Stage Voices

TERENCE RATTIGAN’S THE BROWNING VERSION (REVIEW)

(Henry Hitchings article appeared in the Evening Standard, 7/14/09.)

There can be few English institutions more mysterious to the uninitiated than the public school (now a misnomer), and Terence Rattigan’s The Browning Version evokes its creaky protocols and ruthlessness in a manner that, against expectation, seems no less trenchant today than it must have done when the play premiered more than 60 years ago.

Andrew Crocker-Harris is a senior master on the brink of leaving his job at a smart boarding school to go and teach in a crammer. Afflicted with a heart condition, goaded by a viciously snobbish wife, who is dallying with one of his junior colleagues, and oppressed by the memory of having once been a stellar classical scholar, he is the epitome of the teacher whose unappreciated efforts have led to pedantic self-loathing.

Crocker-Harris is doomed to mediocrity by nothing more than a couple of bad choices and a stoical sense of duty. But his relegation to the Siberia of pedagogy is there for all to see: his colleagues can commend him on little except his planning of the school timetable.

(Read more)

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23616730-details/The+Browning+Version/Swansong/showReview.do?reviewId=23719113

 

‘A BICYCLE COUNTRY’ BY NILO CRUZ: 'SHAME' IN THE CARIBBEAN (REVIEW)

In 2007, days after the director’s death, Jonathan Rosenbaum dissed Ingmar Bergman in The New York Times.  That’s when I started mentally marking Bergman’s birthday the way I do for Shakespeare in April. This year I almost forgot until July 13, a day before the actual date--but I had been thinking of Bergman anyway, specifically with regard to Pulitzer winner Nilo Cruz’s 2001 play A Bicycle Country, now playing on Theatre Row at the Lion Theater until July 25.  If Anna in the Tropics is both Anna Karenina told in Tampa, Florida during the ‘20s and its own unique, specific composition, I began wondering if Cruz’s play about a revolutionary crackdown, escape, and journey into surrealism, similarly, was a refraction of Bergman’s Shame, which follows a similar trajectory.  Perhaps it was even a correction of it.   

Although subject to debate, Bergman, at least, felt there were problems with his screenplay.  “The first half of the film is really nothing more than an endlessly drawn-out prologue that ought to have been over and done with in ten minutes.  What happens later could have been built upon, fleshed out, and developed as much as was needed,” he wrote in Images.  And that’s exactly what Cruz, such a master of finding the beginning and through-line of a drama, does in A Bicycle Country, locating a structure for his analogous material that works (especially for the stage). As he does in Anna, Cruz introduces a character at the beginning that, ultimately, is tragic—actually, in this play, all the characters will be.  Ines, a nurse, enters the services of an invalid, Julio. As their finances deteriorate, and Cuba reels from being cut off from Soviet oil shipments during the early ‘90s--after the fall of the Iron Curtain--they dream of freedom.  In a country disparaging the fact that the economy is being run using bicycles imported from China instead of heavy machinery, they plot an escape to Miami by building a raft.

Writing Shame during the Vietnam era, Bergman was interested in demonstrating the violence of a world caught in civil war as well as a war taking place in a relationship. The two main characters, Jan and Eva, talk about their dreams in a film that, ultimately, becomes a dream.  Cruz, ever elegant, offers hallucinations in A Bicycle Country—he also details a love story, which reminds us of Anna in the Tropics.  In Shame, however, the relationship between the two leading characters is already corroding from the top. They have less of a distance to go in which to fall apart. Cruz, however, can use his entire first act to “grow” the relationship.  I assume, Bergman would believe that it was organically more important that his characters’ internal worlds reflect the external environment (or maybe even vice-versa), but this may also be why he felt the first half of the film was largely an introduction.  Nevertheless, Bergman’s carnality is more powerful than Cruz’s sensuality, even if trying to choose one vision over the other is a fool’s game. Bergman hits harder and deeper, basically, asking us to watch human beings being reduced to uncivilized animals. Cruz’s characters retain their humanity, no matter their oppression by regime or natural environment. He impresses with his theatricality (wearing pillowcases and walking into the ocean with an umbrella), but he never shows the human being debased—his heroine accepts a new love, for example, whereas Liv Ullmann’s Eva takes her lovers with a dead face.  

 

As Bergman writes, “Once the outer violence stops and the inner violence begins, Shame becomes a good film.  When society can no longer function, the main characters lose their frame of reference.  Their social relations cease.  The people crumble.  The weak become ruthless.  The woman, who had been the stronger falls apart.  Everything slips away into a dream play that ends on board the refugee boat.  Everything is shown in pictures, as in a nightmare.  In a nightmare, I felt at home.  In the reality of war, I was lost.”  Cruz, dealing with the similar issues is able to flesh out his second act in a way that Bergman might have hoped for, but this leads to the further complication of trying to dramatically record the spaces of the mind before death. The trick, as the action of A Bicycle Country dissipates into speeches, is to not let the hallucinations come across as merely theatrical without taking us to a deeper level of understanding.  At least on the page, Naomi Wallace’s war play, No Such Cold Thing portrays a more disturbing interpretation of characters lost in their imaginations before dying.  What she demonstrates is the almost coherent, yet airtight nature of dreams, nightmares, and hallucinations; put it another way, she makes the moments before life ceases artistically believable, in as much as anyone can understand the experience while still being alive.

 

Bergman does write a beautiful aria for Eva at the end of the film:

 

I had a strange dream, it was absolutely real.  I was walking along a very beautiful street.  On one side were white, open houses, with arches and pillars.  On the other side was a lovely park.  Under the big tree by the street ran cold dark-green water.  I came to a high wall, which was overgrown with roses.  Then an aircraft came, roaring down and set fire to the roses.  They burned with a clear flame . . . .” 

 

(Humorously, at about the time this was written, Ullmann was living with Bergman and became afraid that when asked about her dreams, her answers would show up as part of the script the next day. )

 

But Cruz can write a monologue as well, here for the character Pepe:

 

I’ve heard what the ocean does to people.  I’ve heard.  Like the desert.  A fever.  You see things.  A mirage.  You play tricks on the eyes.  Whatever became of the day, eh?  Whatever became of that day when I was a child, and my father brought the whole family together and said, “We’re moving to the coast, and I’m going to show you the sea.  And we sold all the chickens to buy the bus fare.  We sold the cows and the pigs to rent a house close to the seashore.  Look . . . Look . . . You can’t trick me!  I can close my eyes. . . . and see you like the first day, when the driver said, “We’re in Havana.  We’re by the seawall.”  And I climbed down from the bus, with my eyes closed, and my father said, “Open your eyes, Pepe.  This is the sea.  This is the sea.”  And when I saw you, you were blue and big as the falling sky.  Calm and full as a bowl of blue soup. . . .    

 

Given that the current New York production of A Bicycle Country is a showcase, I think it’s most important to look at Cruz’s writing first.  The actors, in this performance, are constricted during the first half of the play by a set that is part cleverness and hazard.  The script lets the characters speak, but on a small stage the working space is made even smaller by having the actors perform on a platform.  That the set reconfigures for the second half shows its utilitarian aspect, but here the sound, commendable as it is in giving the feel of being lost on the sea, does not take us further into the depths of hallucination.  Better, was Matt Tierney’s design for last season’s Blasted at Soho Rep, which also sculpted sound in the last act.  The actors here, not necessarily first choices from central casting, work to find their characters’ essences, but a Cuban flavor is sacrificed. What is more relevant to discuss is that A Bicycle Country is a compelling play being performed during a time of compelling theater—and that’s something to celebrate.

 

Oh . . . How much should we buy Bergman’s criticism of his structure for Shame? Once I was in Central Park in the middle of the night. A homeless woman, quite educated, came up to me, and we started talking about Bergman films as she offered me pennies she had found. The one she remembered best was about a couple living during a war. That, of course, is Shame. Its impact remains.   

 

Happy birthday, Ingmar!!

