In the meantime, let's take a look at process, shall we?
This whole project was sparked by a poem written years ago. The script for the film we shot transforms the poem into mise-en-scène and dialogue. There are other bits of dialogue, too, suggested in the script or improvised on set. The see how the poem informs the script, then becomes part of the script, which then becomes incarnated by real actors on location, it's good to go back to the source.
Some may think: "how did this inspire that?" And the answer to that question is the mystery of the creative process. I think I know what I was on about when I wrote this thing. I think Jacob and Jesko and Robert and René totally got it, too. I think Actor Tony understood, but when I was confused and asked Director Jacobsomething about why we were doing a thing a certain way, he chided me, saying something akin to: "pay attention to what you wrote! "
Ultimately, even this is ink on paper, or dots on a screen. A moving target, which we may have succeeded in hitting, but not pinning down:
IN THE COOLER
Through a small slot in the heavy metal door
Hauptmann and The Doctor
Observe The Writer at work.
He scribbles desperately:
If He is the Great Physician
Is this God’s Waiting Room?
Are we being admitted to the Final Examination?
Oh, these lives
Piled like so many old magazines
To the infinite ceiling …
Maybe, maybe in those eternal pauses between seconds
When we sit here, frozen like statues
He comes out of His Office
His meaty thumbs absent-mindedly peel back
Page after page after page…
Hauptmann giggles, and points a bony finger:
“Words are his cage, Herr Doktor.
He thinks they might form some key,
Dig some clever underground passage.
But look at his feeble, womanly attempts!”
My words, I think, are bluish dots on Bounty white clouds
Who opened this blue door?
Who let out this torrent of word upon word?
I know they’d like me to dissect this poem
And rearrange the words upon words
And still your eye and my heart
Never satisfied with unmeaning
Would construct a new meaning.
I would love so much to reach out beyond these words,
Hold your yearning heart next to mine,
And lay out our hearts and souls
Like childish treasure bracelets
In the angels’ careful, grateful hands.
Listen, you!
This is the pouring out of my noisy self
These scribbled words are my mumbled testament
This is my sleepless yearning, yearning, yearning…
Hauptmann ran a white sleeve under his dripping nose
And laughed:
“This trap of yours is ingenious Herr Doktor
Words will never be meaningless to him
Which would be his only escape
Instead every newspaper,
Every empty advertising gesture
Will create a nightmarish world of his own imagining.”
“Yes, Hautpmann,” the Doctor whispered coldly,
“We will break this Polish cur yet.”
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