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On the last Tuesday of the month, the Ark hosts Take a Chance Tuesday. This event allows the general public to risk attending a concert of a relatively unknown artist without the commitment of a ticket and the price of admission. While this event has appeared on my calendar for at least a year now, I had yet to attend until I discovered that on January 27 Elle Casazza would be playing.

Though Elle Casazza (or Beth as I know her) went to the same high school as me, we first got to know each other when we were counselors for Choir Camp at Interlochen. After graduating from Chicago College of Performing Arts with a degree in Vocal Jazz, Beth became Elle and she has been playing gigs around the Chicago area ever since. For two summers I have desperately tried to see her perform – a seemingly simple task as I was living in the same city as her. The first summer I failed because somehow ever single gig turned out to 21+ and I was solidly 20 years old. Last summer I just failed. Either the gig was out in the suburbs or I already had plans or none of my friends wanted to go with me, so I missed out on ever single concert, and there were a lot of them! So when I received a notification that Elle Casazza would be performing in Ann Arbor I knew I had to be there.

Tuesday night I was there. 2nd row front and center waiting to hear the music I had been trying to hear for almost 2 years now. I didn’t know what to expect. Yes, her recordings were good. She has a good voice and good stage presence. But what worried me was the cliché “it” factor that prevents everyone in the room from taking their eyes off of you; that thing that differentiates between good and great, and which makes a live performance rife with flaws more powerful than a pristine recording.

Turns out I worried for nothing (would I really be writing about her now if it had been terrible? Or average? Or good but not great?). Elle Casazza is one of those rare artists whose recordings, while good, pale in comparison to her live performance. With an infectious smile and soulful voice she is the definition of stage presence with the musical chops to back it up.

From last night I learned two things: first, there is no excuse for me to not see Elle Casazza perform this summer when I am back in Chicago. Second, if this is the quality of the free monthly concerts at the Ark, I need to start making my attendance a priority.

I’ve started writing my next screenplay. So I’d like to devote a post to some reflections I’ve had on dialogue. Playwrighting and screenwriting are two means of creative expression which present the majority of their plot and action through dialogue. At the level of the manuscript, at least, the writer lacks the psychological interiority writing a novel might provide – the only insight into character is through the words they speak. Moreover, the writer cannot rely on narration as a means of progressing the plot – plot in plays and movies is dialogue driven.

Therefore, writing good dialogue is essential to writing a memorable script. Yet doing so is easier said than done, because writing dialogue is the ultimate balancing act. The writer must oscillate between the poles of contradictory demands. On one hand, each character needs to sound unique, but on the other, every character’s dialogue must reflect the overarching style of the film. Characters must sound natural, but all the boring details of real life conversations must be truncated and stylized. I’d like to study some iconic examples, new and old, of impressive writing which meets the challenge posed by dialogue.

I have revisited Shakespeare, despite his archaic language, because his technique still presents valuable lessons. Looking at the opening lines from the three witches:

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;

This dialogue at once establishes the witches as twisted, perverse characters, present a compelling metaphor – the contamination of boiling water with adulterants. Moreover, the use of a tight meter develops a distinct rhythm to their speech while also establishing a pace for the overall story.

 

Paul Schrader’s Taxi Driver is often cited as one of the best uses of voice over, and a rare case of extreme interiority into the protagonist’s tortured mind. ItThe stark contrast between DeNiro’s repetitive speech patterns diary-like monologues and his staccato, incomprehensible attempts to strike conversations with other characters which develop an interpersonal chasm and sense of isolation which capture the mood of the film and create an iconoclastic and memorable character.

 

Recent independent film sensation Whiplash gained critical appeal for its passionate and compelling protagonist and his perpetual conflict with an unusual cruel and unforgiving mentor. Protagonist Andrew’s anti-social, obsessive banter about legendary success pits against the demeaning, volatile verbal assault from an unrelenting Professor Fletcher.