 

© 2009 by Bob Shuman     A Bicycle Country

by Nilo Cruz; directed by Gil Ron

with Francisco Solorzano Lorraine Rodriguez Luca Pierucci

Presented by East 3rd Productions

The Lion Theatre 410 West 42nd Street New York, New York 10036

July 3 - July 25

$18 Tickets Ticket Central: 212-279-4200 Info: 212-677-6407

http://www.theatrerow.org/thelion.htm

DRAMA SERIAL: ‘END ZONE’ BY BOB SHUMAN (SCENE 4)

What follows is the fourth scene of END ZONE, a play by Bob Shuman; its serialization on Stage Voices will end next Tuesday (Scene 1, 2, and 3 were posted on  June 23,  June 30, and July 7; they can also be read in the blog’s archives under: Full-length Plays: Drama Serial).

 

The play was first developed at Hunter College and then given readings at The Lark Play Development Center and Second Stage Theatre. It is excerpted in two anthologies from Applause Theatre and Cinema Books.

 

In the following scene, LUCIAN and his sons are together after a rally. 

 

END ZONE

 

A Play by Bob Shuman

                                                           

SCENE:

A motel. It’s about a mile down the road from a prep school in the Northeast.

 

TIME

A while back, in November. Before dinner.

 

CHARACTERS:

 

LUCIAN “LUCE” TRAINER: A legendary prep-school football coach and former dean of the Masters School.  Late 70s.

 

ARTHUR TRAINER: LUCIAN’s  youngest son. A freelance composer and percussionist who emphasizes environmental sounds in his work.  Late 30s.

 

NORM TRAINER: LUCIAN’s oldest son. A sporting goods salesman in his late 40s. He has a slight Southern accent.

 

 

 

SCENE 4

 

1:00 AM.  LUCIAN, NORM, and ARTHUR are in NORM’S motel room.  NORM has just gotten back from the pep rally.

 

(The Brothers are drinking. Throughout the scene, as they slug back shots, they pound the bottle or glass down hard—and quickly refill their glasses.)

 

NORM:  (Ignoring Lucian, saying the pep-rally speech.) "We’re not saying . . .

 

ARTHUR:  (Catching on that NORM is saying Lucian’s speech) Right, right . . .  (trying to remember what LUCIAN said at the rally)

 

NORM:  Put your hand over your heart.

 

(NORM and ARTHUR put their hands over their hearts and try to give part of LUCIAN’s pep-rally speech.)

 

(The next two lines are spoken at the same time.)

                                                                                     

NORM:  “That the challenge be . . .”

 

ARTHUR:  ”That the challenge be . . .”

 

NORM:  “Insignificent!”

 

(The next two lines are spoken at the same time.)

 

NORM:                                                          

Insignificant! Sorry.

 

 

ARTHUR:

Insignificant!

 

NORM:   (To ARTHUR, forcing Arthur’s hand over his heart for him.) Put your hand over your heart!

 

ARTHUR:  Oh, right.

 

NORM and ARTHUR:  . . .  WE’RE JUST DOING  . . .

 

(NORM and ARTHUR put their hands over their hearts. Pause.)

 

LUCIAN:  Something, aren’t you?

 

NORM and ARTHUR:  WHAT WE SAID WE WERE GOING TO DO!

 

ARTHUR:  Like holy shit, man, I coulda had a V-8 . . .

 

LUCIAN:  That’s enough now, off to bed with you.

 

NORM:  He doesn’t need someone writing him a speech, he’s best on his feet.

 

LUCIAN:  I hear you.

 

ARTHUR:  Clayt was bawling, crying . . .

 

NORM:  Just put him out there . . .  

 

ARTHUR:  Tears streaming down his face . . .

 

NORM:   . . . and tell him to start talking!

 

NORM and ARTHUR: We’re just doing what we said we were going to—

 

(NORM is using ARTHUR’s hand to punch ARTHUR.)

 

NORM:  Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself.

 

ARTHUR:  HEY!

 

NORM:  When are you going to stop hitting yourself?

 

ARTHUR:  Watch it. 

 

(The next four lines overlap.)

 

NORM:

Coach  in

front of the bon fire with the

flames . . .

ARTHUR:

Let’s go Defense!

Defense, let’s go!

 

(LUCIAN turns out the lights on NORM and ARTHUR. Pitch black.)

 

 

NORM:                                                          

Heyyy, what’re you doing?   

 

ARTHUR:

Hold it, hold it!

 

LUCIAN:  Time for sleep.

 

NORM: What’s goin on here?

 

LUCIAN:  Got to get up in the morning.

 

ARTHUR:  Hey, turn the lights on!

 

LUCIAN:  Quiet you two down

 

NORM: What do you think you’re doing?!

 

LUCIAN:  NORMAN, I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU TOMORROW!

 

(The next four lines overlap.)

 

NORM:

Jesus Christ?!                                                 

 

ARTHUR:

Can’t see a fucking thing . . .

                                               

NORM:                                                          

Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey hey, hey.

 

LUCIAN:

You don’t have to talk like

that, do you?!

                       

ARTHUR: Practically kill myself.

 

LUCIAN:  I never taught my sons to speak like . . .  

 

(ARTHUR knocks into the wall.)

 

ARTHUR:  Oww!

 

(LUCIAN turns the lights on.  Silence.)

 

ARTHUR:  (Going to the window) I just want to see if I see Clayt coming.

                                                 

NORM:  What’s that?

 

ARTHUR:  Clayt’s coming to shake Coach’s hand.

 

(Pause.)

 

NORM: (Unbelieving) Clayt’s coming over?

 

LUCIAN:  What’s that you’re saying.

 

NORM:  You invited Clayt over here?

 

ARTHUR:  Hired me at the school.   

 

(Silence.)

 

NORM:  Come on, Coach.  A light one.  A light one.

 

LUCIAN:  I don’t want anything.

 

NORM:  Course you do.

 

LUCIAN:  None for me.

 

ARTHUR:  TWO OF US WORKIN AT THE SCHOOL!

 

(Silence.)

 

LUCIAN:   Andy Dugan picked us up.                                             

 

ARTHUR:  Dugan’s funeral home.

 

NORM:  DOWN.  SET.

 

ARTHUR:  Andy was driving a dead body.

 

(Pause.)

 

(The next three speeches should be said at the same time.)

 

NORM:                                              

Say that again?

 

LUCIAN:

Hadn’t seen him since

the eighth grade.

 

ARTHUR:

He recognized Coach.

 

LUCIAN:  He pulls up to us and says, “Mr. Trainer, could I offer you a lift?”

                                                           

ARTHUR:  He was going to a viewing.

 

LUCIAN:  Had me sitting on top of the coffin!

 

(Silence.)        

 

(ARTHUR pours another drink.)

 

ARTHUR: We hitchhikedout to the rally.     

                                   

NORM:  With a corpse . . . ?

 

ARTHUR:  We didn’t see you comin.

                                                                                                           

NORM:  You got him out on the highway hitchhiking?

 

ARTHUR:  You didn’t come to pick us up.

 

LUCIAN:  I don’t want you getting all upset.

 

ARTHUR:  Who else was going to take us out there?

 

LUCIAN:  I know what you do . . .  

 

NORM:  What’s wrong with you?

 

ARTHUR:  I had to get him out there, didn’t I?

 

NORM:  No, no, you didn’t have to get him out there.

 

ARTHUR:  Best pep rally they ever had!

 

NORM:  You didn’t have to get him out there. He was supposed to stay here and get some rest, so he can make his speech tomorrow.

 

ARTHUR:  I didn’t hear anyone complaining.

 

NORM:  I told you to wait for me.

 

LUCIAN:  I don’t want you getting excited.

 

ARTHUR:  I had to get out there myself.

 

NORM:  I told you I was coming. 

 

ARTHUR:  I had people I needed to see, too! 

 

NORM:  You could watch him for one night.

 

ARTHUR:  I had people I needed to see, too.

 

NORM:  You put him in a hearse.

 

ARTH UR:  GOT TO SEE CLAYT DIDN’T YOU!

 

NORM:  (Pulling ARTHUR by the scruff of the neck) He could have gotten killed.

                                                           

ARTHUR:  He wasn’t going to get killed.

 

(Silence.)

                                                                                                                         

NORM:   (To ARTHUR) I mean fuck off! How much longer you think he's got?

