Late Thoughts Sunday

Two summers ago (unless it was three?) I spent a happy month or so writing a play, which I subsequently worked on over several months until it felt finished. I thought it had a very attractive premise, and even if it wasn't perfect it would prove intriguing. Actually I thought it was quite good, and it fulfilled my intentions and expectations, which I can't say about a whole lot that I've tried to write.

I logged in my feelings about it at the time, and my hopes for it. Unfortunately I have found no one who feels the same way about it, no one in fact who has shown any interest in it at all.

So it is getting to be a bit late in the day for me to hold on to any hopes of even one more creative experience in the theatre. Apparently my judgment of the work of others fails me when I apply it to my own, which is probably not unusual but does leave me at a loss. However, the point I am getting to here is that it is unlikely I will honor the creative process of theatre (or film) by being permitted to participate in it.

I still write about the work of others occasionally, though seldom for publication anymore. It's a tiresome experience to be obligated to do so as a reviewer or critic, and I've seemed to have passed the age when a regular obligation seems attractive, even if it were possible.

But these thoughts were inspired by a more common kind of experience, repeated today when I watched the DVD of the'> Emma Thompson/Ang Lee movie of Austen's "Sense and Sensibility." I watched it, as I prefer to do, thoroughly: I watched it innocently, and then with commentary (Thompson's, though not yet the director's) and subtitles. I watched the deleted scenes, and would have watched other "bonus" material if it had been offered. I took delight in the finished product, and delight in the process as it was described. As much as I project myself into the characters of a movie or play I admire, I project myself into the process and the people creating it. In the presence of a superior work as this, I am enthralled by it all.

It occurs to me that this is my part of the creative process, and perhaps will be the only part: I honor the process by being the most fully appreciative audience, entering into it with as much heart and imagination as possible, within the role. I honor it and celebrate it, and complete the connection, even if Emma Thompson never hears my commentary.