Metamorphoses (NHB Modern Plays)

Sami Ibrahim, Laura Lomas, Sabrina Mahfouz, Ovid

• Éditeur: Nick Hern Books
• Année: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781788503983
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: British Drama

From the everyday to the astonishing, and the ordinary to the miraculous, the Roman poet Ovid's stories of epic impossibilities explore the power of transformation, the resilience of humans, and the wonder of life.

The myths of Metamorphoses have inspired generations of writers, including Shakespeare. Over two thousand years later, they are reimagined for our world by three leading British playwrights, and feature anarchy, shape-shifting and a burning chariot of fire.

This entertaining and provocative new play, by Sami Ibrahim, Laura Lomas and Sabrina Mahfouz, was written for the candlelit Sam Wanamaker Playhouse at Shakespeare's Globe, London. It was first performed by four actors in 2021, and directed by Globe Associate Artistic Director, Sean Holmes and Associate Artistic Director of Headlong, Holly Race Roughan.

Achilles

Achilles. Son of a king and a nymph. Warrior of the Trojan war.

Some say I’m the greatest warrior that ever lived.

Some say I’m a whore son of a bitch.

Both are right.

I cut off a lot of heads

and I did a lot of dodgy sex stuff.

One thing I really regret.

The whole ‘sacrifice Polyxena at the foot of my grave’ demand.

I was really overwhelmed with the power of being a ghost.

A heroic ghost too, I had the whole Greek army just waiting to do,

well, absolutely whatever I asked them to.

I know it was hard on Hecuba, to lose another daughter,

but it was Polyxena who led me to my death.

Yes, I could have asked for Paris, the man who actually shot me in the heel,

to be sacrificed instead, but I didn’t and that’s what I’m here to face.

Maybe I thought me and her… who knows.

She managed to escape in one of the tributaries of the River Styx,

so I never got to explore where that thought might go.

I’ve had a lot of time down here for self-reflection

and I can conclude that this demand was particularly selfish of me.

On a broader level, thinking about my childhood,

I don’t think it’s advisable to bring someone up to think they’re glorious

and celebrate their skills in bringing death and destruction and violence

to everything they touch.

It’s just… weird.

And there’s not much room left then for, you know, love.

Which is where I’m at in my journey.

Realising that’s all it was about, all I wanted, through all the wars.

Too late now of course, but it’s always good to work on yourself.

Sorry, Polyxena. Peace.

Actaeon

Actaeon was a nobleman

Son of Aristaeus

Grandchild of the gods

Some say he was the greatest hunter in all of Greece

It’s summer

The shadows, short. Midday heat.

Actaeon and his men have been out since first light, they’ve risen with the dawn and sweated through all the colours of the morning

Their nets are full. Their hands filthy. Their dogs are tired, their claws and their jaws, matted with the blood of dead animals

It’s time to go home

We’re in the middle of the forest. The bowl of a mountain range surrounds us. The sun bakes and bounces off hard rock, arid earth.

And close by to all this, in the valley of Gargaphia, there is a gorge. Hidden by trees, unknown to the hunters, this mountain well, is the bathing place of

Diana

Goddess of the hunt

And it’s hot, did we say it was hot?

Diana is bathing, her hunt done, she stands on the edge of the cool water, her body glistening with fresh blood

And there she undresses

Her nymphs help her

One takes her sword

Another her bow and arrows

Another loosens her thick hair, tousled and knotted from the morning’s charge

Another removes her gown

And a final takes her wreathed crown

Until she stands there,

Dappled in forest light

And this goddess is beautiful

This goddess is enormous, full of blood and heat

Her eyes shine

And her body radiates

As into the water she climbs, and sinks, her whole self under, until she emerges, at the foot of the gorge, flooded by water and light, and there she stays, the water cascading over her gigantic body, as her nymphs wash and bathe her

Now Actaeon is walking close by

His blood still racing from the last kill

He’s lost his hunting party

He’s taken refuge in the high pines and cool earth of the dark forest

When he hears, the gargling of the gorge

And he’s pulled, not by curiosity, but by something deeper, something more like fate, towards the sound

And so, he goes through the dappled light

And all the while the sound is moving through his body

He cuts through the trees

The sound becoming louder, he scrambles up a steep bank, the noise now beating in his chest and his head

And a wind rushes down, through the trees to warn him

But still, he goes

Because this sound, is the sound of his own desire, it’s the sound of his own blood moving through his own veins

He skids down a mossy scree, his whole body vibrating

Until all at once he reaches a clearing, and there he follows,

The ripples of the water, each rung disappearing as he traces a line to the origin of their energy

And sees

At the foot of the gorge

The Goddess Diana

Naked. In all her beauty

–

The nymphs scream

They twist their demented faces

They scatter to shield the naked goddess

But it’s no use

So high is this goddess

So big and so beautiful

She rises up, above them all

And Actaeon, he can’t help but stare

As if in seeing her, he is suddenly seeing eternity

As if this moment could sustain him

As if he could feast on it for a thousand years

And somewhere in the depths of his conscience he knows he should turn away

Somewhere he knows, that this isn’t right

This sight, it isn’t his

This moment, this memory

Because this goddess is divine

She is divine

She is so much more than his mind can hold, she is so much more than his sight will allow

And the nymphs they scream, their shrieks piercing the sky

And Diana she turns her breast away from him

But still, he stares

His heart pounding, body tense, breath gulping

As the force of that water, in his head and in his chest, rips a river right through him

And Diana eyes this king of the hunt

And she watches, as he feasts himself on her body

She sees his hunger and his greed

And her body remembers

A billion others

Other women, in other forms

All of them banquets

Non-consensual feasts

And with that thought comes another

As wooded horns begin to splinter through Actaeon’s forehead

As his hands become hoofs,

As his skin melts and turns to fur,

His body buckles,

As she spears an arrow of terror through his spine

And Actaeon bolts

Flees

Through the dense forest, those high pines

His breath short, hooves pounding

He gallops with the heart of the hunted, out out onto that heat-beaten rock

And he calls out

For his men, and for his dogs

But all that comes out is a strange rip, not quite animal, not quite human

And now his dogs are upon him

Hungry, and fierce

They chase

This stag throu...