The Closed Train

“Let’s tell ghost stories!” Cody giggled, seeing in his mind the shadow of a dark pine tree waving on the folds of a tent, a wolf hungrily peering his nose into the smells.

“Quiet, boy.” Snapped the old man, swiveling his head from side to side, clutching his bag to his chest.

“Calm down, Seymour.” Said his wife Helen. “We’ll be out soon enough. There’s no need to be so tense, and besides, you’ll wake his poor mother. Woman looks like she hasn’t slept in months.”

To this Seymour grunted, and pulled his belongings tighter to his chest. He sat with six people in an otherwise empty subway car. How this group found itself accumulated on the motionless Brown line headed towards Quincy/Wellspring in Chicago could only be attributed to what reporters were labeling “Bizarre Weather Patterns” across the country. Following the recent trend in hurricanes and super storms along the East Coast, the Midwest was playing host to a variety of unprecedented natural disasters. At 10:06p.m. on this particular Monday night a mild but nevertheless undeniable earthquake had rumbled through the metropolis, scaring the city’s government into a crisis situation and halting all forms of above ground public transportation. Any passengers on lines riding above ground, such as the seven strangers on this Brown line, were being told to wait until inspection of the tracks was clear before they could commence moving again.

The assortment was comprised of seven people; Seymour and Helen, husband and wife of thirty-three years, were travelling home after dinner with their daughter and recent son-in-law. Cody, age ten, had boarded the train with his mother after waiting in the hotel lobby where she worked as the interim manager. This was a ritual in which he participated three days a week, after getting out of school and his tutoring program, until his mother finished her shift. They were now headed home to their 1 bedroom apartment. Sitting across from Cody and his mother sat two young men, in either their last years of teenage life or onto their early twenties, one reading and one wearing headphones. They both had the words “Loyola University” displayed somewhere on their clothing. Completing the company was a middle aged woman wearing dark, tight fitting clothing who divided her time between eating her greasy dinner (fried chicken and French fries) and muttering audibly about her fellow passengers.

The continuous silence lay heavy in the subway car’s stillness. Every few minutes the CTA official’s voice croaked through the distorted speaker, informing the passengers of any non-progress. Just as his voice was once again pleading with folks to “Stay seated, we’ll be out of this mess shortly,” the sliding door on the right hand side issued a piercing screech, and began to roll open, coming to a halt with a deafening clang. The travelers glanced at one another, shivering in the February wind that rushed into the subway car. One of the college students, Dwayne, took a look at his partner, and then got up to shut the door. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he decided sit with his back to the door, keeping it closed. His companion, Terence, smiled at Dwayne’s selflessness. Still, through all of this, nobody spoke.

Then the CTA’s voice filled the void, “Ok fellas, we have word that it will be about another 40 minutes until the track is clear. It’s looked promising so far. I suggest you all sit tight and help each other out where possible. If you have any food you want to share, that would be greatly appreciated I’m sure.”

There was an uproar. Cody playfully screamed, “We’re all going to die!” and then ran to the farthest seat from his mother, giggling in his fantasy and turning his head to see if anyone else enjoyed his joke. His mother sighed deeply, pulled out a sleeve of crackers and offered them to the group. Immediately on her right sat Seymour, who sneered at the meager contribution and spat, “I don’t need your charity, woman. No need to be giving up the boy’s entire dinner, anyway.”

Helen, who had taken out her knitting, whacked her husband with one of her needles. “Thank you dear” she said to the boy’s mother, taking the crackers and passing them forward. “Your child is a delight, just a delight.”

The crackers were offered to the woman whose face was buried in her cardboard box of fast food. Instead of accepting them, however, she merely raised her eyes and muttered to her processed chicken, “God damn train ride. I can’t handle it no more, God help me I can’t handle this no more.”

Helen responded by placing the crackers on the vacant seat beside her. There ensued more silence.