 

LUCIAN:  That’s enough now . . .

 

NORM:   . . . How much longer you think he’s going to have anyway?

 

LUCIAN:   You heard what I just said!

 

NORM:   You just stay back.

                                                             

LUCIAN:  Let him go.

 

NORM:  Coach knows it.

 

LUCIAN:  Stop it! 

 

NORM:  (About how much longer LUCIAN has to live:) Answer me.  

 

(Pause.)

 

LUCIAN:  That’s enough.

                                               

NORM:   Six months?

                                                           

ARTHUR:  I don’t know.

 

NORM:  Fifteen years?

 

ARTHUR:  I DON’T KNOW, I JUST SAID!

 

NORM:  How much longer you think he’s going to live?

 

LUCIAN:  You’re not supposed to be  . . .

 

(LUCIAN heads to the other room, turning off one of the lights.)

 

(Pause.)

 

ARTHUR:  I’m going outside  . . .

 

(ARTHUR goes to put on his jacket.)

                                                           

NORM:

(Drunk, to LUCIAN.)  Come on back here, Coach, I didn’t mean it.

 

ARTHUR:  Get some fresh air .

 

NORM:  (Drunk, but meaning it, to LUCIAN.)  We didn't mean it.

 

ARTHUR:  Clayt should have been here by now.                                                     

 

LUCIAN:  No use talking to you.

 

NORM:  Supposed to have a good time . . .

 

ARTHUR:  Clayt will just stop in for a quick drink  . . .

 

NORM:  (To LUCIAN, still apologizing.) Best pep rally ever. 

 

ARTHUR:  Clayt said we ought to get together . . .

 

NORM:  (Talking about LUCIAN) Just have to put him on his feet.

 

ARTHUR:  Don’t even know if Clayt knows what he’s talking about, it’s past 2:00.

                       

NORM:  Come onnn, sit down.    Still be living after all the rest of us are long gone, right Farts?

 

(ARTHUR exits.)

 

(NORM downs his shot.)

 

(Silence.)

                                     

NORM:  I said to Clayt . . .

 

LUCIAN:  Go ahead and get a good night’s sleep.

 

NORM:   I said to him, I don’t want to see your secretary.

 

LUCIAN:  Look at you.

 

NORM:  I don’t want to see the Director of Athletic Development.

 

LUCIAN:  A mess.

 

NORM:  I’m not seein’ Zant.

 

LUCIAN:  Smell . . . When I think . . .

                                   

NORM:  (As if to Clayt) I just want to see you!

 

LUCIAN:  How others looked up to you.

 

NORM:  Say to him, I say to him, if you and me are gonna work together . . .  you gotta explain to me . . .

 

LUCIAN:  (Knowing that NORM is lying to him) . . . No reason to lie . . .

 

NORM:  This is really what I said to him.  This is  what I said . . . .  If you and me are going to work together you gotta explain to me why this goddamn prep-school is the best keep secret in the whole goddamned country!

 

(Pause.)

 

LUCIAN:  You never saw him.

 

(Pause.)

 

NORM:  Whaddaya mean?  Sure I did.

 

LUCIAN:  I talked with Clayt myself.

 

(Silence.)

 

(Phone rings.)

 

NORM:  (Thinking Clayt is calling.) There he is.   See this, Coach?  Here’s Clayt right here.  I knew it.  Don’t tell me.  He’s right here!  Hello?   (Static on the other end.) Hello?  

 

(Silence.)

 

LUCIAN:  (To NORM) You’re lying to me.

 

(The next two lines overlap.)

 

NORM:                      

What do you mean,                            

I’m lying to you.

 

LUCIAN:

You’re lying.

I know what you're doing.                                                                                                     

NORM:  What do you mean?  

 

LUCIAN:  I’ll never let you do it.

 

NORM:  What are you talking . . . about?

 

LUCIAN:  Look me in the eye, so I can see. Look at me so I can see whether you’re lying or not.  Look at me!  To my face.  To your own father!  You can’t even look at me . . . I know you would do that to me with everything I have . . . Put me there! 

 

(Silence.)

 

NORM:  I CAN’T TAKE IT ON ANYMORE, COACH!  I CAN’T MAKE IT WORK.  I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SAY IT, BUT I’M NOT THAT STRONG.  CAN’T YOU SEE THAT? CAN’T YOU SEE THAT? STOP LOOKG AT ME AS IF I’M SOMETHING I’M NOT.  NORM WILL TAKE CARE OF THAT, NORM WILL FIX THAT—I CAN’T, COACH—AND I HAVEN’T EVER BEEN ABLE TO!  

 

(ARTHUR enters with a note.)

                                                           

ARTHUR:   Clayt left this downstairs.

 

LUCIAN:  (To NORM) Tomorrow you need to talk to me.

 

ARTHUR:  (Reading note) “Sorry we didn’t connect.”

 

NORM:  (About Clayt) Let me see it.

 

(NORM takes the note.)

 

ARTHUR:  He was here. 

 

NORM:   (Reading) “Good to chat with Luce . . .  Glad to have Arthur on board.”

 

(Silence.)

 

NORM:  Where’s your cigar?

 

ARTHUR:  Sounds like we should have another drink, shouldn’t we?

 

NORM:  You don’t have a job unless Clayt gives you a cigar.

 

ARTHUR:  What do you mean?

 

NORM:  It’s true.  That’s the way he signs off on things. He kept promising me for the longest time.

 

LUCIAN:  Don’t listen to him. 

 

NORM:  No matter how many promises he was giving me. No matter how many times he spoke to me, all that time I was following him around!

 

(Suddenly, NORM rushes at ARTHUR, giving him a Mohawk.)

                                   

NORM:  (Tickling ARTHUR in a children's game) Are you the monk that told the monk that I'm the monk who told the monk that he's the monk . . .?

 

ARTHUR:   Hey--

 

NORM:  . . . that told the monk that you're the monk—

 

ARTHUR:  What are you doing?

 

NORM:   . . .that I'm the monk he’s the monk that hit the monk around the corner?

           

ARTHUR:  What are you doing?  Knock it off!

 

NORM:  I don’t care.

 

ARTHUR:  Cut it out will you?  Stop that.

 

NORM:   Go back to the East Village if you want!.

                                               

LUCIAN:  (To his dead wife.) Can you hear me, Rose Mary?

 

NORM:  Doesn’t matter to me!  It’s better if you don’t take any RESPONSIBILITY!

 

LUCIAN:  You’re here with me now, aren’t you?

 

NORM:  (To ARTHUR) I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO THE PEOPLE WHO DON’T MAKE IT.  I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO THE PEOPLE WHO AREN’T LUCKY ENOUGH—WHO BELIEVED THE HORSE SHIT THAT THEY SHOULD BE HELPING SOMEONE! 

 

LUCIAN:  I feel your hands, running over my face . . .

 

NORM  YOU’VE JUST LET SOMEONE ELSE TELL YOU WHAT TO DO . . . ALL YOU’VE DONE IS LET SOMEONE ELSE GET AWAY WITH IT!.

 

LUCIAN:  . . . Like cobwebs.

 

NORM:  I could go up to some rough city.

 

LUCIAN:  Could I meet you Rose Mary?  Could I meet you?

 

NORM:  Some tough city.  I could show up there.

 

LUCIAN:  (As if to Rose Mary) When will I be able to meet you?

 

NORM:  Tomorrow.  (About LUCIAN.)  He never had any money, he was a teacher!

 

LUCIAN:  How much longer must I wait.

 

NORM:  Coach doesn’t have any pension.

 

ARTHUR:  You all right, Coach?

 

NORM:  Maybe I’d never come back.

 

LUCIAN:  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

 

(Silence.)

 

NORM:   He takes you out for lunch if he hires you.  I know he does that.

 

(NORM is drinking.)

 

(Silence.)

           

NORM:  (To ARTHUR) Tell me what you’re hiding.

 

ARTHUR:  Nothing.  I’m not hiding anything..

 

NORM:  You’re hiding something . . .

 

ARTHUR:  I’m not hiding anything . . .

 

NORM:  You’re hiding something!

 

LUCIAN:  (To ARTHUR) You talk to me.

