MARTIN CRIMP
Plays Three
Cruel and Tender
Fewer Emergencies
The City
Play House
Definitely the Bahamas
In the Republic of Happiness
Introduced by the author
Contents
Title Page
The Writer on Holiday
CRUEL AND TENDER
First Performance
Note
Characters
Setting
Part One
One
Two
Three
Part Two
One
Two
Part Three
Notes
FEWER EMERGENCIES
First Performances
Whole Blue Sky
Face to the Wall
Fewer Emergencies
THE CITY
First Performance
Characters
Scene I
Scene II
Scene III
Scene IV
Scene V
PLAY HOUSE
First Performance
Characters
Scene List
I DECLARATION (1)
II CLEANING THE FRIDGE
III BRUSHING TEETH
IV HOME ENTERTAINMENT
V MOBILE DEVICE (1)
VI MOBILE DEVICE (2)
VII HOME FROM WORK
VIII POST-COITAL
IX VISITOR (1)
X PROMOTION
XI SELF-ASSEMBLY
XII VISITOR (2)
XIII DECLARATION (2)
DEFINITELY THE BAHAMAS
First Performance
Characters
The Play
IN THE REPUBLIC OF HAPPINESS
First Performance
Characters
DESTRUCTION OF THE FAMILY
THE FIVE ESSENTIAL FREEDOMS OF THE INDIVIDUAL
1: THE FREEDOM TO WRITE THE SCRIPT OF MY OWN LIFE
2: THE FREEDOM TO SEPARATE MY LEGS (IT’S NOTHING POLITICAL)
3: THE FREEDOM TO EXPERIENCE HORRID TRAUMA
4: THE FREEDOM TO PUT IT ALL BEHIND ME AND MOVE ON
5: THE FREEDOM TO LOOK GOOD & LIVE FOR EVER
IN THE REPUBLIC OF HAPPINESS
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright
The Writer on Holiday
It’s the 1950s — the decade I was born — and Roland Barthes pictures the Writer on Holiday with the maximum affection and contempt. The Writer is in his blue pyjamas — travelling — forgive me — I don’t have the book in front of me — but travelling, I believe, along the Nile or is it the Congo river — dressed in his blue pyjamas but still writing — since the Writer, says Barthes, is unable not to write — every moment, says Barthes, for the Writer is a moment of writing — writing can’t stop — even on holiday, says Barthes, the Writer, dressed in his blue pyjamas, or wearing his holiday hat, will write and write, will correct proofs, will imagine new forms for fiction and invent new kinds of theatre that the theatre world is so evidently agog for. How slyly — claims Barthes — has the Writer with the collusion of the bourgeois press adopted this relatively new-made proletarian institution, the holiday, and turned it to his advantage. Watch him toss his tanning lotion and ridiculous shorts into his holiday holdall just like the rest of us! See how even the author of The Phenomenology of the Ego staggers out of the freezing Atlantic like an ordinary human being and offers to the camera the same brave human grin and — emerging from the kind of trunks the French call cock-squeezers — his slightly disappointing thighs. But this — claims Roland Barthes back in the 1950s — is the trick of it. Since the Writer allows himself — and yes it’s always a man — allows himself to appear ordinary — to like pretty girls and — if I’m remembering Barthes correctly — certain kinds of cheese — only to prove to the world how extra-ordinary he is, given he combines his taste for cheese et cetera, girls and so on, with non-stop literary production. Barthes invokes — at least I think this is true — I need to check — but I think he goes on to invoke the lives of saints, whose banal human origins serve to set off their amazing deaths and miracles like jewels. The Writer — concludes Barthes — is in fact saying: The fact that I rent for some weeks of the summer a small cottage by the sea and can be glimpsed through the hibiscus sitting outside at the breakfast table barefoot wearing blue pyjamas and drinking perfectly ordinary coffee out of a cracked rented cup EVEN AS I GO ON WRITING is none other than proof of my divinity.
And yes it’s true — I do feel pretty divine this morning — yes I do feel a bit like god — a little ashamed, as I look back over them, of some of the things I’ve made — but often proud — less interested than I used to be in girls and cheese — but still looking forward to my holidays.