Dwayne lifted his head off his folded arms and grinned at his cohort. “Hey Billie, will you spell me?” he asked.

Terence blinked, and then caught on. He smiled widely, and replied, “A little more north, eh?” At this, the two men switched places.

“Cody! Come down from there!” Cried his mother, as soon as she noticed the boy heave himself onto the luggage rack above the seats.

“Absolutely no parenting skills.” Grumbled Seymour. “Father’s probably dead. Or a drunk. These city families have no manners.”

“But moooom,” pleaded Cody. “Look how far I can see out of the window! It looks like the ground is shaking, woah this is cool.”

At this, Dwayne stood up and went to the window. He peered down at the steel pillars supporting the tracks. “Ter, the train’s stopped right above the river. He’s sort of right, it does look like the pillars are shaking.” He pointed out.

“It’s alright, this earthquake isn’t enough to knock us off.” Terence assured him. “Spell me, Billie?”

“Hmmm, a little more north indeed.”

As Dwayne crossed the car to switch places with his partner the group heard a deep rumble, growing substantially noisier by the second. It reached a paramount level as the sides of the car began to rattle ominously, growing into strong vibrations and shaking the seats under the innocent passengers. It grew stronger; Cody was hanging onto the rack with a look of profound fear, until a terribly violent shake ended the barrage, tilted the subway car off its side and toppled the small boy onto the floor. The ringing sound of steel rattling steel was instantly replaced by the tumultuous screams of the riders as the train righted itself. Cody’s mother shrieked and rushed to her son’s side. Cody was howling in pain, cradling his left wrist. The others contributed to the noise.

“God help me, I don’t deserve this. Someone need to let me out here. Boy’s gonna kill us all if those damn earthquake don’t. God damn earthquake in Chicago!” The woman in dark clothing screamed loudest.

“Look at these ghetto kids! No discipline. Boy could have died! No common sense whatsoever.”

“Here how can I help? Tell me what to do dear. Oh my, what a tragedy. Oh poor child, poor child. What do you need from me?”

“Cody, shh hunny. It’s ok, let me see your wrist. This is why you listen to me when I tell you to do something.”

“Mooooooom! Owww it hurts it hurts!”

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! All of you!”

Dwayne’s voice triumphed over the disarray. It seemed as though the structure’s seizure had severely dislodged the subway’s door, forcing Dwayne to exert double the energy into keeping it shut. He first addressed Seymour, “Sir. You need to stop with these comments. We can all hear them and they are blatantly disrespectful. I’m sorry you’re stuck on a train with black people, really, but you need to shut your mouth. The same goes for you, ma’am.” He said, gesturing at the woman eating her dinner. “I know this is frustrating, but we’re all trapped and want to get out just as much as you do. Now, how bad did you fall, buddy? Is anything broken?”

Cody stopped his wailing and peered up at Dwayne. He shook his head and sat against his mother.

Dwayne sighed and said exhaustedly, “Billie, will you spell me?” The two switched positions.

The woman put down her box of food and smoothed out her pants before she spoke. “I apologize. I should not have been screaming like that, it’s just I’ve had a horribly long day and I’m unbelievably tired. I take this line from one end to the other and spend enough time on subways as is. My name is Carole. Thank you for holding that door. Look,” she added, after her speech disintegrated into the hush. “See across the window, there, at that other subway! People are holding signs against the glass!” She scrambled onto the seat across from her and cupped her hands around her eyes. Cody jumped up beside her and copied her hand position.

Carole turned excitedly to the company, “Come look! They say, ‘Help is coming. Within 20 min. Stay Strong.’”

Ten minutes passed, and the mood comfortably changed. Cody continued to wave and give thumbs up to the passengers in the neighboring subway.

“Billie?”

Ten more minutes passed. A new note appeared. “Just a bit longer. Help is coming”

“Excuse me, sirs” Helen asked Dwayne and Terence politely. “Why do you keep calling each other Billie?”

