May 8, 2007 by webmaster.

Reorganize chance. That is the basis of your work.

by Randy Thom, C.A.S.

When an artist does work that seems innovative, we say that he or she has
created something. The more I think about the process we call “creating,” the
more I’m convinced we use the wrong word to describe it.

Articles on film sound usually stay clear of questions as basic as “What is
creativity?” and “Is it possible for an artist to become more creative?”

Questions like these are usually considered too messy, or too abstract and
subjective. I appreciate those arguments, and don’t discount them. On the other
hand, I think we do know a few things about being creative. One theory is that
each of us is given a bag of creativity at birth, and that the bag doesn’t grow
or shrink much for the rest of our lives. But even if our bag of creativity
doesn’t change in size, our ability to dip into it varies constantly. Ask any
artist or performer.

*- Inspiration, insight, and luck are difficult entities to describe, and all but impossible to quantify -*
We can interview an artist and chart the sequence of events by which a given set
of raw materials was fashioned into to a specific art product. But most of what
we get from that kind of examination will be information about craft (technology
and technique). We know intuitively that a great artist is more than a great
technician. In fact, it might be argued that a great artist doesn’t even have to
be a very good technician. So what is it that guides the technique?

*- The Tyranny Of Competence -*
In the movie industry a high value is justifiably placed on technical
competence. It is assumed that every craftsperson should know how to use the
tools of the trade and be able to perform on cue, under pressure. The trouble
with paying so much attention to skill and technical prowess is this: The frame
of mind in which interesting things germinate is often more confused and
desperate than organized and confident.

Being creative is balancing precariously between, or shifting back and forth
between, these two extremes. It is not surprising that a high percentage of very
creative people have manic-depressive personalities.

When you begin a project, the surest way to guarantee nothing interesting will
happen is to go into it with the assumption that you know exactly how to do it.
The best you can hope to do within that frame of mind is to duplicate work that
you or someone else has already done. Of course, the first step in mastering a
craft is to learn the traditions and conventions, the tools and techniques that
have historically produced good work and bad. Having acquired those skills, the
challenge is to look freshly at each new project, making as few assumptions as
possible about how to proceed.

It’s generally acknowledged that a good film begins with a good script. On the
other hand, even a very good script is nothing more than a vague blueprint for
the eventual film. The locations, actors, and other collaborators will add depth
to the story that the writer is not in a position to anticipate. The serendipity
that allows it all to come together will only happen if each collaborator is
open to it, and clever about making the necessary adjustments. One thing seems
clear: the best creative ideas
usually arise in the process of doing the work itself. They don’t usually form
in our minds while we stare at a blank piece of paper.

*- Complexity - *
People often say that “truth is stranger than fiction,” as if we should be
surprised. Why wouldn’t truth be stranger than fiction? A few moments of human
activity in any ordinary supermarket, if fully examined, would no doubt be
hilarious and horrific beyond belief. On the other hand, given a supermarket as
a location, a very good writer might be able to invent a few amusing and
trenchant scenes.

We operate in two worlds:

(1) reality, which contains profundities and comedy unimaginably wild and deep,
but on the surface is mostly deadly boring and

(2) fiction, which isn’t too hard to make superficially appealing, but is
difficult as hell to make profound or deeply funny.

*- One thing that distinguishes fiction from reality is the level of complexity - *
Any real-world situation is infinitely complex. We usually only perceive the
microscopic tip of the iceberg of what is happening in our supermarket at 7 p.m.

As writers we go to the supermarket and examine it on as many levels as
possible. We don’t just watch what happens, we participate in it. We get a job
working in the fresh produce section. We go home with the store manager and the
bag boy. By living through these situations (and by watching ourselves live
through them) we begin to find threads overlapping in amazing ways. Other
threads we assumed were connected turn out not to be connected at all.

The script needs to be shaped by real world experience. Shooting and editing the
film involves a trip through more unanticipated reality which will frustrate,
but can also improve what you thought you had.

Designing your sound (bet you thought we’d never get to sound) should be no less
experimental and no less influenced by process. When we begin to imagine a
scene, the first few sounds that come to mind will usually be “appropriate” in a
general way, but not very deeply connected to what is really happening
dramatically.

Let’s say we have a scene around a kitchen table where two guys are arguing. One
eventually jumps up, pulls a gun, cocks it, and points it at the other’s head.
The most obvious sound effect to feature is the cocking of the gun. Ironically,
the other prop I mentioned (the table) could supply a more powerful sound. As
our guy stands, maybe he shoves the table toward the other guy. The scrape of
the table legs on the floor could be fashioned to evoke danger more effectively
because it comes from a place we don’t expect. Knowing we may want to use the
sound of the table in this way will influence everything about the way we set up
and block the shots.

The best way to find unexpected storytelling elements is to experiment. If I am
designing the sound for the scene around the table, I will want to simulate the
set as closely as possible. Then I will move and play with every object and
surface in the place, listening for sounds that have the dramatic values I can
use to enhance the scene. On the other hand, unless I can do this experimenting
before shooting starts, there is no way I can influence the way the scene is to
be shot. If the Director and Actors
are really sharp, they will discover ways to use sound in the scene as they’re
rehearsing. Similarly, they’ll find ways to use the table itself and the space
between the two characters in the scene.

If I am directing the scene, I will want to experiment with sound in this way
before the scene is shot, so that I will be able to block and shoot, and even
construct the set in ways that take advantage of sound.

