On Storms (And Other Art Necessities)

Today let us talk about storms.
Life is full of them.
So too must art be.

What is a storm?

Nope.

Yesssssss.

So what are they?
According to their rote definition:

a violent disturbance of the atmosphere with strong winds, rain, thunder, lightning, or snow

Source 
(Look Ma! I cited!)
Another
(It's British! So it has more clout!)

Define Clout

Anywho, now that we have had fun, let us get back to the aweful (original).

Storms.
This rather clinical definition does not encompass the majesty of the word nearly so well as its synonyms:

• Tempest
• Whirlwind
• Gale
• Squall

Shakespeare calls one of his latest works The Tempest and for fine reason.
There is something magical and romantic about a tempest.

Sarah Ruhl addresses storms in her 100 Essays I don't have Time to Write.

In it, she describes them beautifully.

A storm comes sweeping through the natural world.

It upsets the balance of everything.

It disrupts stasis.

People go running, things get tied down, animals aren't let out.

They are terrifying things and those are the storms we are aware of.

There are flashfloods and freak weather as well.

There are even documentaries about it:

You know it.

It was really popular not too long ago.

I think because of its attractive host:

Point being, there was a time when we understood storms.

I think it was when people lived primarily out of doors. 

Think about the drama and the art of every great movement in the theatre.

The Greeks

Their Theatre

Looks like this.

The Play

Medea

In Medea, we have a scorned woman, mother of two of Jason's children, a warrior in her own right, who is left for a political marriage. 

In response is the argument of the play. 

The conclusion is that she murders her children and Jason is left to despair. 

• She gets a fair trial
• Judged guilty by a jury of her peers.
• Sentenced to death
• Has a stirring plea on the gallows
• Tragic death

Don't remember that in Medea?

Because it doesn't happen.

Medea is saved by one of the gods and rides away ON A CHARIOT MADE OF DRAGONS.

That seems weird and not in keeping the legal justice system.

Who cares?

It's rad!

But, people make fun of deus ex machina like this.

It may be for as simple a reason as:

We are so used to a logical progression in our art.

A to B, then C logically follows.

The Greeks had no such qualms.

The Deus ex Machina or "god in the machine" stems from the Greek.

The Greeks used to lower deity characters down using a pulley system, hence the expression.

Now, it is synonymous with a plot device to fix an otherwise impossible situation.

It is a disruption of logic.

A storm, if you will.

The Elizabethans

Their Theatre

The Play

The Tempest.

No.
That would be too easy.
Let's see...
Romeo & Juliet.

In this little debacle,

• star-crossed lovers from warring factions marry and bed one another. 
• Romeo murders Juliet's cousin Tybalt after an enforced peace and is banished. 
• Juliet takes a draught of (never named in the play) and falls into a death-like coma. 
• The Friar (purveyor of nameless medicine) sends a letter off to Romeo to assure him of things.
• Romeo doesn't receive the letter and instead rushes off to bury himself with Juliet.

It all turns on a letter.
The letter is the storm.
In almost every production of R&J, the letter will be given to Balthasar, a relatively small role, but a Montague, who will then be played by a woman who is hopelessly in love with Romeo. And that is why the letter is waylaid.
Why?
Because it means saving on casting another actor in the role of Friar John?
No.
Because it makes sense.
And we love for things to make sense.
A to B, then C.
Balthasar loves Romeo, therefore, she doesn't give him the letter and he kills himself.
Like dominoes.

Naturalistic Theatre

Their Theatre

The Play

A Doll's House. 

In it, the protagonist Nora is infantilized by her husband, Torvald, to the point of ludicrousness. 

• Turns out, prior to the events of the play, she took out a loan in her husband's name with her father's surety, but forged their names, committing a crime to save her husband's life. 
• Krogstad, the man who loaned her the money, presses this advantage to ensure that he keeps his position at the bank. Nora, puts off telling her husband. Kristine, her oldest friend and long lost love of Krogstad, offers herself as a peace offering to him, asking for his hand in marriage. 
• In the end, Torvald receives the blackmail letter and the other letter that says Krogstad has reconsidered. 

It is like deus ex machina, except the tragedy ensues. 

• Nora leaves Torvald because she now recognizes that she must. In fact, she spends a two page monologue explaining why this is the best choice for her.

A to B, then C.

She could have just left. 

That would have been a storm.

Often, the Naturalists (Ibsen, Strindberg) are credited with creating what is known as the well-made play. 

A well-made play is exactly that, logical.

It follows the 

A to B, then C structure.

It is a relatively new invention (only a hundred years or so), but we, in American theatre have rigorously adhered to it since.

So much so, that I believe it to be crippling our growth as an art form.

Just look at some of these 

I get it.

There are parallels.

Symmetry.

Almost any contemporary play will be done isolated within a rigid structure.

I mean this literally e.g. a house. 

I mean this structurally e.g. the climactic structure 

Almost any play will take place in of doors or in a single location near in of doors (a backyard)

Gone are the gods.

Gone are the storms.

Gone are the myths.

Now, this is not to imply that there are no plays without these things.

No contemporary examples.

One of my favorite modern shows is Deadwood.

In "Amalgamation and Capital" the characters are negotiating a thorny bit of dealing.

This contract will literally set the town up for peace and prosperity.

Everything is going aright.

When suddenly a wild horse appears and kills the sheriff's only son.

Because of it the deal doesn't get negotiated.

Heated words are exchanged. 

The town grieves.

Things happen.

It is a truly horrific moment and one of the best in cinema.

But, why is it?

I maintain because it is a brilliant storm.

Nobody could have predicted that that would happen.

None of the characters.

Not the audience.

It was a freak, natural accident.

A horse, one of the wildest, most beautiful creatures maimed a child through fear and the act of running.

What a great storm.

So how do we make art like that?

I'm unsure.

My instinct is to say let it happen spontaneously.

But, if it happened spontaneously, then we would have more storms in art.

Trust your gut. 

Go with it.

And in lieu of a gut instinct, try going out of doors more.

Meet a summer storm more.

Get lost more.

Find yourself in a blizzard more.