Prompt #8--Buried Child

I should start by saying that I generally see Buried Child as a theatrically realistic play—like most everything by Sam Shepard, there are copious details in the stage descriptions regarding little set decorations that help place the scenes in a world that is consistent.  Buried Child is stylistically very similar to Fool for Love, which also lends itself to kitchen-sink realism, but includes the ghostly, fantastical Old Man.  However, the world of Buried Child is NOT logically consistent, even if the set disguises itself as such.  The primary problem I run into when reading the play is the subject of family bloodline.  The play never really resolves the tension between whether or not Vince is actually Tilden’s child, and, if so, what relationship he has to the buried child.  For some reason, no one ever brings up Vince’s birth, and Tilden only acknowledges the birth of his murdered child.  If the play is trying to be remotely true to real life (or even just simple logic!), then something has to give, especially since we actually see the remains of the dead and buried child at the end of the play.  Because of this, I would describe Buried Child as realistic on the surface level, but illogical on a deeper, nonrealistic level.  Similarly, there is the unexplained growth of unplanted crops in the back yard.  While it is not unfeasible for corn to grow very high in the back yard, and it is not entirely impossible for there to be some way that the corn was planted, the occurrence of the excess growth of corn, as it is explained in the play, it utterly illogical and unrealistic. 

Prompt #7--Noises Off

A running motif throughout Noises Off (especially the ends of the acts) would be the curtain lines.  The curtain lines exist on different levels that affect each other throughout the course of the play.  For instance, the curtain line to the first act of the metadramatical farce Nothing On is “When all around is strife and uncertainty, there’s nothing like a good old-fashioned plate of sardines!”  Nothing On is essentially designed as a typical older farce, which would very often have curtain lines to bookend a scene. The Nothing On curtain line seems to underscore the action of Noises Off in every act; after all, every time the players perform Nothing On, there is nothing but strife and uncertainty.  There is also the curtain line of the first two acts of Noises Off, in which the director, Lloyd, says “And curtain!”, which is as metatheatrical of a curtain line as there can be.  The final line of the play, however, is a combination of the curtain line of Nothing On and the curtain line of Nothing Off, as the Burglar Selsdon misspeaks his line to say “When all around is strife and uncertainty, there’s nothing like a good old-fashioned plate of curtain!” 

            I actually think this line is a great start to understanding the play.  Essentially, the plot of each act is that, no matter what craziness befalls the actors onstage or behind the stage, it will all be over if they finish the act.  The curtain is what saves them, especially in act 3.  The rest of all three acts is pure chaos—truly, it is nothing but strife and uncertainty until the final moments of each act when the curtain comes in.  Specifically, I think that the final moment of the play, in which all actors bring down the curtain as an ensemble, shows the unified cast finally achieving a victory.   Even if the production was terrible and hectic, at least it is over as soon as the curtain hits the stage.

Prompt #6--The Glass of Water

I would say that Bolingbroke has the most time onstage, and his aspirations seem to be much higher and nobler than anyone else’s.  While the audience can undoubtedly respect Anne’s desires to be a free queen and Abigail and Masham’s desires to wed, I believe that Bolingbroke’s complicated plot to shut down the Duchess’ needless and destructive war is the most important thread of the story.  Unfortunately, it is also pretty difficult to follow—it was always very easy for me to see where any of the lovers were coming from, even the Duchess.  However, I still don’t really understand the intricacies of Bolingbroke’s plot, and I’m sure I didn’t while I was reading the play.  Of course, the audience would note that Bolingbroke is scheming throughout the entire play and that he always seems to be a few steps ahead of the Duchess, so even if he cannot be played as a true protagonist, he would probably at least look like the scheming mastermind—and, let’s face it, in a well-made play, the character who plots and gossips the most is the most important character.

Ultimately, though, I can see how it wouldn’t be too productive to think of this play in terms of a singular protagonist.  After all, the audience certainly doesn’t see anything from one character’s perspective.  While there is one distinct villain to dislike, the rest of the cast is almost an ensemble, and forcing Bolingbroke to be the main character is a bit of an unnecessary stretch.  After all, this is a play about the relationships and secrets shared by many people, not about one person, specifically.