 

NORM:   . . . you’re hiding something from me!

                                                           

LUCIAN:  (To ARTHUR) . . . I want you to talk to me!

 

NORM:  Like that job for Farts, you’re hiding something!

 

ARTHUR:  I thought you . . . ? 

 

(Suddenly, NORM starts arm wrestling with ARTHUR.)

 

NORM:  (As they wrestle) You’re dead!

 

ARTHUR:  WATCH IT!

 

NORM:  What are you hiding?!

 

ARTHUR:  NORM!

 

NORM:  I’ll kill you!

 

ARTHUR:  Watch it—

 

NORM:  What are you hiding from me? 

 

ARTHUR:  (As they arm-wrestle) Thomasia!

 

NORM:   SAY IT!

                                   

LUCIAN:  You’ll stay with me now, won’t you, Art? 

 

ARTHUR:  I can’t--

 

NORM:  YOU’LL NEVER BEAT ME!

 

LUCIAN:  Do you hear me, Art?

 

NORM:  You’ll never beat me.  You’ll never beat me.  You hear me?!

 

LUCIAN:  Maybe you could stay with me?

 

NORM:  You understand me?!  Think you’re so good.  What have you ever given him?    . . .  I could have shown up and disappeared into some tough city . . .

                                                           

LUCIAN:  Give Norm and Thomasia a little break?

 

(ARTHUR wins the arm wrestling.)

 

(LUCIAN goes to his coat, take out a cigar and puts it on the table.)

 

(For the rest of the scene LUCIAN will be coughing due to the cigar smoke; it becomes more and more severe as the scene progresses.)

 

(Silence.)

 

NORM:  . . .  I’ll take Coach up to the speakers stand tomorrow and be done . . .

 

(Silence.)

 

LUCIAN:   (To ARTHUR, coughing.)            Pour us a drink. 

 

NORM:  I’ll be on my way.

 

LUCIAN:  Bourbon and lemonade.

 

NORM:  We’ve given enough to the Master’s school, haven’t we, Coach?

 

LUCIAN:  (Coughing.) . . . Come on, this is supposed to be a celebration, isn’t it?

 

NORM:  All the time we’ve spent being grown up.

 

LUCIAN:  Think of a toast.

 

NORM:  (About the note) No such thing.  We never grow old, other people just think we did.  Inside we’re exactly the same, we just have more experience.

 

LUCIAN:  . . .Yale man’s been hired new Alumni Director . . . 

 

(Silence.)

                                                                       

NORM:  PROPOSE THE TOAST!

 

ARTHUR:  . . . Alumni Director.

 

LUCIAN:  To us being together!

 

NORM:  Coach’s facility arrangements at the home have been made, it’s  . . . been done.

 

(Silence.)

 

LUCIAN:  (As a toast) TO US ALL BEING TOGETHER AGAIN!                                  

NORM:  FARTER!

 

LUCIAN: TO ALL OF US BEING HERE WITH EACH OTHER!

 

NORM:  Watch the smoke.

 

LUCIAN:  DRINK!

 

ARTHUR:  Whad you call me?!

 

LUCIAN:  (About a drink) I can have another one. 

 

NORM:  CAN’T YOU SEE HE CAN”T BREATHE THAT?!!

 

LUCIAN:  Farty. 

 

(Suddenly, NORM turns on ARTHUR and tackles him to the ground.  The following should be brutal.)

 

(The next 3 lines overlap.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

NORM:                                  

Can’t fuckin breathe! 

 

ARTHUR:

Whad you call me?!

 

LUCIAN:

You’d take care of me.

 

NORM:  What the fuck are you doing, can’t fuckin  . . .

 

(The next 2 lines overlap.)

                                   

NORM:                                                                      

DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK                       

YOU’RE DOING.                                        

 

ARTHUR:

GET OFF ME, WILL YOU

FUCKIN GET OFF ME?

 

LUCIAN:  HOLD IT!

 

(NORM overturns the table in the room, the lamp on it shatters and the lights go out.  The audience now hears the scene better than they can see it—there is only the faint flickering of outside light.)

 

NORM:  YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO FUCKING CARE FOR HIM,

 

LUCIAN:  STOP THAT!

 

ARTHUR:   QUIT!

 

LUCIAN:  THAT'S ENOUGH!

 

NORM:  DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE DOING!! 

 

ARTHUR:  GET OFF ME!

 

LUCIAN:  YOU HEAR ME!

 

NORM:  FUCKING MAKE IT WORSE --

 

ARTHUR:  Turn on the lights . . .

 

LUCIAN:  GET OFF!

 

NORM:  YOU DON’T KNOW --

 

ARTHUR:  My head!

 

NORM:  (About the lights) Turn them on!

                                                           

LUCIAN:  (To NORM) GET UP OFF THE FLOOR!

 

(ARTHUR’s head is bleeding.)

 

(ARTHUR tackles NORM.)

                                                           

ARTHUR: (ARTHUR is bleeding.) Fucking . . . 

 

LUCIAN:  Stop it.

 

NORM:  YOU DON'T KNOW HOW . . .

 

LUCIAN:  Get up before I turn them on.

 

ARTHUR:  Bleeding.                                                            

 

LUCIAN:  GET HIM UP!

 

ARTHUR:  Turn on the lights.

 

NORM:  CAN'T TAKE CARE OF HIM!

 

ARTHUR:  I’ll get them myself!

 

LUCIAN:  Pull him up!

 

NORM:  You get back here.

                       

(ARTHUR covers his hand in blood and forces into NORM’S face.)

 

ARTHUR:  See that? 

 

NORM:  You want me to stop it?!

 

LUCIAN:  STOP IT!

 

ARTHUR:  Fucking blood?!

 

LUCIAN:  THAT'S ENOUGH! 

 

(The next 3 lines overlap).

 

ARTHUR:                                         

Eat it! Eat that fucking blood!           

 

NORM:

Stop fucker, stop it.

 

LUCIAN:

Get up both of you.

 

ARTHUR:  Think you’re fuckin gonna kill me? 

 

(Pause.)

 

(ARTHUR turns on the lights.  Both NORM and ARTHUR is bleeding.)

 

ARTHUR:  (To NORM) Thomasia.

 

NORM:  What are you . . .?

 

ARTHUR:  She’s started again!

 

LUCIAN:  No . . .

 

NORM:
What are you?!

 

ARTHUR:  THE PRICE OF FUCKING LEAVING

 

NORM:  Stupid!

 

ARTHUR:  I’LL TELL YOU SOMETHING!

 

NORM:  SHUT THE FUCK UP!  SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU HEAR ME?!

 

ARTHUR:  While she was down there . . .

 

NORM:  You never meant anything to Coach!

 

ARTHUR:  Without him watching her. Thomasia.                                                    

           

NORM:  YOU WANT ME TO DO IT AGAIN?!

 

(NORM tackles ARTHUR again.)

 

(LUCIAN begins hyperventilating.)

 

(The next 2  lines overlap.)

 

NORM:                                              

Don’t you ever say that –

 

ARTHUR:

How you like it if I do that?

Huh? How about if I do

that?

                                               

LUCIAN:  (Gasping.)  I.  CAN’T.  LET. 

 

NORM:  STARTED AGAIN!?

 

LUCIAN:  YOU.  LEAVE. ME!  

 

NORM:  Don't you say that . . .

 

LUCIAN:   ALONE. 

 

NORM:  Don't say that!

 

LUCIAN:  CAN'T. LEAVE. ME.

 

(LUCIAN and ARTHUR are on the floor, sprawled out.)

 

(END OF SCENE)

 

 

(END ZONE is excerpted in One on One:  The Best Men’s Monologues for the 21^st Century and in          the upcoming Duo!:  The Best Scenes for Two for the 21^st Century—both from Applause Theatre and     Cinema Books.)

 

 

(END ZONE, © 2008, before being revised, was entitled GLORY DAYS © 1994 and then DEDICATION. All rights, including but not limited to professional, amateur, motion pictures, recitation, lecturing, public reading, all forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, including information storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved.  Permission for the use of END ZONE or any portion thereof must be secured in writing prior to such use from the Author’s agent, Marit Literary Agency, 3801 Hudson Manor Terrace, Suite 6I, Bronx, New York 10463; Maritagency@gmail.com; 646-667-8512; ATTN, Bob Shuman.)