Terence laughed. “It’s from a story called The Open Boat. We’re reading it in one of our classes. It’s about a group of men lost at sea.”

Helen nodded. “I thought as much.” Then she paused, and added, “Let’s hope we don’t meet the same end as those–”

She was interrupted by a gigantic crash. Everybody on the train screamed as they looked across the window. The subway next to them had collapsed as the pillars supporting the tracks folded like dominoes. The enormous metal centipede splashed onto the roads and into the river, crashing into buildings and spraying debris and pandemonium everywhere. Their own subway began to shake, louder and more forceful than before, as Cody’s mother clutched her son to her chest, crying at the top of her lungs. Carole had slipped off her seat onto her knees, sobbing in a desperate prayer. Helen looked about frantically, searching for someone to help, and after finding nobody, snatched up her knitting in trembling hands. Terence and Dwayne stood up and embraced in a tight caress. “I love you.” They whispered. Seymour watched, and seconds before the end of his life, hollered to nobody in particular, “I’m Sorry!” The subway fell to the earth in a cacophony of splintered metal, grinding noise and forgotten souls. Help never came.

A lot has happened in the past year: students have come and gone, landmark restaurants and stores snuffed out, butt scandals passed over social media and other such occurrences of utmost importance. But one thing that has remained alive amidst these tumultuous times is the TENET artist collective’s ability to put out a zine (almost) every month since their beginning last January.

I know, I know; another post about this so-called artist group who still doesn’t really exist outside its target audience of art schoolers, English majors, vijjy enthusiasts, and the general hooligan population of Ann Arbor? Especially when this self-appointed spokesperson of sorts hasn’t shown his rambling face around these parts in a hot minute. But I maintain that you few people traversing these particular sidewalks and alleyways of the world wide webtown should know about this kind of stuff, nay - need to know about this stuff, about these people making drawings and words and ZINES and happenings right under your noses, and that its possible for anyone to do with a pen and a copy machine and a lot of time on their hands, or maybe just time to sacrifice (is sleep not for the weak?).

Yes! This is all gravity and bones because for the first time TENET has broken out of the living-room-turned-gallery-space method of past events in favor of entering the “real world” “art scene” by showing work and releasing zines in the North Quad space on State Street, the one with all the windows and tables and TVs and oddly shaped chairs and stools scattered around a huge projection screen. How did they manage to convert a space usually reserved for Powerpoint lectures and Acapella performances, you ask? Well there were zines hanging from a coatrack! all the past issues! mountainous drawings on tables! raw paintings leaned against walls! reflective sculpture on the floor! tasteful shower videos in the corner! there were readings by never-before-heard Teneteers, speaking words straight from the zine! there was almost a release of this music vijjy by the Tusks Band (technical difficulties being inevitable)! It was a new way to see the work of these obsessive image makers and word crafters, outside the comfort of their own friends’ homes!

The gallery show was followed up by a long and arduous march back to where the legend all began, at the Mundungus cave on South campus before returning to the new stomping ground of Kerrytown, onward to Sparkman’s Palace where Tusks and Wych Elm killed it (as usual) in the basement of low pipelined ceilings and brick walls, cement floors and columns that ring when you knock them – and here it was that the essence of these events reared its beautiful sweating head, the gallery show and zine release just a means to an end, important to those who’ve lived and grown within this vortex of creative expression over the past year but really the gem of experience being the potential for connection between people, the connection of TENET with the public, in TENET, through TENET but not solely about it and them, about all us hooligans roaming these Arboreal streets in dazes, all about the US, everyone, the innocent bystander becomes angsty ruckus maker, the introverted poet becomes proclaimer of words and feeling, and TENET ceases to be this small group of subterraneans meeting in basements and poring over mags talkin bullshit to each other at a mile minute – here everyone becomes TENET and TENET becomes everyone. I know, you know, we all know and feel what it is to connect other like-minded hooligans, for shenanigans, and it just keeps getting better.