You want a play featuring an excerpt of Oedipus Rex as written by David Mamet?

Mamet and Sophocles, together on the same stage! Sort of...

Got it.

What is the mystery of Galileo's finger?

Or maybe one about Galileo’s finger? Two plays with kiss in the title? Various slightly warped Christmas plays?

Got it, got ‘em, and got ‘em.

I have been somewhat prolific of late, writing the plays others tell me to. Well, that’s not quite right. No one puts a gun to my head. But as part of the ever-expanding trend of theaters doing an evening of one-act plays, many of the troupes are requesting plays on very specific themes or in specific settings.

Over the past few years, I’ve written plays set in a funeral home, an attic, a coffee shop, and on a brown couch. There have been plays about addiction, Valentine’s Day, anything relating to Rochester, New York, or foster homes (though not in the same play, thankfully), shoes, and the various senses. During December alone, if I choose, I can write about the 1920s, eating, a Shakespearean sonnet, any activity on the Staten Island ferry, and peace. And coming up in March, one of my favorites: A theater wants plays that have something to do with J. Edgar Hoover (the not-so-subtle suggestion is that characters in drag would be great, but aren’t required).

I understand, I guess, why theaters go this route. They like to see how different playwrights will treat the same theme. And when the theme is tied to local geography/history or a holiday, it gives the company a built-in marketing hook. But at times, when I see a call for scripts and there is a detailed suggestion about what I should be writing about, I balk a bit.

Thalia, my muse honey, was it something I said?

We playwrights are the creators, damnit. Let us go where the muse takes us. On the other hand…sometimes she’s a cold, distant bitch who won’t return our calls or even open our emails. In those bleak moments, having the prod of a chosen theme is a plus. And if nothing else, taking on the varied themes, no matter how foreign (what do I know from Rochester?) is the chance to learn something new or take a “here goes nothing” approach to experiments in form. The plays become exercises that keep me writing, not a small feat when tackling a full-length my play, my ultimate goal as a playwright, seems so daunting. Still. More than two years after I finished my last one, the ill-fated and almost-litigated solo show (the lawyers should be almost done with that agreement…).

What’s funny to me is how often I write one of these thematic shorts for one theater or competition and it’s rejected, but I can get it into a festival that doesn’t set the theme, or else rework it a bit to fit somebody else’s requirements. The attic play has been produced several times; ditto the addiction play, which explores our inability to let go of stuff, the commodities that sometimes define our existence. The requirement to write about anything relating to Galileo led to a work ripped from the headlines, as they say: two fingers and a tooth stolen from the scientist’s dead body more than 250 years ago were recently recovered. Oh, what fun you can have with grave robbing and the confrontation between the secular and the religious! (No word yet, though if that one has been selected.)

Of course, some of the themes are so obscure, if my plays don’t make the cut the first time, they never see the light of day. Case in point: an updating of the proto-Surrealist classic Ubu Roi, set during the 2008 presidential campaign. But even though it didn’t get chosen, it was such fun to portray Bush II as the dim, profane Dub-U Roy. The Oedipus-cum-Mamet snippet was for a Mamet festival in Chicago. Although rejected there, I was able to send it to a NY company seeing theatrical “smash-ups.” They told me they want to stage it – yea! But that was more than a year ago. Still waiting… (I offer it here for the curious).

I’ve learned I have to pick and choose when a spate of contests come out, all with different themes. Writing something about food for the December contest seems doable; the Shakespearean sonnet less so (unless I can combine them, which I’ve been known to do before). There’s one on the sense of touch and another on “perfect10n” (that’s how they spell it), both due January 1. Perhaps another twofer is in the offing. Or I can recycle something old. But the real goal for the now not-too-distant New Year – choose one of the many ideas I’ve been kicking around for a full-length and start writing it. Just to see if I still know how to do it. I’ll keep you posted.

Sono al telefono con Cristiano.
Lui sta sorseggiando una cioccolata calda in una breve pausa tra la Transizione e l’Esistenza.
Io sto badolando tra le api e l’orto.