REAL THEATER/SUMMER/VINEYARD HAVEN, MASSACHUSETTS

(Patrick Healy's article appeared in The New York Times, July 8.  As you link to the article, don’t miss the accompanying photo, which features the actress Heather Girardi, a friend of Stage Voices. )   

The Season Is Summer, but the Fare Is Not Stock

VINEYARD HAVEN, Mass.

M J BRUDER MUNAFO never had any real interest in theater until she became a year-round resident of Martha’s Vinyard in 1975, when she began assisting with props for shows as a way of becoming involved in her new community.

She quickly became a theater critic of sorts as well, if her private thoughts were any measure.

“I remember watching rehearsals and thinking, ‘I don’t understand why the director is doing it that way,’ or ‘I don’t understand why we’re doing yet another production of “Guys and Dolls,” ’ ” she said. “It sort of set me on a course.”

(Read more)

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/12/theater/12Healy.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=heather%20girardi&st=cse

 

HOW TO WRITE DRAMA: THE RULES

(David Edgar's article appeared in The Guardian, July 11.)

Making a drama

Cinderella and King Lear, Jaws and An Enemy of the People, David Brent and Dogberry - they might seem to have nothing in common. Look closer, argues playwright David Edgar, and you'll find they all obey the same rules

1) A town is threatened by a malevolent force of nature. A leading citizen seeks to take the necessary action to protect the community from this danger, but finds that the economic interests of the town are ranged against him and he ends up in battle alone.

2) Two sisters are unjustly preferred over a third sister. Despite their efforts, the youngest sister marries into royalty and her wicked siblings are confounded.

3) A young woman is pledged to a young man, but finds that a parent has plans for her to marry someone else. Calling on the assistance of a priest and a nurse, the young couple plot to evade the fate in store for them.

4) A husband and wife are at war. A younger influence enters their lives, providing a sexual temptation which threatens the marriage. But ultimately, they discover that, although they find it hard to live together, they cannot live apart.

5) A man who has scaled many heights senses that his powers have deserted him. But a woman from his past re-enters his life, and provokes him to take one last, fatal climb.

6) With her father's encouragement, a young woman allows herself to be wooed and wed by a prince. Her brother moves a long way away. The prince behaves increasingly peculiarly, and, shortly after the death of the woman's father, leaves on board ship. The woman goes mad, alarms the royal family, gives everybody flowers, escapes from her minders, and dies in a suspicious accident. The brother returns, angry, at the head of a popular army. There is a contest over the funeral arrangements between family, church and state. The prince returns and he and the woman's brother end up fighting over the coffin.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/jul/11/drama-edgar-plays-theatre

DRAMA BOOK SHOP PICKS: JAMES MCLURE

Each week the expert staff of the renowned Drama Book Shop in Manhattan, just seconds away from Broadway, recommends one play that's new, interesting, or just flat-out fantastic. Picking the best of published work, they help keep us up to date and aware of the little known, broadening our horizons and encouraging dialogue. Order a play from The Drama Book Shop, read it, and e-mail them with your thoughts--they'd love to hear from you: info@dramabookshop.com .

THIS WEEK'S PICK:

Lone Star by James McLure

Change isn't easy. Take it from Roy, the Vietnam vet returning home to his beloved Texas. He goes back to everything and everyone he remembers, only to find things aren't the way he left them. Thank goodness he has a brother like Ray. Right?

The brothers spend the night at the town bar, where they slug Lone Star beers while swapping stories about the "good ole days". Roy’s problem: now that he’s been introduced to "the ocean," he is now a fish out of water – no longer the big fish in his own little pond. Ray’s problem: he's not that smart. He’s got the heart of an angel but the intelligence of a lawnmower.

McLure's Lone Star is a terrific two man piece that skillfully balances vaudevillian humor with dramatic scenes steeped in the after-effects of war. Their hilarious conversations range from Roy's old Thunderbird convertible to a secret Ray is holding in for fear it will change his relationship with his big brother forever. And under all this remains the sinking feeling that one can become estranged to one’s hometown, one’s brother, even oneself.

Cast: 2M

Scenes/Monologues: Great comedic scene work for two actors in their early 20s to early 30s. Roy is the straight man who sets up all the punch lines for Ray's ignorance to deliver. McLure's scenes are character interaction at it's best.

Recommended by: Matty A.

Lone Star
by McLure, James
Format:  Trade Paperback
Price:  $6.50
Published: Dramatists Play Service Inc, 1990
Inventory Status: On Our Shelves Now

 

The Drama Book Shop, Inc.
250 W. 40th St.
New York, NY 10018
Tel: (212) 944-0595
Fax: (212) 730-8739

Order online: http://www.dramabookshop.c

BECKETT, DWAN, 'NOT I'--PLUS BILLIE WHITELAW PERFORMANCE

(The following review by Nicholas Lezard appeared in the Guardian, July 8.)

Play Samuel Beckett's Mouth? Not I

Lisa Dwan's take on Samuel Beckett's one-mouth play Not I –

I defy anyone to come up with a more intense theatrical experience than Samuel Beckett's Not I. In otherwise complete darkness, a disembodied female mouth, known as Mouth, about eight feet above the stage, delivers a hyper-rapid stream of consciousness, a mixture of reminiscence and evasion, an existentially terrifying babble, hinting at deep trauma and extinction of self.

The key word here is "disembodied", for Beckett said the piece is to be delivered as quickly as possible, "at the speed of thought". It is as close as the theatre will ever get to representing a mental interior. But it is a ruined interior, inspired by the woman covering her ears in Caravaggio's Decollation of St John the Baptist, and the numberless muttering old crones whom one sees in the streets ("Ireland is full of them," Beckett said).

We learned a lot about the theatrics of Not I during yesterday's performance by the Irish actor Lisa Dwan, for the South Bank's 2009 London Literature festival. Not just in the performance, which was more than remarkable, but in the short film in which Billie Whitelaw – sadly, too unwell to appear in person – talked about the role, and her memories of Beckett and his direction; and in the final question-and-answer session, chaired by the theatre critic Michael Coveney . . .

(Read more)

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/theatreblog/2009/jul/08/samuel-beckett-not-i

Billie Whitelaw performing 'Not I" (2 parts)

1 of 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otjKETciw2c

2 of 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k330CflSVpA&feature=related 

 

FEINGOLD ON MAXWELL ANDERSON AND KURT WEILL

(The following review of Knickerbocker Holiday appeared in the Village Voice, July 7.)

The Dutch arrived here 400 years ago, and the last weekend in June, York Theatre Company commemorated the quadricentennial by presenting, in its minimally rehearsed Musicals in Mufti series, a concert staging of Kurt Weill and Maxwell Anderson's rarely performed 1938 musical, Knickerbocker Holiday. Mufti events aren't open for review; below are some reflections the event provoked about Weill and Anderson's work, a surprisingly up-to-date item that deserves a fuller performance . . .

(Read More)

http://www.villagevoice.com/2009-07-08/theater/kurt-weill-and-maxwell-anderson-cooked-some-great-burghers-for-knickerbocker-holiday/

DRAMA SERIAL: ‘END ZONE’ BY BOB SHUMAN (SCENE 3)

What follows is the third scene of END ZONE, a play by Bob Shuman; its serialization on Stage Voices will continue to run on Tuesdays for the next two weeks (Scene 1 and Scene 2 were posted on  June 23 and June 30; they can also be read in the blog’s archives under: Full-length Plays: Drama Serial).

 

The play was first developed at Hunter College and then given readings at The Lark Play Development Center and Second Stage Theatre. It is excerpted in two anthologies from Applause Theatre and Cinema Books.

 

In the following scene, Lucian is alone with his youngest son.  

 

END ZONE

 

A Play by Bob Shuman

                                                           

SCENE:

A motel. It’s about a mile down the road from a prep school in the Northeast.

 

TIME

A while back, in November. Before dinner.

 

CHARACTERS:

 

LUCIAN “LUCE” TRAINER: A legendary prep-school football coach and former dean of the Masters School.  Late 70s.

