Thornton Wilder, Our Town, 1938.

I spent the last couple of weeks re-watching My So-Called Life, one of my more favourite tv shows from high school. A story-arc near the end of the series revolved around a production of Our Town, a play that's constantly being referenced, and which I've never seen nor read.

So I grabbed the copy from my shelf that I've been meaning to read for some years now, and read it the other night.

The play feels trite. It's wobbly, and a product of another era that doesn't hold up to the ravages of time. Gee whittakers, we realise that it's important to be fully present at all times. That all moments of life are potentially great (The famous moment, of course, being when Emily asks the Stage Manager "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?--every, every minute?" and he responds, "No. The saints and poets, maybe--they do some."). Treacle, all of it, and hard-pressed to hold anyone's attention.

George Bernard Shaw, Arms and the Man.

Another fun bit of Shaw. He asks us to think about our sense of social propriety, what it means to behave well, and behave properly toward others.

Much of the humour of the play comes from dramatic irony (yes, I'd imagine that you all know what it is, but I'm trying to have more outgoing links these days, so you can play more and explore other sites. Also, you can see if you want to argue with this page). The characters are clueless, offering them their charm.

In chatting with a friend from church the other day about what we'd been reading this summer, it occurred to me that I like Shaw because he's like Wilde with a point: the same acerbic, witty humour is there--but it's used to a far sharper satirical purpose. This statement is meant to diminish Wilde, at all.

I'm quite enjoying Shaw. I'm going to have to read several more of his plays.

George Bernard Shaw, Saint Joan, 1923.

"O God that madest this beautiful earth, when will it be ready to receive Thy saints? How long, O Lord, how long?"

My first Shaw, and I got quite the kick out of this fun play. I'm still a little staggered by the depth and breadth of the stage directions; were someone to suggest to me that GBS would be a screenwriter in this day and age, I'd like as not agree, in this sate of mind.

While GBS suggested that Saint Joan was a play that did not treat Joan of Arc hagiographically, and while he's right that her human foibles are only too visible, it's still a play that challenges those encountering it to consider the nature of truth and of revelation. Despite the cynicism that is the Archbishop ("A miracle, my friend, is an event which creates faith. That is the purpose and nature of miracles. They may seem very wonderful to those who perform them. That does not matter: if they confirm or create faith they are true miracles... Frauds deceive. An event which creates faith does not deceive: therefore it is not a fraud, but a miracle"), despite the villainies of Cauchon and Warwick's chaplain, despite the self-interest of Warwick and the Inquisitor, the fervour of Courcelles, there is a sweetness to this play, not just in Joan but in the feeble Dauphin and in Brother Martin Ladvenu. The characters reveal something about the human condition, and the play holds attention with its clever wit.

Fun.

JOAN:  I hear voices telling me what to do.  They come from God.
ROBERT:  They come from your imagination.
JOAN:  Of course.  That is how the messages of God come to us.

It has, sadly, been far too long since I have posted. Pesky job, interfering with stuff I enjoy—like reading. To quote Daniel Pennac “Time spent reading is always time stolen. Like time spent writing, or loving, for that matter” (Better than Life 146).

So. Today, perhaps, a couple of entries. Beginning with one that will convince you I’ve not been reading.

Slings & Arrows.

A six-part miniseries that was on TMN, and that ended last week. And that I hope they'll replay. The short synopsis: Geoffrey Tennant (Paul Gross) returns to the town of New Burbage, home of the New Burbage Theater Festival—a fictional version of the Stratford Festival--following the death of the Festival's artistic director. Tennant is named interim artistic director, despite the fact that he "went mad" during a production of Hamlet seven years earlier, leaping into Ophelia's grave and not returning. Scheming board members & staffers, frustrated folk (including Tennant's ex, now playing Gertrude), lousy actresses, and a movie star playing the big role combine to make this series six exciting hours of television well worth anyone's time.

So, why talk about this miniseries on a reading blog? Well, a couple of reasons. For one thing, I think that it is important to take film seriously, as something worthy of reflection, and as something worthy of careful discussion. For another, this series does two great things. Most importantly, Slings & Arrows shows a couple of ways of approaching a text, and of finding ways to enter into it, of making sense of it, of expressing what one thinks of it. The series also shows—perhaps better than any other thing I've ever seen—that theatre, that Shakespeare, that high art has the capacity to challenge and to transform anyone, from any sort of background. Doing both of these two things, it's not a didactic show; it's funny, well-written, full of good acting, and it's enjoyable.

Go read it, the next time it's on.