Chiacchieriamo del più e del meno.
Il 15 notte dovrei partire per l’Est, così da raggiungere Michele nella Serenissima insieme a G. ed Enrico per partecipare ai workshop di Spiazzi. Da lì scenderemo verso Bologna per l’incontro annuale della Libera Scuola di Agricoltura Sinergica Emilia Hazelip. Ottima occasione per cercare di incrociarsi sul percorso con un sacco di altra gente.

Cristiano ha uno zoccolo Malthusiano che ben si sposa con il nichilismo da due soldi che mi porto a spasso. Entrambe le tendenze si esaltano e riverberano nelle chiacchiere da “bar” telefoniche.
Gli racconto di un’idea che sto cercando di realizzare a Torino.
Cristiano – “Si, ma ha ancora senso lavorare sulle città?”
Io – “…beh… si, almeno in parte…”
Cristiano – “Sui piccoli centri ma le metropoli?”
Io – “… non so. Ma magari. Prima che collassino…”
Cristiano – “Si, ma poi si dovrà trovare delle alternative”

L’Ubu roi che banchetta nel mio cervello mi fa comparire davanti questo:

Ok… lasciate perdere il film… fissatevi sull’immagine. No. Non pensate a Will Smith. L’immagine. Si, ok… il cane, gli zombi ecc… ecc… ma voi guardate l’immagine. Si il film non era un granché ma neanche il libro, posso assicurarvelo… concentratevi sull’immagine per favore… Bravi… Togliete i rottami delle macchine e lo zombo in campo medio…
E’ una città.
Non è molto diversa da quelle che abbiamo in torno. Solo, ci sono i fenicotteri (come a Cagliari) e più piante.
Si può fare!
Ok… ce anche meno gente ed è la scenografia di un film… ma io tendo a dare spago ad una forma di esistenzialismo demente.

Sartre – “Nulla a senso, tutto è futile”
Io – “Quindi andiamo in spiaggia?”
S. – “No… non hai capito… la vita è un’assurda corsa verso il nulla”
I. – “a chi arriva primo?!”
S. – “Mi stai facendo venire la nausea…”

Le mie chiacchierate con Sartre sono meno costruttive di quelle con Cristiano… almeno secondo Sartre.

Contestualmente sia Equipaje che Weissbach mi coinvolgono in discussioni da “poco conto”.
Equipaje sulla redditività economica dei sistemi agricoli “alternativi” e Weissbach sui tempi di acquisizione delle competenze per “il cambiamento” e per il ripristino dei suoli.
Dopo aver corrisposto con entrambi entrambi Sartre mi ha detto qualcosa a proposito di un messaggio di solidarietà che voleva mandargli. Ma non ho capito bene di cosa parlasse.

Città insostenibili.
Criteri economici e di mercato sulla produzione alimentare.
Ipotesi di “nuove competenze agrarie” e tempi di applicazione.

Non sarò mai in grado di connettere tutte le problematiche che nascono da questi tre fattori. Non so neanche se mi interessa farlo.
Sicuramente, più che risposte mi viene da farmi un miliardo e trecentosessantaquattro domande… una di queste è “andiamo in spiaggia?”…
Poi penso: tre anni fa ho mollato il lavoro, ho fatto un orto, ho costruito macchinari impensati con pezzi di scarto, ho letto una quantità di libri, di Zero ed Uno su uno schermo da averne la nausea…

(no, Sartre, non parlavo di te…)

…detto questo: non sto cambiando una virgola. Il tutto manca di “futile” azione…E le città sono sempre un bel campo da gioco visto che tutto finisce lì…
Proveremo a rimediare al più presto.

Sartre sta già preparando la paletta ed il secchiello ed ha caricato l’ombrellone in macchina.

Ps. – i citati perdoneranno l’abuso “contestuale” di comunicazioni “private”… spero…

The reputation of the 1890s for foppish aestheticism, “decadence”,  moral inversion, and other forms of what we today would call just plain good fun played out on both sides of the Channel – Oscar wasn’t of the only national type known for a little Mauve-Decade Wildeing – and let us never forget the cartoon that immortalized the decade’s Francotone hipsters, Choisie et Debussycats – as this letter in the new number of THE TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT of London reminds us:

Pataphysics, what’s that?