Show and Tell Post #1

About a week ago, I read Qui Nguyen’s She Kills Monsters, written in 2011 and first performed Off Off Broadway by the Flea Theatre on November 4, 2011.  Interestingly enough, the play opened yesterday at the renowned Steppenwolf Theatre as a part of its “Garage Rep Season.”  Qui Nguyen himself is a Vietnamese-American playwright perhaps most famous for his early collaboration, Vampire Cowboy Trilogy, with Robert Ross Parker, with whom he founded the Vampire Cowboy Theatre Company.   One can buy She Kills Monsters from amazon.com or from samuelfrench.com. 

She Kills Monsters is the story of Agnes Evans, a twenty-something-year-old teacher who wants to learn more about her deceased teenage sister, Tilly, who died in a horrific car crash along with the rest of Agnes’ family.  Agnes finds Tilly’s Dungeons and Dragons adventure module and looks to play with Tilly’s former dungeon master.  The scenes alternate between the highly fantastical world of Tilly’s adventure, which include DnD-ized versions of Tilly’s friends, and the real world, where Agnes actually meets these people.  In the DnD world, Agnes and the party must team up to defeat three evil bosses and the dragon, Tiamat; the three bosses are comprised of the villains of Tilly’s life, such as the bully cheerleaders and Agnes’ boyfriend.  Through the game, Agnes learns that Tilly was a lesbian who had a crush on the real-life basis for one of the party members, Lilly, who did not know how to accept Tilly’s affections.  Eventually, Agnes slays the Tiamat, and the play ends with the narration that Agnes, her boyfriend, and Tilly’s old DnD friends would continue to have adventures every week, but they would never forget Tilly. 

My favorite dramaturgical choice for this script is that Tilly’s sexual orientation is not referenced until page 36 of the 70-page script.  It may come across as a sort of “suddenly, here’s the moral!” addition, but the script is built this way for a reason.  It lulls the reader into thinking that the play is just a silly comedic fantasy, but halfway through the play, two evil succubi (cheerleaders) call Agnes’ dead sister a dyke, which is obviously quite shocking to her.  This structure actually mimics the experience of DnD nerds; the fun, awesome fantasy world is an escape from a cold, mean reality that does not understand.  She Kills Monsters is not aiming to be just Lord of the Rings-style DnD-session escapism; it treads the line between reality and fantasy to show both.  This structure of harsh bits of reality covered by a blanket of silliness is actually used early on in the play, as well, which opens with a Cate Blanchett-esque narrator making nerd jokes who cursorily adds “And so the Gods answered her wish by smiting down every single one of her loved ones in a single car crash.  But this isn’t the story of that tragedy.”

In that same vein, I like that Qui Nguyen did not write this story about the car crash or Tilly’s death.  In the play, there is not even a mention of Tilly’s and Agnes’ parents or whoever else would be one of her loved ones in the car crash.  Despite this, the play is very much about the Evans sisters and their relationship before Tilly’s death, so the action of the play is not just an isolated incident of unrelated fantasy.  I think the play does itself a favor by not bogging itself down in the details of the tragedy, though.

Prompt 5--Hornby

In Maria Irene Fornes’ The Conduct of Life, the progression of the rape scenes is pretty important.  Scenes three, five, and seven are all scenes in the warehouse with Orlando and poor Nena, but rape does not happen in every scene.  First, to start the progression, Orlando brutally rapes Nena in scene three, waking the audience up to that terrible atrocity.  It is terrifying, and many audience members would probably walk out or sit through it in hopes that it would be the last of such scenes.  Then, the tension comes back in scene five, but Orlando does not rape Nena; instead, nothing really happens, and the audience is probably pretty confused.  Many audience members would take it as a sign that Orlando is getting better and just does not want to rape her.  However, in scene seven, Orlando rapes Nena again, and the audience has to sit through another terrible rape scene, just after getting their hopes up that Orlando would stop.  It puts the audience in the mindset of Nena because, though they do not know what will happen any time Orlando enters the warehouse, they should prepare for the absolute worst. 