*- A Craftsman knows how to avoid accidents — an Artist knows how to use them -*
Nothing paralyzes an artist more than fear of screwing up. The first step toward
curing writer’s block is to begin writing, even if the most you can manage is to
type random words. Writer’s block is not the inability to type. It is the
inability to type something of value. So you begin to cure it by typing
anything. If nothing else, you copy the phone book, or the Bible, adding a word
or two of your own now and then. Another approach might be to tear a page out of
a book or newspaper, cut the page into
pieces, rearrange the pieces and see if any interesting juxtapositions occur
that might beg for elaboration. Sound editing and design can use the same sort
of trick. I often begin working on a movie by listening, more-or-less at random,
to lots of sounds. Many of these sounds may have nothing to do (superficially)
with the movie. Eventually I hear a sound that makes an interesting connection
between two moments, characters, or places in the film. Out of this kind of
technique you try to form a style for the sound in the movie, and you try, when
appropriate, to get other collaborators (including the Director) to help you by
modifying the cut, the dialog, the music, etc. in order for all the elements to
play off each other. That is what sound design is about. Most people think sound
design is making alien vocals, ray guns, and space ship sounds. The same people
probably think that film editing is about cutting stuff out of the movie that’s
boring.

Mistakes, accidents, and the unexpected often provide the spark that leads to
great work. The trick is to plan and execute your creative process in a way that
makes room for lots of experimenting and lots of mistakes early. Rehearsing is
not mainly for the purpose of “memorizing” what needs to be done. Actually the
best reason to rehearse is to discover what needs to be done.

*- We may not create or invent — we always discover - *
I don’t think the word “create” describes very well the process of trying to do
fresh work. Creating implies making something out of nothing. For me, the
creative process is about reorganizing things which are already there. The sound
artist John Cage often used what he called “chance operations” to decide what to
do at each step of his process of composing music. Sometimes he would use the I
Ching. Sometimes he would write instructions on a sheet of paper, then cut up
the paper, toss the pieces into the air, then try to follow the instructions that randomly formed as the pieces landed. I don’t think Cage’s techniques always produced wonderful work, but they can be a good way to begin. My approach is to use chance only as a starting point, not as the sole mediator of the work.

So, Uncle Randy’s simple rules for being more creative are:

1. Learn your craft thoroughly, reading everything you can about the traditions
and conventions of the craft, as well as experiments on the modern cutting edge.

2. Begin each project with few assumptions about the methods you will use. Let
the needs of the project, most of which you won’t know until after you’ve
gotten your feet wet, determine your approach.

3. Experiment as early and as often and as inexpensively as possible. Make lots
of mistakes when mistakes are cheap.

Original URL: http://www.ideabuzz.com/cas/archive/journal/creative.html

Articles by Randy Thom

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May 7, 2007 by webmaster.

It’s a funny contradiction that the craft of acting is used…nine times out of ten to stay safe, when all the audience really wants is for the character to take a risk.  Every story worth listening to, from Little Red Riding Hood to Rocky, involves people at risk. Why is it that the fundamental craving in the human being is to be at risk?  What is it about standing up to fear that is so appealing? Why is the hero such an essential archetype?  Well, this page isn’t nearly big enough to thoroughly answer all these questions.  To get a better understanding pick up Joseph Campbell’s, “The Power of Myth” at your local bookstore.  But for the purposes of this discussion, it’s fair to say that the human animal seems to be hard wired with the idea that our path in life, from birth to death, is an adventure.  The hero’s journey, their adventure, always involves filling some gap that the hero discovers in their own heart.  It is always a quest.  They must slay a dragon, beat Apollo Creed, proclaim their love, find the Wizard, and on and on.  There are as many quests as there are individuals on them.  Let’s use a classic quest that you’re all familiar with to look at some archetypes and their relationship to risk:  The Wizard of Oz.  Four characters quest for their own missing parts … home, courage, heart, and brains.  On this journey they meet, battle, and defeat, a classic dark archetype, the Crone.  She is the Dark Woman who has denied her feminine, lives to crush youth, and seeks to destroy our hero and her spirit guide, (in the form of a –dog. Animal spirit guides are common in myth).  She uses the sands of time as a weapon against youth. Our hero quests for a magical Wizard whom she believes holds the key to her future, he hordes the one quality our hero needs to be happy (A hoarding dragon or wizard is also common in myth).  When she finally finds the Wizard, he sends her on yet another mission, telling her she must bring him the broom stick of the crone.  Only when she presents him with this offering will he help her.  But when she accomplishes this nearly impossible task, defeating the crone that lives in all young women, she finds that the Wizard she hung all her hopes upon is false.  She put her hope outside of her own heart; and found it empty.  The false Wizard tells her and her companions that deep inside them they always had what they were seeking on the outside.  And in the blink of an eye our hero is reborn, back in her bed at home, and waking up a new and deeper person.  Our hero had to face her fears, she had to put herself at risk, to find that she had always carried deep in her own heart what she had been seeking from others.

There is something almost biological in the need to join characters whose quest puts them at risk.  Examine your own work as an actor and ask yourself where you use your skill to put yourself at risk and where you use it to keen yourself safe.  It’s the best-kept secret in show business that nobody is interested in how well put together you are.  Our audiences interest lies in watching well put together people come apart.  All the tools the actor has are there to get at risk in a scene and see how the character copes with it.  The stages and studio lots are overflowing with actors trying to be good and safe, and we’re all nodding off watching them.  When people ask me what technique I use in teaching I tell them it’s the “bug you till you come alive technique”.  The tools that actors have developed over generations are all directed towards that one simple goal.  Please, I beg you, use your acting craft to make choices that get you in just half as much trouble as Dorothy, and you too can find … the value of risk.

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