Sir, – In the NB section of the September 18 issue, the question is asked, “Pataphysics, what’s that?”. An excerpt from a woefully neglected book by Scott Slater and Alec Solomita, published by E. P. Dutton (1980), titled Exits: Stories of dying moments and parting words, may help answer your question:

“On December 10th, 1896, the city of Paris was outraged . . . and delighted by Alfred Jarry’s play, ‘Ubu Roi.’ The first word of the play, ‘Merdre’ (a play on the French word ‘merde,’ . . . variously translated as ‘shittre’ or ‘pshitt’) created a pandemonium in the crowded theater that lasted fifteen minutes. Many walked out; the rest of the audience separated vocally into two hysterical factions, some of whom came to blows . . . . The scatological classic played that one night and not again until 1908, a year after Jarry’s death.

“Jarry, only twenty-three in 1896, became an instant celebrity. He also became so obsessed with, and committed to, the character of Père Ubu that he virtually transformed himself into his king of Pataphysics (Jarry’s own science based on a sort of anti-reason). In the world of Père Ubu, everything is turned upside-down. So Jarry began all his meals with the dessert and ended with the appetizers. He adopted the character’s gestures and nasal tone. The language he began using (employing the royal ‘we’ and substituting nouns with descriptive phrases such as, for a bicycle: ‘that which rolls’; for a bird: ‘that which chirps’) is still heard in certain literary circles in Paris.”

The source for this is Roger Shattuck’s The Banquet Years: The origins of the avant-garde in France, 1885 to World War I (revised ed. New York: Vintage Books, 1968).

NB: Mancunian artist-designer John Coulhart notes on his blog that

the famous first word of the play, “Merdre!”, doesn’t mean “shitter”…Rather, it’s an untranslatable combination of the French words for “shit” and “murder” which Cyril Connolly rendered unsatisfactorily as “Pschitt!” in his 1968 translation with Simon Watson Taylor.

Spencer Museum of Art, University of Kansas

Program for Ubu Roi

Special edition on salmon-colored paper inserted in the deluxe programs for the 1896 performance of the play at the Théâtre de l’oeuvre, Paris

Another letter in the TLS recalls the abolitionist sympathies of an iconic figure in housewares:

Manacles

Sir, – In his article about American slavery (September 25) Michael O’Brien asks “Should manacles be placed beside the Wedgwood plates?”. The idea is not necessarily incongruous: the image of a manacled and kneeling slave sometimes appeared on Josiah Wedgwood’s plates – and, more famously, medallions – in support of the abolition of slavery, bearing the motto “AM I NOT A MAN AND A BROTHER?”.

Wikipedia on Wedgwood’s cameos:

Wedgwood was a prominent slavery abolitionist. His friendship with Thomas Clarkson – abolitionist campaigner and the first historian of the British abolition movement – aroused his interest in slavery. Wedgwood mass produced cameos depicting the seal for the Society for the Abolition of the Slave Trade and had them widely distributed, which thereby became a popular and celebrated image. The Wedgwood medallion was the most famous image of a black person in all of 18th-century art. The actual design of the cameo was probably done by either William Hackwood or Henry Webber who were modellers in his Stoke-on-Trent factory. From 1787 until his death in 1795, Wedgwood actively participated in the abolition of Slavery cause, and his Slave Medallion, which brought the attention of the public to the horrors of the Slave trade, was very effective in bringing public attention to abolition. Wedgwood reproduced the design in a cameo with the black figure against a white background and donated hundreds of these to the Society for distribution. Thomas Clarkson wrote; “ladies wore them in bracelets, and others had them fitted up in an ornamental manner as pins for their hair. At length the taste for wearing them became general, and thus fashion, which usually confines itself to worthless things, was seen for once in the honourable office of promoting the cause of justice, humanity and freedom”.