MC, June 2015
CRUEL AND TENDER
after
Sophocles’ Trachiniae
Cruel and Tender was commissioned by the Wiener Festwochen, the Chichester Festival Theatre and the Young Vic Theatre Company. It was first presented, in a co-production with the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord and Ruhrfestspiele Recklinghausen, at the Young Vic, London, on 5 May 2004. The cast was as follows:
Laela Georgina Ackerman
Nicola Jessica Claire
The General Joe Dixon
Cathy Lourdes Faberes
James Toby Fisher
Amelia Kerry Fox
Jonathan Michael Gould
Iolaos Aleksandar Mikic
Rachel Nicola Redmond
Richard David Sibley
A Boy Stuart Brown / Mario Vieira
Direction Luc Bondy
Set Richard Peduzzi
Costumes Rudy Sabounghi
Lighting Dominique Bruguière
Sound Paul Arditti
Wigs and make-up Cécile Kretschmar
Dramaturg Geoffrey Layton
Executive Producer Nicky Pallot
Casting Director Sam Jones
Assistant Director Lucy Jameson
Luc Bondy, fascinated by Sophocles’ rarely performed tragedy, encouraged Martin Crimp to produce a new piece taking the original subject in a new direction for his first English-language production.
‘My Man’
Original words by Jacques Charles and Albert Willemetz
English words by Channing Pollock
Music by Maurice Yvain
© 1921 Editions Salabert, France
Ascherberg Hopwood & Crew Ltd, London W6 8BS
Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd
All Rights Reserved.
‘I Can’t Give You Anything But Love’
Words by Dorothy Fields and music by Jimmy McHugh
© 1928, EMI Mills Music Inc/ Cotton Club Publishing, USA
Reproduced by permission of Lawrence Wright Music Co Ltd/
EMI Music Publishing Ltd, London WC2H 0QY
Characters
Amelia, forties
The General, forties, her husband
James, late teens, their son
Richard, fifties, a journalist
Jonathan, thirties, a government minister
Amelia’s three helpers
Housekeeper (Rachel)
Physiotherapist (Cathy)
Beautician (Nicola)
Two children from sub-Saharan Africa
Laela, eighteen
Edu, a boy, about six
Iolaos, a friend of the General
Note on the Text
A slash like this / indicates the point of interruption
in overlapping dialogue.
The time is the present.
The plac
e is the General and Amelia’s
temporary home close to an international airport.
Part One
ONE
Amelia holds a white pillow. Her Housekeeper tidies the room.
Amelia
There are women who believe
all men are rapists.
I don’t believe that
because if I did believe that
how—as a woman—could I go on living
with the label ‘victim’?
Because I am not a victim—oh no—
that’s not a part I’m willing to play—believe me.
She smiles.
I was just fifteen
living with my father
living very very quietly with my father
when the first man came to my father
wanting me. He described to him
the various ways he wanted me
while I listened outside the door in the very short skirt
and the very high-heeled agonising shoes
I had begged and begged to be allowed to wear.
She smiles.
Three years later and I’m married—
incredibly—to a soldier—
to the only man
who has ever remembered the colour of my eyes
after a single conversation under a tree.
I am eighteen years old and I have a house
a husband and a bed—
a bed with white pillows—
and a child.
I abandon my course at university
to become the mother of a child—
even if he—the father—
the soldier who is by now of course the great general—
only sees this child at distant intervals
like a farmer inspecting a crop
in a remote field.
Because my husband is sent out
on one operation after another
with the aim—the apparent aim—
of eradicating terror: not understanding
that the more he fights terror
the more he creates terror—
and even invites terror—who has no eyelids—
into his own bed.
And now those operations are over
instead of being respected for having risked his life
time and time and time again
he is accused of war crimes—murdering a civilian.
They say he dragged this boy off a bus
and cut his heart out in front of the crowd.
Which is why we were shipped out here
to the suburbs
close to the airport perimeter
and told ‘Don’t talk to the press’ blah blah blah
while my husband vanishes—
is driven away in a black car
with black glass in the windows
and I’m told nothing—
nothing now for over a year.
Are you saying that’s reasonable?
Housekeeper I’m not saying anything, Amelia: that’s not my job. My job is to run the house—clean it—make sure the ironing’s done and that the fridge gets regularly defrosted. Because I’m not here—I’m sorry, Amelia, but I’m not here to offer advice. Although if that was my job …
Amelia Oh?
Housekeeper Yes—if that was my job, I’d like to ask why you don’t get that son of yours to do something—why can’t James—why can’t James find out where his father is?—he’s old enough.
Amelia (calls) James.
Housekeeper Most boys his age are / working.
Amelia (calls) James. Come here.
Housekeeper Or studying. I mean what’s wrong with him earning some / money?
Amelia (calls) James. I want you.
James appears, reluctantly. Pause.
James What is it, Mum? I’m busy.
Housekeeper Don’t you dare talk to your mother / like that.
