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The Writer (NHB Modern Plays)
Ella Hickson
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eBook - ePub
The Writer (NHB Modern Plays)
Ella Hickson
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A young writer challenges the status quo but discovers that creative gain comes at a personal cost.
She wants to change the shape of the world. But a new way of thinking needs a new story.
Ella Hickson's new play, The Writer, is a searing exploration of power and patriarchy. It is premiered at the Almeida Theatre, London, in April 2018, in a production directed by Blanche McIntyre.
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Thema
LetteraturaThema
Teatro britannicoONE
A bare stage, post-show, worker lights are on. A YOUNG WOMAN stands and walks on from the audience, takes in the space, thereâs something sacred. She breathes. Lights come up. Slowly. Itâs hers, for a moment. From the back of the auditorium an OLDER MAN, forties, like he owns the space. She sees him, freezes. He sees her â stops.
Hi.
Hi.
Do I â
I left my bag, I had to come back for it.
Right. You were in the audience?
Yes.
You shouldnât be on stage.
I just left my bag. Behind. I â
She grabs the backpack and heads offstage. Heâs confused, watches her go a second.
You saw the show?
Yes.
Did you enjoy it?
What?
If you want to get your bag in future you should ask a member of front-of-house to come in and get it for you. Itâs health and safety.
Yes, thatâs fine.
Itâs policy.
Thatâs fine.
Theyâre weird about it â youâre not meant to be in the auditorium unless youâre a member of crew, or weâre liable.
It seems unlikely Iâd forget it twice but if I do â Iâll make sure I ask.
Beat.
Did you enjoy the show?
Small beat.
Were you in it?
Youâd remember me if I was in it, no?
I donât know, there were a lot of â guys like you. In it.
You didnât like it?
âLikeâ isnât the right word, I guess.
What is the right word?
Did you write it?
No.
Did you direct it?
No. Did you come on your own?
Yeah. I have to catch the last Tube. I need to go.
Youâve got ages yet.
She checks her phone, even though she knows sheâs got at least an hour.
How old are you?
Twenty-four.
What made you come and see it?
Is this an audience survey?
No.
What is it?
â
Iâm on the board. Iâm not in town a lot, I want to know why audiences like the work.
Youâre assuming we like the work?
You came to see it.
You havenât seen it until youâve seen it, though, have you?
You didnât like it?
She shrugs.
Will you come up here? Itâs strange talking to you whilst youâre down there.
Iâve got to go. Iâm going to be late.
Itâs totally confidential, Iâd be grateful for your candour.
She gets up on stage.
Pause.
Two people walking on stage pretending to be two other people and saying â âHiâ, âhiâ â or worse â much fucking worse, walking on stage and â (Beat.) âPhil looks uncomfortable in his skin, beat, Phil fiddles with his lighter but doesnât light the cigarette, beatâ because we all know cigarettes need a licence to be lit and Cara enters â âthunderously sexual, beatâ, whatever that fucking means, what does that even mean? âCara: the sky, this evening. Pass me the salt.â What sky? What fucking sky? This evening? Itâs all dark in here.
I /
/ A miraculous army of â builders, soldiers, scientists, fucking women in completely unnecessary hot pants move shit about and weâre all meant to think, what? Itâs the magic hot-panted people that move fucking furniture around? With the carpet and the little bits of flesh-coloured tape sticking the mics on â itâs like you actually think that weâre meant to think itâs real, like weâre meant to think, with the current state of things that a perfectly charming front room with people being funny is motherfucking real life?
Iâm not sure thatâs /
The world is imploding.
I â
And the actors, man, theyâve got nothing new, no insides, they just need the job â they know itâs pretend so theyâre living on the applause and applause alone and that is fucking dangerous. That is a perilous way to be. Moving fucking tables about and living on applause for it. Youâre staring at them thinking âdo what you likeâ, go on, stop saying those lines and doing what heâs told you to do, do something you actually like, go on. Do what you want; do it to get laid or I donât give a shit, do it whilst galloping across the stage in a fucking thong pretending to be Bambi, do it HOW THE FUCK YOU LIKE â because at least then someone is actually doing it for real. But then you realise, youâre like, oh yeah â fuck â youâve been saying lines so long youâve got no sense of it, you know â the way they make you so fucking scared of age and poverty and joblessness, that wanting things got way too dangerous a while back. So, youâre watching all these people move around, moving tables and pretending, totally deaf to the sound of their own wanting. I canât remember the last time I watched a thing that looked even half-alive. Fake hair and new shoes and famous people doing boring things badly and you know, painfully, like in your bones it hurts â and you can smell the money, so youâre not believing a fucking second of it.
â
And of course, that comes with a woman in a tight skirt leaning arse-front over a desk for twenty minutes, for no fucking reason. Because itâs all part of the same way of seeing so, you know, itâs âsexyâ women and âsmartâ men â but actually itâs this woman being made to present, like some animal and entitlement just dribbling down the front of its suit â but how itâs being given to you is old guys saying some fascinating fucking things about time and history. Weâre sick, you know that? Weâre sick to the back fucking teeth of hearing from old men, with flaky skin, at weddings, patting the back of your hand gently as they explain what they consider to be the truths of the world, like I share the same truths, like his truth and my truth are anywhere near the fucking same when itâs you that gets to make the world and me thatâs got to live in it.
She gets choked.
Are you okay?
Sure. Iâm fine. (Swallows.) Itâs just you come here thinking youâre going to watch something that makes you feel something for the first time in⊠The state the world is in, you wake up and hear the news and find yourself crying into your fucking cereal, I mean actual tears plopping into your Cheerios and so for some reason you come here â because you think here is where thereâs meant to be hope and you know what, fuck it. Fuck it.
She picks up her bag and goes to head off the stage.
Stop. Wait a second.
What?
Just wait.
She waits. He doesnât speak.
I watched an entire audience get on their feet tonight for a show that had a dog in it.
Yes. I /
/ Real-life babies. Like thatâs the only pulse we can find. Silent women in hot pants told to sing like canaries in this fucking day and age are you kidding me? With Trump in, with the monstrosities going down, the world is cracking open and what I just saw is meant to heal us? We should be screaming, we should be speaking in tongues, in a fit, in a fuck...