American Philosophical Society, Philadelphia via franklinremix at Flickr

Africans in America (WGBH for PBS)

Originality Corner
I Am The Polish Army, Pataphysically Speaking

I Am The Polish Army is the project of Brooklyn duo Emma DeCorsey and C.P. Roth, a drum and guitar pair that have been playing together for the last two years. The twosome’s name comes from a line in surrealist Alfred Jarry’s play “Ubu Roi,” a farcical play ridiculing military aggression, not ridiculing Poland. Jarry, an absurdist and trickster, expressed his ideas through mockery, exaggeration, and satire, and even coined his own antiphilosophy, “pataphysics.” Pataphysics is the “science” of making assumptions about things and inventing reasons, plausible and implausible, for why things happen. For instance, if I see my landlord and he doesn’t say “hi” it obviously means he hates me, probably because my haircut offends the upright gentry of his building. Obvious, right? That’s a pataphysical story I invent in my head to explain reality to myself. Ok, are you buying this?

Well, opposite the absurdity of Alfred Jarry, I Am The Polish Army chronicles real life stories of “sex, lost love, drinking, [and] suicide,” on their newest “Club Demos” EP. “Us In The Woods” recounts the story of three friends sleeping in the woods Chan Marshall of Cat Power narrative style. “Dead Men” reminisces about what a lost lover leaves behind. The realism of DeCorsey’s lyrics contrasts with the borrowed Jarry namesake, and perhaps the Jarry reference is a defense mechanism IATPA uses to speak of uncomfortable human emotion. DeCorsey says in email that she is a “young, emotionally fragile, and ultimately passionate woman living in the city right now,” and listeners will hear this in her unguarded vocal delivery, which combines Loretta Lynn’s twang and Katie Eastburn from Brooklyn’s Young People’s straightforwardness.

Similar as Jarry inspires us to create personalized narratives out of our surroundings, I Am The Polish Army uses their union of Appalachia and indie rock to inspire listeners to muse over their city life in New York and Brooklyn. IATPA’s shrewd bass and guitar interplay inspire thought, and could easily pass as a soundtrack for a drizzly stroll under the JMZ underpass on Broadway in Brooklyn. And it is this brooding thought that produces the dual nature of I Am The Polish Army: nonfiction and fable, modern and folk. But finally, I Am The Polish Army embodies the characteristics of the Brooklyn it is in–a modern, electric city. DeCorsey says IATPA has consciously chosen only to play its Appalachia electric. “It doesn’t make sense,” she says of performing acoustic, “electricity…is important…because the city is electric to me and that’s the world I’m in.”

I listen to a lot of talk radio in the darkroom.  Today, I was thinking about Bear-Stearns, and our economic meltdown, so I listened to an Ubu podcast (I highly recommend the Ubu website).

I was turned onto this; and I can’t explain, just listen.  It’s only a few minutes, and it’s incredible.

Père Ubu will eat an extra hot dog for you in celebration.

*Image from Wikimedia

De par ma chandelle verte, quel plaisir de voir entrer l’Ubu roi de Jarry à la Comédie française. Jarry (Christian Gonon), en bicyclette s’il vous plaît, bouteille d’absinthe et révolver à la main. Père Ubu (Serge Bagdassarian), fidèle à sa gidouille, dégoulinant de grossièreté, roi sans trône, heureusement secondé par son électrique et tout aussi distinguée Mère Ubu (Anne Kessler).

MÈRE UBU

Comment ! après avoir été roi d’Aragon vous vous contentez de mener aux revues une cinquantaine d’estafiers armés de coupe-choux, quand vous pourriez faire succéder sur votre fiole la couronne de Pologne à celle d’Aragon ?

PÈRE UBU

Ah ! Mère Ubu, je ne comprends rien de ce que tu dis.

MÈRE UBU

Tu es si bête !

PÈRE UBU

De par ma chandelle verte, le roi Venceslas est encore bien vivant ; et même en admettant qu’il meure, n’a-t-il pas des légions d’enfants ?

MÈRE UBU

Qui t’empêche de massacrer toute la famille et de te mettre à leur place ?

Le ton est donné.

La pièce se joue jusqu’au 21 juillet.

Dommage, j’avais oublié mes lunettes.

