Mini Opera submission - brief commentary

I admit I haven't spent a huge amount of time on this, but I got married during the competition period so I've been busy! It isn't very polished, but I'm submitting it anyway as I've run out of time.

I went for blank dialogue; it suited the material better. I imagine it being set quite sparsely, like say Turn of the Screw. The direction I took with the given subject matter is probably not what the judges will expect!  This may not be a bad thing, though I can't imagine it will get any further in the contest. I hope it doesn't come across as axe-grindy, but I fear I haven't captured the Sweeper's pro-woo point of view very well. Ach well.

ENO Mini Operas submission

Enough Questions




AN INNER-CITY STREET AT DAWN. THE  DOORS OF SEVERAL TERRACED HOUSES, BESIDE EACH OF WHICH IS A SMALL PLAQUE BEARING A BROOM ICON. THE SWEEPER, GREY-BEARDED AND WEARING A SHABBY LONG COAT, IS LEANING ON A LONG WOODEN BROOM WITH NO BRISTLES. THE APPRENTICE, A YOUNG WOMAN IN JEANS AND A JACKET OVER A GEEK-BRANDED T-SHIRT, IS RECITING A LITANY,  PROMPTED BY THE SWEEPER.

APPRENTICE: At the birth of the day, I am there, sweeping away the glowing embers of dreams, freeing my patients from the malignancy. I bring them hope. I am the Sweeper of Dreams.

APPRENTICE: Who taught you the litany?

SWEEPER: Nobody knew him.

APPRENTICE: Right now nobody knows you.

SWEEPER: A sweeper lives in the shadows.

APPRENTICE: I don't. My blog gets 1,000 hits every week.

SWEEPER: Your what?

APPRENTICE: Number 15 have bought the sign. (GESTURES TO THE SIGN BY THE FIRST DOOR)

SWEEPER: They've had it 40 years. I will sweep them, watch closely. (RECITING) At the birth of the day, I am there.

THE SWEEPER MAKES A PRECISE SERIES OF SWEEPING MOTIONS WITH HIS BROOM, FIRST  ON THE DOOR-MAT, AND THEN THE DOOR ITSELF, TOUCHING NEITHER. THE APPRENTICE SURREPTITIOUSLY PHOTOGRAPHS HIM WITH HER PHONE. FINISHED, HE MAKES A NOTE IN A DOG-EARED NOTEBOOK.

APPRENTICE: Are you family proud of you?

SWEEPER: The street is my family, this broom my wife, the years our children. Enough questions, I have a job to do.

APPRENTICE: Tell me why you sweep.

SWEEPER: To free people from malignancy. When you have it, nothing goes right. Your health, your friends, your job, your money.

APPRENTICE: Like bad luck?

SWEEPER: Luck is superstitious nonsense. The malignancy is real, looking for a way in, every night. Enough questions! Take this (HE OFFERS HER THE BROOM, RELUCTANTLY), make yourself useful.

APPRENTICE: (RECITING) I sweep away the glowing embers of dreams.

THE APPRENTICE SWEEPS THE SECOND DOOR INEXPERTLY, ADDING PARODIC FLOURISHES OF HER OWN. SHE PHOTOGRAPHS THE BROOM AND THE DOOR WHILE THE SWEEPER MAKES ANOTHER NOTE IN HIS NOTEBOOK.

APPRENTICE: What do you write down?

SWEEPER: How my patients are. Sometimes they get the malignancy too; that's when they most want my help.

APPRENTICE: Why do so many people pay you if sweeping won't prevent malignancy?

SWEEPER: I make them feel better.

APPRENTICE: Do you know about regression to the mean?

SWEEPER: Enough questions! I know about people. They want my help, they need my help.

APPRENTICE: I know about people too. If they believe you're sweeping they'll feel better, even if you do nothing.

SWEEPER: Don't you care about people? Why are you even here?

APPRENTICE: Of course I care, but people are amazing enough without your rain dance.

SWEEPER: It's raining.

APPRENTICE: It must be wonderful to be certain like you. So warm, so soft, so comfortable. I will never feel it. There are no certainties, only science. That's what my blog is about. Sweeping has been proven a hollow sham. I wanted to see it for real, here on the street, and tell people what it's really like.