 

ARTHUR TRAINER: LUCIAN’s  youngest son. A freelance composer and percussionist who emphasizes environmental sounds in his work.  Late 30s.

 

NORM TRAINER: LUCIAN’s oldest son. A sporting goods salesman in his late 40s. He has a slight Southern accent.

 

SCENE 3

 

9:15 PM. In LUCIAN’s motel room: Papers are strewn all over as LUCIAN has been working on his speech. At rise, he is reciting Shakespeare; ARTHUR is making a call on the motel room phone (the audience will be hearing the electronic sounds the phone makes).  The remnants of take-out food lie on the table. 

 

 

                                                           

LUCIAN:  “Frrrriends . . .  Rrrromans . . . . Countrrrymen! Lend me your earrrs!”

 

ARTHUR:  Hmmm.

 

LUCIAN:  “The evil that men do lives after them, the good is often interred with their bones . . .”

 

ARTHUR:  (Hearing something on the phone, listening to receiver.) Oh.

 

LUCIAN:  “So . . . let it be with Caesar.”

 

ARTHUR:  That’s pretty good.

 

LUCIAN:  “The noble Brutus hath told you that Caesar was ambitious;”

 

ARTHUR:  Huh.                                            

 

LUCIAN:  . . . if it were so, it were a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it.

 

(ARTHUR dials his number again–the push-buttons make an annoying high-tech sound.)

 

(ARTHUR hangs up the phone.)

 

LUCIAN:  “Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–for Brutus is an honorable man, so are they all, all honorable men–

 

ARTHUR:  (The phone signal is busy.) Heyy.

 

LUCIAN:  Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.”

 

(ARTHUR slams down the phone but picks it up and starts dialing again.)

 

LUCIAN:  “He was my friend, faithful and just . . . to me.”

 

ARTHUR:  (To LUCIAN.) You know the whole thing?

 

LUCIAN:  Course I do.  What do you think I am?  A football coach?

 

ARTHUR:  Maybe you should put it in the speech. (Rethinking.) No. Let me try Thomasia again.  Keep going. . . .

 

(ARTHUR picks up the phone and starts dialing.)

 

LUCIAN:   “But Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man.  He hath brought many captives home to Rome, whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;”

 

ARTHUR:  Where is she, Christ?!(Suddenly, leaving a message on the answering machine.) Oh, hiii there, Thomasia. . . .  This is Farty, I mean Fart. Norm’s brother, Art, you know, Arthur again

 

LUCIAN:  (Running to his pads.) I gotta mention Thorpe.

                                                                         

ARTHUR:  I just was . . . calling to see if you . . . got back yet.  We were . . . trying to find the paper with Coach’s speech . . . and thought you might know . . . where it is. . . . So we’d really appreciate your calling. . . .  If you get this message . . .  thanks so much.  Bye.

 

(HE hangs up the phone.)

 

LUCIAN:  Assisted me all those years.

 

ARTHUR:  Don’t go so fast. 

 

LUCIAN:  How could I be forgetting him?

 

ARTHUR:  You gotta take your medication.

 

LUCIAN:  (Scribbling) Jimmy Bligh and Von.

 

ARTHUR:  No more messing around, you’ve been putting it off all night. 

 

LUCIAN:  Bobby Talbot. 

 

ARTHUR:  . . . We’ve had our dinner now. 

 

LUCIAN: (Writing.) Bobby Talbot, Bobby Talbot. . . . How could I forget. . . ?

 

ARTHUR:  Let me see what we have here. 

 

(ARTHUR is going through LUCIAN's pill case.)

 

LUCIAN:  (Seeing ARTHUR.)  Hey, what are you doing in there?

 

ARTHUR:  (About the pills, going through LUCIAN’s dop kit in his luggage.)  Get it over with.

 

LUCIAN:  Those are my things. 

 

ARTHUR:  (Opening up empty bottles.) What are all these bottles . . .?

 

LUCIAN:  You hear me?

 

ARTHUR:  There aren’t any pills.

 

LUCIAN:  Get out of there. 

 

(ARTHUR finds several vials either empty or almost empty; he shakes them.)

 

ARTHUR:  Where are they? 

 

(LUCIAN begins collecting the bottles.)

 

LUCIAN:  Don’t belong to you.

 

ARTHUR:  I didn't . . . 

 

LUCIAN:  You just don’t worry . . .

 

ARTHUR:  Where are your pills?

 

LUCIAN:  Just like Thomasia . . .  going through my things . . . don’t know what you’re doing! 

 

ARTHUR:  What are you . . . ? 

 

(LUCIAN grabs one of the bottles which has a few remaining pills, swallows them down, goes to get a drink of water. Silence.)

 

ARTHUR:  (Getting LUCIAN a sweater.) Not used to the weather up here.

 

LUCIAN:  I’ll get a sweater if I want it.

 

ARTHUR:  Don’t want you to catch a cold. 

 

LUCIAN:  What was I going to write down?

 

(Silence.)

 

LUCIAN:  (Remembering and going to write it down.) Bobby Talbot, Bobby Talbot.

 

ARTHUR:  Tift said that he might stop by.

                                                           

LUCIAN:  Fullback? 

 

ARTHUR:  Piano player.

 

LUCIAN:  Never heard of him.

 

ARTHUR:   Pianist on the CD . . .

 

LUCIAN:  Oh, oh.  I don’t know him.

 

ARTHUR:  It was probably . . . well.  Maybe . . . four or five years ago now when we did that.  

                                                           

LUCIAN:  Norm had it on.

 

ARTHUR:  Clayt liked it.

 

LUCIAN:  (Back to his speech.) Norm was playing that.

 

ARTHUR:  Some drums, huh? Like those drums?

 

LUCIAN:  Thought you were pretty good, is that it? 

 

ARTHUR:  (Demonstrating.) I played all the drums, all those off-tempo escalations. 

 

LUCIAN:  Norm put it on while I was taking a bath. 

 

ARTHUR:   Clayt thinks it sounds like something from Black Mountain in North Carolina.      

 

LUCIAN:  Sounded like a . . . . . . cowboy and Indian movie!

 

(Pause.)

 

ARTHUR: My CD sounded like a. . . ? 

 

LUCIAN:  Some noise.

 

ARTHUR:  Cowboy and Indian movie?

 

LUCIAN:  Sounded like people screaming.

 

(Pause.)

 

ARTHUR:  Those are periodic and aperiodic shamanistic groupings of beats . . .

 

LUCIAN:  I hear you, Arthur.

 

ARTHUR:  . . . individual tempi that influence changes in heart rate . . .

 

LUCIAN:  That's what you're saying is it?                                          

 

ARTHUR:  . . . and brainwave patterns!   

 

LUCIAN:  Don't believe a word of it.

 

ARTHUR:  Do you know how long it took me to. . . ? (ARTHUR's recording would have had the sound of rain in it.) Do you have any idea how long it took me to get the rain right?

 

(Pause.)

 

LUCIAN:  (Eating several French fries.) I think I’ll try some of those French fries.

 

ARTHUR:  . . . I’ve recently spent months in maternity wards and midwife centers listening to the sounds of birth . . . 

 

(ARTHUR is drumming with his hands now.)

 

LUCIAN:  (About French fries.) Pretty good, aren't they?

 

ARTHUR:  . . . I go to emergency rooms to record death Rattles.

 

LUCIAN:  (Back to the speech.) Now let's see where we were.

 

ARTHUR:  . . . to find acoustic events that can’t be taken back!

 

LUCIAN:  (Finding another piece of paper, to himself.) Here, here it is . . . Jack Duffy, right here in front of you.

 

ARTHUR:  . . . It’s a new series called The Sounds of Irrevocable Actions.

 

LUCIAN:  (To himself, about the speech.) That’s a little better.  Put in Duff. (LUCIAN writes a note on his speech.)

 

ARTHUR:   . . . sounds that disturb and assault or can’t even be heard! 

 

LUCIAN:  Here we go. 

 

(ARTHUR pounds his fists on the table and screams. The following 4 lines overlap.)

