I’ve been swimming around in adaptation land these past few years.
The Bacchae and reshaping it into my small town Iowa experience dominated most of the spring and summer.
I was humbled to hear a few weeks ago that a rough early draft advanced to the second round for Austin—and the current version is still a second round contender for the Sundance Screenwriters’ Lab in January. So, a season of effort not wasted…
Now I’ve returned to my love, Shakespeare.
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My very first spec was a contemporary drama based on King Lear. I had good waters-testing results on dialogue and characterization, but spoiler alerts centuries in the making pretty much blew any unique spin or expectations out of the water.
I came in already fascinated by Regan. With no brothers, I was entranced by the idea of a woman trapped between two equally-strong women who had a semblance of an identity—not the eldest with presumptions of inheritance and power; nor the baby of adoration and affection.
(Also, one could only imagine what life was like if she was married to a man capable of gouging-out the eyes of an elderly family friend…)
I also came in knowing I had to preserve my love of Edgar: an innocent, loving son tumbled out into the wild—blindsided and forced to bear witness to the horrific decay of his name, his family, and the larger community in which he lived.
But this wasn’t his story, nor Regan’s—they were subplots and reactive forces within a larger tale of regret, rivalry, and loss.
So, last spring I stripped it back to the core emotional themes, and rebuilt a world in the hopes that it would give these interactions greater spark:
Ground sci-fi technological advances in lifestyle and health management, medicating and aiding the frail and elderly… Home security systems giving voice to the past… Fit-bits and i-watches gone awry.
But, like most writers, the accessories, the fluff became too distracting from the core experience. (Here, Mike Sweeney’s advice rang in my ears.)
So I pulled back even more to the basic motivating desires of two men, and chose to speak about why this setting—this technology—could aide me in exploring the seductive pain of nostalgia, and good, pure human rivalry.
This helped me redefine who this was about, and if given a chance to shine, what voice would they use to frame their tale—how they would define themselves.
Remember, it’s an adaption, a cover.
So I turned to my best guiding example: Joey Ramone.
I’ve always hated the saccharine doo-whop pop of the 50s (which, yes, I know is a criticism that can be launched against the vapid dance music I secretly enjoy with my kids), but even as a silly romantic in my early teen years I balked against the whitewashed tales of marry-young high school romance… innocence in a schmaltzy G-rated art-form.
I had an older sibling, so 80s hair metal, New Wave, Prince, The Police, Elvis Costello and the Attractions had my soul at an early age. My father loved jazz. I grew up in a small town that, despite fashion shifts, was a microcosm of Daze and Confused: vintage car and truck culture, cruising, and lots of classic rock (and old school rap.). I know my Zeppelin, Boston, Journey. AC/DC (Bon era, please), but can do the lyrics to Dre Day like a boss…
But for me and me alone? I had The Ramones.
As a child they were brought into my life via Stephen King.
Simple lines. Soda machines. Covers of classics. But instead of a weepy teenage girl it was a pale man that needed me to cook him a good steak. Screw the pristine land of the Kennedys, lets talk about their lobotomies.
The Ramones are my template for adaptations.
Original in tone, voice, and style. Drawing on past classics—even if simply repackaging words verbatim—the experience is fresh for the audience.
The heartache may be as old as time, but the voice, its take on the topic, grabs you by the throat so you don’t care if you already know the characters’ backstories by heart. You’re listening to the new story unfold as it tumbles out their mouths in front of your eyes.
A once-powerful father failing from Alzheimer’s. but, a not-so-distant future where technology and medical advances offer new hope, and addiction–an unspoken underbelly just steps away from the bright post-modern airiness of Her.
Sisters fighting for a path of their own, saddled with baggage of a missing mother–but moving within a Gattaca-like world framing the interwoven tapestry of relationships ala Gosford Park.
Young boys shunted aside by caretakers and adults, transformed into clinical anti-heroes with an ambiguous morality influenced by Mr. Robot and The Social Network.
This is where I’m at; this is where I’m spending my time.
A boy on his bike, speeding an escape through a dingy cinderblock wall.
Behind him, the drawings and plans of a new life, the heights he wants to climb.
Eyes, laughter, touch, warmth–they are foreign objects to him.
He plans.
He moves.
This world is built by others when he starts his wheels in motion.
Another boy.
A warm day.
A princess, a tower, and knights…
Sun-dappled heaven.
A place he will never leave.
His to claim, His to take.
Damn the rest.
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