SWEEPER: Damn you all, poking your noses in! This is my life's work, I've helped thousands of people, and you insult me like this. Keep your proof! If you had an open mind maybe you'd have learned something.

APPRENTICE: I have, and I have. Enough questions.

THE APPRENTICE HANDS BACK THE BROOM, TAKES ONE LAST PHOTO OF THE SWEEPER, AND LEAVES. HE DISMISSES HER WITH A WAVE, AND SETS ABOUT SWEEPING THE THIRD DOOR.

Mini Operas

ENO are running a Mini Operas competition. I intend to submit an entry, not with any genuine expectation of winning, but purely because I find very short operas to be an interesting form (I have a 15-minuter in my trunk). It'll be nice to have a short project - I intend to post every stage of the process onto this meagre blog.

Of the three choices of source material, I'm opting for The Sweeper of Dreams. It is unlike the sort of things I tend to write about. There is also a lot of scope to expand upon the intriguing snapshot that we are given, all of which I'm choosing to use.

One question the material doesn't answer is whether this sweeper attends to the entire population through some Santa-style magic, whether only those people he can reach benefit from his work, whether there are other sweepers everywhere, and whether there is some co-operation or organisation. It also treats its central conceit as being unquestionably true, yet we know it is fantasy - there is mileage here in leaving its efficacy unproven and open to question.

At the very least, to be able to exposit the scenario to the audience requires either the single character to address the audience directly, to have some other contrivance for talking to himself, or another character to talk to. I favour the latter. This leads quickly to the admittedly-tired trope of a master/apprentice relationship, which makes it easy to tell the audience what's going on without needing any Your-Father-The-King contrivances; it also sets out with no further effort the idea of some organisation surrounding the sweepers.

SWEEPER (further to source material)

A life-long loner who takes on apprentices only when forced to. Opinionated on any subject. Misogynist. Unshakeable belief in the efficacy of his work, based on decades of anecdotal evidence, but nevertheless wearily losing interest in his patients.

APPRENTICE

A young woman, dressed in jeans and a geeky t-shirt. Given to asking questions, without always considering the answers carefully - primary concern is having something to write about for her daily blog. Takes Instagram photos assiduously. Wants to see everything for herself and tell others about it. Didn't know much about sweeping, but needed a job. When ready, will take over sweeping for her local area next to Sweeper's patch.

The central tension will be whether Sweeping, trusted by its practitioners and a good portion of the population, does any good, or whether it is a fallacy. This will be left ambiguous, but the Apprentice's rather imperfect questions provoke imperfect defences from the Sweeper. Thus it will reflect the real-world tension between sceptics and e.g. aromatherapists. There's scope for a little discussion of gender-prejudice, and a cynical sick-in-the-mud like the Sweeper has plenty of prejudices to examine.

As for the style of the writing, I'm still undecided. I'll write a basic script of ordinary dialogue, and go from there. It's possible that I'll leave it at that, or I may then set it into proper verse.

OK, we have a setting, the characters, and the theme. The next thing to add is some words…

The Novelty Wears Off

Last year I looked at some songs of the Divine Comedy in more detail than you might want. Now I'm going to do the same to songs you don't even want to think about: Novelty Songs.

Yep. Accepting that they are all awful in a variety of awful ways, we come to an interesting question: is there merit underneath all those strata of awfulness? Is there evidence of craftsmen, unenviably tasked with writing an awful song, making an effort to produce something that didn't offend their professional pride?

I have a personal reason to believe that this is sometimes so, which I'll share later (see? Setting up tension to strengthen the later resolution. That's craftsmanship right there.), but let's dive into some places you never wanted to revisit, and see what we find.

THE IRRETRIEVABLY AWFUL

Can We Fix It? - Bob The Builder (2000, UK #1)

Firstly, allowances must be made that this is an adaptation of a 1-minute TV theme song, with lyrics probably written by the writers and not a professional song-writer ('Pilchard and Bi-ird, Travis and Spud/Playing together like good friends should' being a) witless pish; b) half the length of the previous verse). Likewise the fact than Neil Morrissey has been pitch-bent to the point of cyborghood. The single is no more than the hook, plus padding, padding, padding.

Verdict: Tossed off in five minutes. At most.