 

ARTHUR:                                                                 

ARRRGHHHHHHHH

 

LUCIAN:

What do you think you're doing?

 

ARTHUR:                                                     

RAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHH

 

LUCIAN:

We gave you the chance to make something of yourself

crashing around with those things . . .

 

LUCIAN:

You really don’t think you can get anywhere. . . ?

 

(Overlapping, ARTHUR does a huge Indian yell.)

 

LUCIAN:  Wake up the whole building.

 

ARTHUR:  (Laughing.)  It really is good to see you. . . . I mean, you and me . . .

 

LUCIAN:  Disturb people.

 

ARTHUR:   Always dropping me off . . . one thing I’ve never forgotten . . .

 

LUCIAN:  Why do you have to do that?

 

ARTHUR:  You said we didn’t see eye to eye.

 

LUCIAN:  I know what I’m talking about.

 

ARTHUR:  I always remembered you saying that.

 

LUCIAN:  Don’t understand it.

 

ARTHUR:  I always wondered . . .

 

LUCIAN:  Could never understand . . .

 

ARTHUR:  . . . did you want it that way?

 

(Silence.)

 

LUCIAN:  Give me your car keys.

 

ARTHUR:  I don’t have any car keys.  

 

LUCIAN:  I'll drive.

 

ARTHUR:  I don't have a car. 

 

LUCIAN:  We'll go to the rally and get Norm.

 

ARTHUR:  Who said I would let you drive . . . ?

 

LUCIAN:  Norm was supposed to be back here by now. 

 

ARTHUR:   . . .even if I had one?

 

LUCIAN:  Of course you have a car.

 

ARTHUR:  Are you out of your mind? 

 

LUCIAN:  Everyone has a car . . . 

 

ARTHUR:  You can’t drive a car. 

 

LUCIAN:  (About NORM.) I don’t see him.

 

ARTHUR:  Coach, listen to me!

 

LUCIAN:  How'd ya get here then?

 

(Pause.)

 

ARTHUR:  I hitchhiked!

 

LUCIAN:  How'd you get dinner?

 

ARTHUR:  I ran!

 

LUCIAN:  I want Norm to help me with my speech.

 

ARTHUR:  We don't need him!

 

LUCIAN:  You take me down there!

 

ARTHUR:  I'll do it. 

 

LUCIAN:  Making it up.

 

ARTHUR:  Whaddaya mean? 

 

LUCIAN:  You don't know how to do this.

 

ARTHUR:  Why not?

 

LUCIAN:  Let me do it.

                                                           

ARTHUR:  Why don’t I know how to do it?

 

LUCIAN:  Get out of my way.

 

(LUCIAN takes his papers and goes to work on them.)

 

(Silence.)

 

ARTHUR:  I brought clothes, you know.

 

LUCIAN:  You finish eating those French fries.

 

ARTHUR:  Let me show you.

 

LUCIAN:  (Having finished his French fries.) I've had enough.

                       

ARTHUR:  I have a coat and tie to wear tomorrow, don’t you worry about me.

 

  (ARTHUR goes to his bags and pulls out a horrendous red-orange suit.)

 

LUCIAN:  (Taking a few more French fries for himself.) You have some more of these French fries.

 

ARTHUR:  (Showing his new tie.) Wait till you see this. 

 

LUCIAN:  What's that you've got there? 

 

ARTHUR:  Let me show you. 

 

LUCIAN:  You're not going to wear that, are you? 

 

ARTHUR:  (Showing a skinny, skinny tie.) Silk.

 

LUCIAN:  You can’t wear that . . .

 

ARTHUR:  Beautiful tie, right there.

 

LUCIAN:  Terrible.

 

ARTHUR:  What do you mean?  Look at it.

 

LUCIAN:  Looks like hell.

                                   

ARTHUR:  Latest thing. 

 

LUCIAN:  (Talking about Arthur.) Take them off.

 

ARTHUR:  This is a good suit!

 

LUCIAN:  Put them away.

 

ARTHUR:  There’s nothing wrong with this.

 

(LUCIAN grabs tie.)

 

LUCIAN: All the money we spent on you.

 

ARTHUR:  Take a look.

 

LUCIAN:  . . . tens of thousands of dollars.                                                   

 

ARTHUR:  There's nothing wrong with this.

 

LUCIAN:  Colleges.

                                                                                                                       

ARTHUR:   Bought in Chelsea.

 

LUCIAN:  Money, long after I should have stopped giving it to you.

 

ARTHUR:  Beautiful!

 

LUCIAN:  Apartments not worth the good money paid for them . . .

 

ARTHUR:  See this? Designer!

 

LUCIAN:  Classes and more academics. He starts in engineering and decides to be a . . . MUSICIAN.

 

ARTHUR:  (Taking the clothes back.) Give it back to me if you don’t like it then!

 

(LUCIAN uses his forefinger, pretending to shoot his temple twice with appropriate sound effects.)

 

ARTHUR:  Better than this thrift shop suit Norm wants me to wear.

 

LUCIAN:  (Turning on the TV.) Must be a game on.

 

ARTHUR: (Showing his clothes.) Better than having a broken fly . . .

 

(LUCIAN turns on the TV.)

 

LUCIAN:  (Switching channels with the remote. To himself. ) Should be a game on, isn't there? 

 

ARTHUR:  (Talking about the clothes NORM gave him.) That isn’t a Mauritizio suit.

 

LUCIAN:  (Still looking for a game) . . . Must be one on here somewhere.

 

ARTHUR:  It’s from Robert Hall. (About the TV.) Too much racket.

 

LUCIAN:  I thought the Dolphins were playing . . . 

 

ARTHUR:  Let’s not watch TV.

 

LUCIAN:  Go on and watch it.

 

ARTHUR:  There's nothing wrong with my clothes!  I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!

 

(Not finding the game, LUCIAN turns off the TV. THEY face one another. Silence.)

                       

ARTHUR: . . . I had an appointment with Clayt a few months ago.

 

LUCIAN:  The only reason I keep giving you things was because of your mother . . . 

 

ARTHUR:  There’s a job for me

here in the spring. . . .

 

LUCIAN:  She made me promise her.

 

ARTHUR:  As part of the faculty

 

LUCIAN:  You didn't even attend her funeral . . .

(the mother’s name:) Rose Mary . . .

 

(Silence.)

 

ARTHUR:  (About his store purchases.)  I thought you’d like the Old Fizgerald and lemon, I brought you.

 

LUCIAN:  Couldn’t go anywhere without her when you were little.

 

ARTHUR:  They think I know something about music even!

 

LUCIAN:  Don’t show up on my doorstep.

 

ARTHUR:    I never thought Clayt would be the one to support it.

 

LUCIAN:  I know all about it.

 

ARTHUR:   WHY WEREN'T THERE ANY PILLS IN THOSE BOTTLES?!

 

LUCIAN:  . . . Drifting from one place to another and after a while you won’t even be able to stop doing that!  

 

ARTHUR:  This is what I get for telling you about the job . . .

 

LUCIAN:  You couldn’t be part of this school . . . wouldn’t know what you’re doing . . . all hours, weekends, driving them in busses to games, carting them to church, offering them words of . . .   when they’ve fallen seven flights of stairs  . . .  when they die . . .    

 

(A bell, the campus bell, chimes ten times.  Silence.  ARTHUR takes his new tie and puts it around LUCIAN'S neck, lightly pulling it back.)

 

ARTHUR:  I know what I was to you. 

 

LUCIAN:  You don’t know anything about me. 

 

ARTHUR:  A dog, a pet, or something. 

 

LUCIAN:  What it was like for me.

 

ARTHUR:  Something that got forgotten.

 

LUCIAN:  Don’t know where I came from.

 

ARTHUR:  That’s what I was.

 

LUCIAN:  Don’t know anything!

 

ARTHUR:  Wipe his nose. Pull up his pants.  Leave him in a parking lot. 

 

LUCIAN:  Making it up! 

 

ARTHUR:  . . . I started running away, you remember that?  Seven, eight years old maybe.

 

LUCIAN:  Needed to be toughened up.

 

ARTHUR:  It was better than waiting for someone to come home.

 

(Silence.)

