Scene Five is to Art in The Real Thing, as Scene Seven is to Love.
Got it? w00t, analogies.
It is home to two of my favorite speeches, the first of which I quote in my “About Me” page on this site, and a mantra whenever I find myself with a blank page or screen before me.
I don’t think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a ittle or make a poem which children will speak for you when you’re dead.
Sometimes, I find nothing more beautiful than these three sentences. But they carry even greater weight when taken in the context of Henry and Annie’s argument.
Scene Five is mostly an argument between Henry and his new wife as he tries to “clean up” Brodie’s autobiographical teleplay/manifesto. Yep, you read that right. Henry argues that there’s no way to save the script; it’s loaded with cliches, filled with stale and idiotic ideas, and poorly constructed at that. Annie defends Brodie, and does this by calling her playwright husband a snob, arguing that his concept of “good writing” is warped:
You judge everything as yout everyone starts off fromt he same place, aiming at the same prize. Eng. Lit. Shakespeare out in front by a mile, and the rest of the field strung out behind trying to close the gap. You all write for people would like to write like you if only they could write.
And for half a second, you could listen to Annie and believe it, until you remember that she speaks mostly nonsense, as Henry indicates in the cricket-bat speech, which is so wonderful, and since this isn’t a paper, I’m including the whole damn thing.
This [cricket bat] here, which looks like a wooden club, i s actually several pieces of particular wood cunningly put together in a certain way so that the whole thing is sprung, like a dance floor. It’s for hitting cricket balls with. If you get it right, the cricket ball will travel two hundred yards in four seconds, and all you’ve done is give it a knock like knocking the top off a bottle of stout, and it makes a noise like a trout taking a fly… (He clucks his tongue to make the noise.) What we’re trying to do is write cricket bats, so that when we throw up an idea and give it a little knock it might... travel… (He clucks his tongue again and picks up [Brodie's] script.) Now, what we’ve got here is a lump of wood of roughly the same shape trying to be a cricket bat, and if you hit a ball with it, the ball will travel about ten feet and you will drop the bat and dance about shouting ‘Ouch!’ with your hands stuck into your armpits. (indicating the cricket bat) This isn’t better because someone says it’s better, or because there’s a conspiracy by the MCC to keep cudgels out of Lords. It’s better because it’s better. You don’t believe me, so I suggest you go out to bat with this and see how you get on. [he reads] ‘You’re a strange boy, Billy, how old are you?’ ‘Twenty, but I’ve lived more than you’ll ever live.’ Ooh, ouch!
He drops the script and hops about with his hands in his armpits, going ‘Ouch!’
Did you fall in love with Henry just then? I know I did.
In this scene, Stoppard does a phenomenal job illustrating the authenticity of art, and what makes good art, well, good, that it is a matter of craft and not opinion. But, you can admit, Annie does her best to make a good argument. She’s just no Henry.
Surrounding these speeches, in the scene, and even in the duration of the play, Stoppard invites the audience to question the authenticity of motivation behind these works of art. At the end of the play, Henry has doctored Brodie’s script and humiliated himself for Annie. He writes screenplays (quelle horreur!) in order to support keep them living in the style to which they have become accustomed, and never completes his play for her; because that’s one cricket bat he can’t quite master.
And the more I read this play, and the more I think on it, I do believe that Henry believes words are sacred, much moreso than their craftsmen, but I have to wonder if he ever wrote a cricket bat, or feels that he had.