The Fast Food Song - Fast Food Rockers (2002, UK #2)

This is a 2-line playground rhyme blown out of all proportion. By 27s they've run out of material, and verses like 'You like it, you love it, you know you really want it/ The voices I he-ar whenever you're around/ I want it, I need it, - nothing else can beat it, - Hotter, - spicy, whenever I'm in town' make Agadoo sound like Cicero. I pity the poor sods in the video.

Verdict: MY EYES!

Baby Got Back - Sir Mixalot (1992 US #1)

This charming paean adopts a rhapsodic construction, boldly stating its central premise and then inventively meandering around a labyrinthine path of ingenious variations upon it. Or, to put it bluntly, it's a structureless rant about fat arses. (On a side, or possibly rear, note, Jonathan Coulton pwned the song with his ballad cover.)

Verdict: Get thy behind, my Satan.

THE MEDIOCRE

Because I Got High - Afroman (2001, UK #1)

This is a conventional list song. The AABC rhyming structure adequately conveys the idea of a man with some ability (the halfway-inventive AAs) being squandered by being a stoner (the jarring BC non-rhymes). Content Dictates Form. The list escalates to progressively worse occurrences - competently - with the sad exception of his becoming paraplegic in the middle of the song, which rather diminishes the effect of his subsequently-unfulfilled promises to lick pussy. Should have left that injury until last.

Verdict: Spoiled by a structural blunder.

Barbie Girl - Aqua (1997, UK #1)

The underlying problem with this is that it takes the 'blonde bimbo girl' at face value. There is no tension or character development there, pretty much by definition, and therefore the song goes nowhere. It's fun kitsch, but the songwriter could have done a lot by giving us a glimmer of Barbie wishing to be more than she is. An opportunity missed.

Verdict: The set designer had a blast.

The Chicken Song - Spitting Image (1986, UK #1)

This is really an anti-novelty song, embarrassed to be classified with that which it so savagely parodies. Written by Red Dwarf's Grant & Naylor, one of whose subsequent scribblings I happily hacked to pieces, it quite deliberately makes no sense at all.

Verdict: Not as good as the outrageously offensive B-side. Fully.

THE SURPRISINGLY GOOD

Do The Bartman - The Simpsons (1991, UK #1)

Co-written secretly by a Michael Jackson at the height of his powers. The verses are bland, mere snapshots of Bart's well-trodden existence, but the hook is a good one. Unlike most novelty songs, this is actually a genuine middle-of-the-road pop song from its era.

Verdict: Barring its subject matter, not novel at all.

Mr Blobby - Mr Blobby (1993, UK #1)

There is craftsmanship here, at least in the two verses. Firstly 'as far as he can see/ he's the same as you and me' deftly gives insight into a hitherto unsuspected depth to his character - it hadn't previously occurred to ponder Mr Blobby's self-image, and of course he'd believe himself to be normal. It's a pleasant surprise so see the songwriter bother to give the ridiculous Blobby a realistic human trait. Secondly 'Although he's unconventional in hue/ his philosophy of life will see him through/ and despite the limitation/ of his poor co-ordination…' is a nice way of setting down, err, what Blobby does best. The director of the video has obviously had a lot of fun (the clichéd novelty crowd-surf works a lot better than Bob The Builder's did), and we here at the Wordplay Guild know well-executed slapstick when we see it. Look out for Jeremy Clarkson and the odious Vorderman.

Verdict: Yes, it's awful, but it's also quite good. (Also, WTF were the spandex-dancers at the beginning for?)

Two Little Boys - Rolf Harris (1969, UK #1)

Cards on table, the craftsman here is the arranger, who is my grandfather (he's also here at 1:20, as MD of Name That Tune). He doesn't talk about this piece of work because I think he's a bit embarrassed by it (having two sons probably adds to this), but it was a quick job that was never expected to get where it did. The song itself is charming, and much older.

Verdict: This song makes me cry. Sorry, but it does.

Anyway, the point I would like to make is this: strip away the veneer of novelty, and is there anything left? Picture yourself as a jobbing songwriter - what would you do if you'd had to write it? Would you churn out some witless, meaningless padding, or would you write a competent song that stands up in its own right, and maybe adds something to its subject matter?

I know what I'd rather do.