 

ARTHUR:  The guy who painted in the boiler room . . .

 

LUCIAN:  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  

 

ARTHUR:  . . .  Dwight-- master of oil and canvas.  Always in the dark, waiting for his pictures to dry . . .

 

LUCIAN:  Don’t even know what you’re talking about!

 

ARTHUR:  Painting without models; used dirty magazines instead. 

 

(Pause.)

 

LUCIAN:  Always getting lost. 

 

ARTHUR:  Building a yard, carting sand and bricks in the wheelbarrow.   

 

LUCIAN:  You’re too old to be talking like this.

 

ARTHUR:  Ivy, mountain laurel, replica Greek Stauary, the Brussels “Statue of Piss!”

                                                           

LUCIAN:  You’re thirty-seven years old.

 

ARTHUR:  You could never wait to get rid of me!

 

(ARTHUR flings the tie away. )

 

LUCIAN:  Grown man like you.

 

ARTHUR:  I don’t care what anybody thinks—mi ’aswell teach like you wanted, Coach. Been fired four times, I keep telling people the truth!

 

LUCIAN:  You’re not a little boy anymore.   

 

ARTHUR:  (About the drink.) Old Fitzgerald and lemonade, you can have one drink.  The truth is you liked that I kept running away.

 

LUCIAN:  Looking up at me, into my eyes.

 

ARTHUR:  I’m supposed to watch you two from the magnolia tree. Rhododendron being planted. Pretend I’m sweeping leaves. “Don’t come over here, stay over there, get out of the way!” No more power-house trips, no more rafting, no more hikes across the bridge. Drifting farther off on the hot grass, and . . .

 

LUCIAN:  What did you think I would be able to give you?

 

ARTHUR:  . . . walk right into town, just like that, past bullies and vagrants, Mr. Jackson delivering groceries, end up petting the Dalmatian in the firehouse.  (About the drink.)  This is too sweet! they don’t make that kind of lemonade, looked all over for it. Shoulda gotten mint. 

 

(Pause.)

 

I was so afraid you were going to die, Coach.  I don’t know why.  There wasn’t anything wrong with you, I just found out people . . . die. Mom in India studying the Taj Mahal. Norm says when that number comes up you’re on your own . . . you were all we had.

 

LUCIAN:  Everyone makes their own life.

 

ARTHUR:  Out to the overpass to break bottles. Balancing on planks at the lumber yard.

 

LUCIAN:  You were old enough to take care of yourself. 

 

ARTHUR:  You and me were playing hide and seek except you didn’t know about it..

 

LUCIAN:  Can’t worry about it now. 

 

ARTHUR: Flatten coins on the tracks, pumping my arm up and down for the conductors to blow the whistle. Over to the woods where that boy and girl from the high school committed suicide . . . Rumors among the faculty, Dwight molested a kid.

 

(Pause.)

 

LUCIAN: I  don’t know what you’re talking about.

 

ARTHUR:(In his father’s voice.) “Don’t know what’s the matter with you, become a nuisance!”

 

LUCIAN: I know what you’re trying to do.

 

ARTHUR: You grab my hand tight.

 

LUCIAN: Don’t know what you’re saying. 

 

ARTHUR: Sometimes picking me up, walking so fast, “get you home.”

 

LUCIAN:  I never did anything to you. 

 

ARTHUR:  Past cookouts and 4-H clubs, ghosts in the graveyard.  Back to the construction of maximum security pen--destined to become the place where I’d be dumped after school while teams made championships and Mother’s Anthropology clubs won prizes.

 

LUCIAN: Don’t you talk about her!

 

ARTHUR:  To think that your continually growing creation of intricately designed

Brickwork with window boxes, slate landings, mini-turrets, a sundial, and birdbath–even an ice-skating area, as well as white picket fencing—should have been built to rein in one lousy pain-in-the ass kid!

 

   LUCIAN: WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!

 

   ARTHUR:  (Pause.) It really wasn’t though, was it?

 

   LUCIAN:  WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU!

 

   ARTHUR:  It wasn’t for Mom—

 

   LUCIAN:  STOP TALKING ABOUT HER! 

 

   ARTHUR:  . . and it wasn’t even for sitting outside—

 

   LUCIAN:  Stop talking about her. 

 

   ARTHUR:  . . .  and having bourbon and lemonade. It was something during a summer;

   demonstrating the deep bonding between a father and son:

    you and Norm. (Pause.)

   Come on, let’s get you set up! One drink isn’t going to hurt you.

    This is a  celebration. To Clayt offering me a job, back here

   for the spring. (Silence.)

 

   LUCIAN:  After all you were given . . .

 

   ARTHUR:  I want to visit Dwight.

 

   LUCIAN:  You never used to act like this . . . 

 

   ARTHUR:  Purples, dark canvases, umbers.

 

   LUCIAN: Not when you were little . . .

 

   ARTHUR:  My days are numbered . . .

 

   LUCIAN:  That’s enough now . . . .

 

   ARTHUR:  . . .  the new yard almost complete . . . (Pause.)

 

   LUCIAN:  We’ve heard enough . . .

 

   ARTHUR: I know the route where I won’t get caught--find a feather, blow a

   dandelion’s top off.  

 

   LUCIAN: Stop now, that’s enough, I said.

 

   ARTHUR:  Past the Quonset huts, across the campus gravel walks.

 

   LUCIAN:  None of that is true!

 

   ARTHUR:  (Suddenly, loud.) “HEY! YOU GET OUT

   OF THERE!”

 

   LUCIAN:  YOU HAVE TO LEARN TO TAKE

   CARE OF YOURSELF.

 

   ARTHUR: (As if seeing him:) Norm.

 

   LUCIAN:  STOP THAT NOW, LEAVE US ALONE!!

 

   ARTHUR:  Both of us stop.  (Pause.)

   He knows where I’m headed.

 

   LUCIAN:  DEMON!

 

   ARTHUR: Chasing me, blood pulsing through my neck.

              

   LUCIAN:  Stop looking at me.

 

   ARTHUR: “DOWN BY THE LAKE!” Running me down, shoving me, on top.

 

   LUCIAN: STOP LOOKING AT ME, I SAID.

 

   ARTHUR: Pulling, won’t let me go, I’m falling, pushing me.

 

   LUCIAN: GET AWAY FROM ME, GO IN THE OTHER ROOM!

  

   ARTHUR:  It’s you! Heard him. Hold my hand, dragging me,

   find rope, I’m biting.

   Against the magnolia, “Put him up there.”

   Norm telling me to “eat that bark.”

   No wonder somebody called the cops!

   Tying, pulling it tighter!

   No wonder they called!

   “Won’t run away again!”

   Vomit across the sidewalk. 

   I can’t breathe . . .  like now!

    I’m glad somebody called . . .

   I’m glad they saw it. (Pause.) 

   I wanted you to die. 

 

   (ARTHUR throws the glass, shattering it.)

 

   (LUCIAN’s cell-phone rings.  LUCIAN starts into the other motel room–the

   one where NORM will be sleeping that night.)

 

   LUCIAN:  Thomasia?  Thank you for calling. . . .  I was . . .

   I was wondering if you could look . . .

   seemed to have left my speech for the dedication. . . . 

 

   (ARTHUR goes to LUCIAN’s drafts of the speech. 

   He ends up on the floor reading them.)

 

   LUCIAN: (On phone.) Yes, in the envelope . . . 

 

   (Pause.)

 

   LUCIAN:  Please open it if you’d be so kind. 

 

   ARTHUR:  (Picking one of the papers.)  What is this?

 

   LUCIAN:  It’s not a good time for me to talk.

 

   ARTHUR:  (As he reads.)  What is it?

 

   LUCIAN:  There's someone here. 

 

   ARTHUR:  “Yellow hand, wax mouth.”

 

   LUCIAN:  Arthur’s with me.

 

   ARTHUR:  “dried sweat . . .”

 

   LUCIAN:  I didn’t know Norm had contacted him about coming back.

 

   ARTHUR:  (Not understanding what he’s reading.) Hey, what is this?

 

   LUCIAN:  (To THOMASIA.) I can’t talk about the other now.

 

   ARTHUR:  It’s all gibberish.