it Earth-shattering. Still, finishing up a lovely project with little tykes this week–focused on creating narrative and story in non-traditional school spaces–reminded me just how rewarding it can be to put oneself in this kind of headspace. Over a period of weeks, the children and I created a sequel to that children’s classic ‘Room on the Broom’, in which we asked lots of questions about what might have happened next…after the icky mud monster had scared off the red dragon, after the witch and the cat and the dog and the frog and the bird magicked up a deluxe broom and whooshed off into the moon-set. It was easy work for me: I just laughed a lot, asked loads of questions, and let the children do the rest.

The result? The Witches of the Mall and the Silly Dragon Family (cousins of the scary one…a bit of black sheep, he, as it turns out) travel to the London Eye, China and ultimately to the beach for a picnic, where they find that a group of pirates has stolen the water and sand (a beautiful, unconscious metaphor for climate change). The witches and dragons work together to get them back and then fly back home to their safe homes and warm beds. In their outdoor play space, using a few ‘found’ props and some sweeps of colourful chiffon discovered in a store room, we created these worlds and their journey. The children weren’t done, though, as they spun off even more sequels involving caves, castles, robots, trains, police cars and fire engines…you get the picture.

If anyone ever manages to harness and focus the creative power of little children as a tool for social change, folks like us would be out of business. That’s a thought I don’t mind very much. As the man once sang, what a wonderful world it would be.

 

A bit more about the collaboration between Nimble Fish and writer Katherine May. We’ve just emerged from the first public outing of Katherine’s performance piece based on her novel, ‘Burning Out’, and we’re very happy with the results. For more on Katherine’s view of it, check out her blog.

As Katherine says, we are aiming to create something that, we believe, doesn’t currently exist in the universe of presented literature. Most live presentations of books, whether fiction or non-fiction, hew to a particular form: something approaching a live audiobook, where an author reads excerpts from his or her work and then answers audience questions. I know the form well, as I toured and read extensively when my book was published in 2005.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with this form, except that it is rarely challenged…and, as an author, pretty frustrating since one one can only convey the barest sense of a work that is, after all, designed to be far more than the proverbial sum of its parts. We think the ‘live audiobook’ reading is often boring for audiences, too, as evidenced by the near-extinction of author tours and the dwindling audiences at those still surviving. In these credit-scrunchy times–and with the publishing industry on celebrity-fed life support–we felt there was an opportunity to try something new; something that might give writers a new way to connect with audiences.

In thinking about what we wanted, two performance genres were ever on our minds. ‘Live literature’, mostly in the form of poetry performance and various forms of spoken word, already occupies a sparky, spiky domain outside the staid environs of ‘straight lit’ events like Hay and Edinburgh. But most live lit relies on lit written to be performed live, a very different creative proposition than literature written to be read privately. Nor did we want to create theatre; if that were the case, we’d go for adaptation, a successful genre in its own right. In our minds, the live presence of the author was still essential to whatever we created, and we were adamant that he or she should not have to become an actor for the purposes of presenting a different view of their work.

Have we succeeded? Well, as Katherine says, it’s still a work in progress. But we think we’re onto something and do join us in Folkestone on 13 November to see for yourself, and to tell us what you think. In the mean time, some photos of the process so far:

We began by creating a visual ‘map’ of the book’s themes, moods, locations, and ideas…

…and then added some objects we thought connected with essential themes and characters.

We created a new narrative of the book using only its text, but sometimes in a different order than found in the manuscript.

We played with projection and sound, with the rule being that all ‘tech’ must be straightforward enough for the author to set up and manipulate without additional help.

Here is Katherine giving it a bash on 30 October at the Canterbury Festival. Special thanks to Peggy Riley and East Kent Live Lit for the opportunity.

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