]]> http://butterfliesandbears.wordpress.com/2009/05/18/quite-well-except-for-the-shitsky/ Mon, 18 May 2009 19:33:42 +0000 butterfliesandbears http://butterfliesandbears.wordpress.com/2009/05/18/quite-well-except-for-the-shitsky/

Before there was Surrealism, Dada, Postmodernism or Absurdism, there was Alfred Jarry (1873-1907).

Here are some fun facts about this French playwright:

• Lived in an apartment that had been divided horizontally from another, so most visitors had to hunch over when inside.
• Used the Royal We
• Took to speaking in a falsetto staccato manner, emphasizing each syllable equally (including the silent ones.  think:  ‘whores duh-oev-ruhz’ for hors d’oeuvres)
• created ‘pataphysics
• rode a bicycle all over, calling it ‘that which rolls’

However, Jarry is best known for his play Ubu Roi (King Ubu).

Mama Ubu... I think

The bare bones of the plot of this five act play involve Mama and Papa Ubu killing the king of Poland and taking over, killing the nobles and government officals, being overthrown, and escaping to attempt the whole thing again in France. But what sets this play is not the plot, but the sytle.  Jarry modelled his archaic, pedantic form of speech and delivery off of this character of his.  Ubu speaks in a mixture of Shakespearean grandiloquence and childish vulgarities.  Here is an excerpt of one of the translations:

“PAPA UBU [coming back on stage]: And soon you’ll shout long live Papa Ubu! [holding an incredibly disgusting toilet brush which he throws into the midst of the banquet.]
MAMA UBU: Wretch, what have you done?
PAPA UBU: Just taste that! [several taste it and fall, poisoned]
…
PAPA UBU: Well, Captain, have you dined well?
CAPTAIN BARBAGE: Quite well, sir, except for the shitsky.”

The first word of the play, ‘merdre‘, a manipulation of the French word for shit, merde, has been translated alternatively as ’shite’, ’shitsky’, ’shittr’, among others.  While this may seem edgy today, keep in mind that this was during 1896.  Would William McKinley approve?

It does not appear so.

So on opening night, after the first word, the audience erupted in pandæmonium.  The actor then improvised a dance to stop the yelling and fighting so the play could go on.  But by the next ’shitsky’ the mayhem returned.  After more rioting during its second performance, it was outlawed.

But that was then, and Ubu Roi has since been adapted many times over.  Here is an excerpt the best modern-day English version I can find online, though they take many liberties in this adaptation (silly string was not invented until 65 years after Jarrey’s death).  It follows first Mama and then Papa Ubu (played by a woman) and their troops in Poland.  Nice song and dance number at 6:00, and I’ll be damned if that isn’t supposed to be Sarah Palin at 3:42.

And here’s the beginning of an animated version, perhaps more true to feeling of the original.

The pretentiousness, madness, and absurdity of King Ubu has also been used to represent various people and situations, as with the play Ubu and the Truth Commision, which places Ubu in South African Apartheid, ‘within a domain in which actions do have consequences,’ and Ubu Król, which set the play in Poland after the fall of Communism.

Probably more familiar to your average American would be the Beatles’ song Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.  Ubu Roi inspired the mindless violence depicted in this song, which even mentions ‘Pataphysics in the first line.

(P.S. – This was apparently like my mom’s favorite song in her youth.  w.t.f.)

The moral of this tale is that if you are an insane Frenchman who drinks enough absinthe, you too can live on in infamy!

+1 ‘Are you Serious?’ for my mom

Download text.

Ubu Roi è tornato, e manda lo spam!

Il mio vecchio indirizzo email è finito nel mirino di quelli che vendono soft pirata online e viagra alternativi; sono di conseguenza inondato da montagne di spam che, loro malgrado, stanno diventando il mio divertimento quotidiano. Probabilmente la mia povera email su Alice è finita in mano a qualche spammatore siberiano che non ha la minima padronanza con la lingua del Belpaese e si affida ai traduttori automatici di Google, col risultato di inviarmi testi talmente patafisici da oscurare il genio di Alfred Jarry.
In attesa me ne arrivi qualche altra caterva, vi posto i titoli che più mi hanno divertito:

“Voi ci stanno aiutando uno appartenenza ha l’esercito.”
Sembra che i miei allievi si siano dati allo spam: traducono dal latino uguale… mon dieu…

“Sigaretten Sono stati Ieri. Oggi e il EuroFarmacia.“
Il siberiano spammone deve aver visto una striscia delle Sturmtruppen online ed ha adeguato l’incipit del titolo… Ach, Otto non ti paren giusten kosì?