Amelia (smiles) Keep out of it, please. (Slight pause.) James?
James Yes?
Amelia Look at me when I talk to you. (Slight pause.) I SAID WILL YOU PLEASE LOOK AT ME.
He looks at her.
I want you to find out where your father is. (Slight pause.) I said: I want you to find out where your / father is.
James I know where my father is.
Amelia Oh? Where?
James (imitating her) ‘Oh? Where?’
Housekeeper Don’t talk to your / mother like that.
Amelia Keep out of it.
James He’s in Gisenyi.
Amelia He’s what?
James He’s in a war-zone, Mum. He was supposed to be in Asia but they’re saying he’s now in Africa. They’re saying he’s been sent to Africa and is attacking or is about to attack the camp or the city or the whatever it’s supposed to be of Gisenyi. (Grins.) Don’t you read the papers? (Pause.) What’s wrong?
Amelia See if it’s true.
James What d’you mean, Mum, see if it’s true?
Amelia Go there. See if it’s true.
James Go there? It’s a war-zone.
Housekeeper Do what you’re told.
Amelia That’s right—she’s right—don’t answer me back, James—just do what you’re told.
Slight pause.
James Mum?
Housekeeper I’ll help him pack.
James Mum?
Amelia And he’ll need a visa. What? What? Don’t you love your father?
Housekeeper Don’t you love your parents, James?
Amelia suddenly laughs and throws the pillow at James, who catches it.
James What’s this for?
TWO
Amelia has cotton-wool between her toes. Her Beautician paints her toenails, while her Physiotherapist massages or manipulates her shoulders. Amelia is reading documents.
Physiotherapist How are you, Amelia? How’re you feeling?
Beautician Says she’s not sleeping.
Physiotherapist Oh? Not sleeping? Why’s that?
Beautician Says she feels old.
Physiotherapist Well, she doesn’t look old.
Beautician I keep telling her that.
Physiotherapist Tense though.
Beautician Mmm?
Physiotherapist Tense—very tense—very tense in the shoulders—very tense in the neck. Aren’t you, Amelia.
Beautician She’s not listening.
Physiotherapist She needs to relax more.
Pause.
What about exercise?
Beautician She doesn’t go out.
Physiotherapist I meant the machine: aren’t you using your machine?
Beautician She hates that machine.
Physiotherapist It’s a good machine: it’s one of the best there is. If you don’t use your machine, Amelia, how d’you expect to sleep?
Beautician You mean she’s not fit?
Physiotherapist I mean she’s not tired: she’s fit, but she’s / not tired.
Beautician She’s always tired: she never sleeps.
Physiotherapist Exactly my point.
Pause.
Well that’s exactly the point I’m trying / to make.
Beautician She waits for the light.
Physiotherapist She ought to jog, she ought to be out there running, she ought to be taking more / exercise.
Beautician She waits for the light. She says she just lies there waiting for the light. She’s depressed: she misses her / husband.
Physiotherapist Because I refuse to believe this is psychological.
Beautician Don’t move, Amelia: it’s still wet.
Pause. They move away and lower their voices.
Of course it’s psychological: she’s like a bird in a box—look at her.
Physiotherapist Like a what?
Beautician A bird—a bird in a box.
Physiotherapist You mean like
a parrot?
Beautician I mean like a bird—like a wounded bird. Not like a parrot—like a bird / in a box.
Amelia
Please. Stop now. Don’t try and sympathise.
You’re not married
and you don’t have children.
When you do have children
they’ll break into your life
you’ll see
like tiny tiny terrorists
who refuse to negotiate.
And when you have husbands
by which I mean men—
not these boys
not these boys who collect you on your nights off
and drive you in shirts ironed by their mothers
to the nearest multiplex
or back to their one-room flats that look out over
the lined-up trolleys in the supermarket car park
for the inept sex they’ve read about in magazines—
but men—hurt men—
men whose minds are blank
who fuck you the way they fuck the enemy—
I mean with the same tenderness—
when you understand that
then I will accept your sympathy.
(Laughs.) I’m sorry: I’m being cruel.
I’m very very pleased—yes—with my toenails:
thank you
and if I’ve failed to use my exercise machine
‘one of the best there is’—really?—
then I apologise.
Only these papers …
these papers are worrying me:
I found them in a drawer—
he’s been—d’you see—look—last year—to a solicitor
and in case of his quote death
or mental incapacity unquote
gives power of attorney over his estate
‘and over all things leased or assigned thereunto’
to James.
Which is odd not only because death
is not something he ever seriously considered