Martin Crimp: Plays 3 (eBook)

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2015 | 1. Auflage
400 Seiten
Faber & Faber (Verlag)
978-0-571-32537-5 (ISBN)

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Martin Crimp: Plays 3 -  Martin Crimp
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Cruel and Tender 'A mordantly knowing modernisation of Sophocles's Trachiniae... . The approach here manages to be at once lethally level and capable of surges of anguished feeling... Highly recommended.' Independent Fewer Emergencies 'A triptych of vicious modern fairy tales that brings the nightmare right back and stabs you through the soul.'Guardian The City 'Although this is the most disquieting play in London, there is a curious exhilaration about both the performance and Crimp's confrontation with our perpetual unease.' Guardian Definitely the Bahamas 'A summation of a life lived vicariously, at the margins of other lives, between suffocating suburban walls; and the play is as unflinching as it is unnerving.' The Times Play House 'Play House concerns the volatility and vulnerability of love, as a young couple, Simon and Katrina set up home... Unusually for Crimp, the play both begins and ends with moving declarations of love. Suddenly this usually chilly dramatist seems unexpectedly blessed with a warm heart.' Daily Telegraph In the Republic of Happiness 'Crimp goes so far as to call it 'an entertainment in three parts,' and it rocks along like a dystopian vaudeville... The actors are imprisoned and liberated at once, their strange between-worlds condition a source of joy, intemperateness and above all a care for our diversion... My favourite play of the year.'What's on Stage

Martin Crimp was born in 1956. His play Attempts on Her Life (1997) established his international reputation. His other work for theatre includes Not One of These People, When We Have Sufficiently Tortured Each Other, Men Asleep, The Rest Will be Familiar to You from Cinema, In the Republic of Happiness, Play House, The City, Fewer Emergencies, Cruel and Tender, The Country, The Treatment, Getting Attention, No One Sees the Video, Play with Repeats, Dealing with Clair and Definitely the Bahamas. He is also the author of three texts, Into the Little Hill, Written on Skin and Lessons in Love and Violence, for operas by George Benjamin. His many translations of French plays include works by Genet, Ionesco, Koltès, Marivaux and Molière. Writing for Nothing, a collection of fiction, short plays and texts for opera, was published by Faber & Faber in 2019.
Cruel and Tender'A mordantly knowing modernisation of Sophocles's Trachiniae... . The approach here manages to be at once lethally level and capable of surges of anguished feeling... Highly recommended.' IndependentFewer Emergencies'A triptych of vicious modern fairy tales that brings the nightmare right back and stabs you through the soul.'GuardianThe City'Although this is the most disquieting play in London, there is a curious exhilaration about both the performance and Crimp's confrontation with our perpetual unease.' GuardianDefinitely the Bahamas'A summation of a life lived vicariously, at the margins of other lives, between suffocating suburban walls; and the play is as unflinching as it is unnerving.' The TimesPlay House'Play House concerns the volatility and vulnerability of love, as a young couple, Simon and Katrina set up home... Unusually for Crimp, the play both begins and ends with moving declarations of love. Suddenly this usually chilly dramatist seems unexpectedly blessed with a warm heart.' Daily TelegraphIn the Republic of Happiness'Crimp goes so far as to call it "e;an entertainment in three parts,"e; and it rocks along like a dystopian vaudeville... The actors are imprisoned and liberated at once, their strange between-worlds condition a source of joy, intemperateness and above all a care for our diversion... My favourite play of the year.'What's on Stage

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.
I ran up to my room. Locked the door. Stopped eating.

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?

Amelia So you can sleep on the plane, sweetheart.

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...

Erscheint lt. Verlag 12.11.2015
Verlagsort London
Sprache englisch
Maße 130 x 130 mm
Themenwelt Literatur Lyrik / Dramatik Dramatik / Theater
Kunst / Musik / Theater Theater / Ballett
Schlagworte Apartheid • british theatre • contemporary life • Dystopia • greek myths
ISBN-10 0-571-32537-8 / 0571325378
ISBN-13 978-0-571-32537-5 / 9780571325375
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