In the Lab Theatre’s production of Dutchman last semester, Lula’s apple was a recurring motif.  Obviously, the image of a woman eating an apple is a clear biblical allusion by itself in symbolist literature, showing Lula as a trouble-making, seductive creature, but its use in the play added other elements to it, as well.  For instance, in the beginning of the play, Lula is eating an apple and offers it to Clay, which he graciously accepts, foreshadowing his seduction and downfall.  When Clay has eaten the apple, he places the core on his book on the ground, showing that this seduction is hindering his ability to think.  At the beginning of scene two, Lula feeds Clay slices of an apple by cutting them off with her knife, showing Clay’s naïveté and full acceptance of what Lula feeds him, as well as foreshadowing Lula’s future use of the knife—stabbing Clay to his death.  In the script, this was not very specific—Lula enters with the apples, and they eat them together, which is a strong gesture in itself; however, I do not think that reading a motif has the same effect as seeing it produced onstage.  I think the visualization of the motif is substantially more important than seeing a word repeated many times in a paper script.

Prompt 4--How I Learned to Drive

           The Greek chorus produces an effect of isolationism on the two main characters.  Essentially, we are looking at a world that is inhabited by only two “vivid” characters—Li’l Bit and Uncle Peck—and the ensemble of family members and various extras that live in their world.  This forces us to think about the entire play in regards to Li’l Bit’s and Peck’s relationship, as opposed to the other characters, who are only tangentially relevant.  This story could be retold with Aunt Mary as a major character, and it is almost offensive that her story is only told in one monologue.  It is interesting that the three chorus members play highly individualized roles, however; if this play were produced in Athens 2500 years ago, the many bodies of the chorus would represent the masses in general, and we would probably only see the one public opinion from it—“Eww.  Gross. Stop it.” 

            I don’t really understand why the whole show is presented as a driver’s ed course.  Yes, the play is tangentially about how Li’l Bit learned how to drive, and the play is titled How I Learned to Drive, but that does not seem like enough to warrant that specific presentational choice.  I think it takes away from the seriousness of the situation, which I suppose may be the point.   Really, though, which is more offensive—portraying child rape as a horrid, graphic, despicably violent act, or to downplay it and make it palatable to the audience? Obviously, I would much rather see How I Learned to Drive staged than The Conduct of Life because I would love to live in a world where child rape isn’t horribly violent and terrifying or, preferably, just doesn’t exist.  Still, doesn’t it seem immoral to portray Uncle Peck as a good man and Li’l Bit’s childhood as a gimmicky “well, this is what my childhood was like, just like everyone else”?  I think so.  I think it is immoral to portray violence in any way that isn’t horrifying (except for comedic purposes, of course; don’t you dare tell me that this play is treating child rape comically).

Prompt 3--The Conduct of Life

The dramaturgical choices in The Conduct of Life that stand out to me tend to be the ones in the stage directions.  Fornes describes the rape scenes using the phrase “pushes his pelvis against her” many times, which has an unsettling effect on me, personally.  It makes the reader consider the biology of the situation, which makes it much more difficult to avoid the horrifying aspect of it all.   It makes me wonder if Fornes found the phrase “he rapes her” to be too unbearable, or perhaps too crass, but if this is the case, then it is at odds with the fact that she is writing a play where rape happens twice onstage.  In fact, this topic is actually a bit too disgusting for me to consider at the moment, so I am going to change the subject.

At the beginning of Scene 1, Orlando is doing jumping-jacks; Fornes describes it as “he continues doing jumping-jacks as long as the actor can endure it.”   From a production standpoint, this sounds terribly boring for anyone watching or working on the play—after all, how many jumping-jacks can a healthy man perform before he can no longer “endure it”? It does create an interesting effect on the character (actor, really) and the audience’s perception of him, though.  After all, the play is largely about Orlando’s physicality and aggression, and Fornes decides that the first thing the audience will see onstage is Orlando extensively working out.  From the actor’s perspective, he is guaranteed to be exhausted when his first monologue comes up, which accentuates the weariness and resolve in his words.  Orlando is so tired that he cannot bear it, but he still has the strong resolve of wanting to succeed, receive his promotion, and not be addicted to sex.  For that one scene, we might just believe him.