“Nei confronti di ciascuna malattia e affetto.”
Qui è una chiara imitazione foscoliana: forse il nonno del siberia aveva trovato a Togliattigrad un’edizione dei Sonetti.

“Software Legale del 50% in Rispetto Ovunque.“
Qui il rispetto della famigghia il Siberia lo avrà imparato guardando su TeleVladivostok una copia consumata del Padrino III… Rispetto Ovunque…

To judge fiction, any fiction, it’s perhaps best to understand the context in which it was written, while keeping in mind the culture that “birthed” it, so to speak.

Recently I read…no, correction, attempted to read, “Body Surfing” by Dale Peck. It was “From one of America’s most acclaimed writers…” shrilled one enthused blurb writer, in promoting the book. Promises of “originality” and a “fast paced” story followed (surprise, surprise). In examining the book I’m able to confirm there was no health warning on it – at least not one that’d be obvious to the casual browser in their local book store. Perhaps, for the future, it might display one?

“The centurions captured the boy in a raid on his family home somewhere in Gaul…” We are in ancient Gaul, of course, transported by Mr. Peck’s literary magic wand. It’s the time of Nero. Many years after the great Gaius Julius Caesar’s subjugation of the tribes in that region. Of course, a Centurion commanded…well…a Century; there’d be five of them, for example, in the first cohort of a Legion in the time of Nero. So either Mr. Peck means Legionaries (not “Centurions”), or we have a situation where perhaps most of the officers have gone off on “a raid” leaving their poor tired men back at base to catch up on lost sleep, or worse buggering each other? No matter:

Mr. Peck then suggests this raid is “somewhere in Gaul – even he (the boy) didn’t know the exact location…” That “even he” suggests this group of senior Roman officers were in fact themselves lost. Lost in Gaul despite four generations of occupation, surveying and road building? Oh, well…

But I knit pick! This is after all a work of fiction! Mr. Peck is the product of a society that went to war for a fiction. This book is meant to entertain, nothing more!

But, you might say, a relatively small amount of background research would have prevented Mr. Peck miring himself in errors of this type. Yes, I might reply, but any amount of research wouldn’t have prevented this work being third rate (and I’m being generous here!). His graphic literary style provides us ample example of this:

“The boy gouged out the animal’s eyes with his bare hands and continued to jab at the pulpy sockets until the beast shook its head so violently that the boy’s body was ripped in half, torso flying in one direction, legs in the other.”

I find it hard to believe this gentleman actually takes creative writing classes? Having lost his legs our boy (undeterred) fights on:

“…dragging himself with his fingers toward a dagger glinting in the bloody sand. The boy had the disjunctive experience of watching a pair of hyenas rip his legs one from the other even as his fingers closed over the dagger hilt…”

Mmmmm. Enough, enough, before I have a “disjunctive experience” of my own!

Mr. Peck’s style might best be described as Nouveau Pulp ( or here’s the crap, where’s the cash?), and seems rooted in the comic book and the violent fantasies of wayward children. Anyhow (as a taster)our eye gouging boy is Leo, a demon who is a couple of thousand years old. In the modern world he takes over “Q” otherwise known as Mohammed Qusay. He goes joy riding with Jasper and Michaela. Q and Michaela engage in a graphic sex act. Car crashes. Jasper Dies (well, not quite – but, believe me this takes some explaining, and it’s really not worth the effort!). Michaela has a broken neck and is hospitalised (by this point you really don’t care). We learn (but who gives a damn?), Leo is one of an ancient race known as the Mogran…

So this tale progresses with more individuals become possessed. I confess I lost my way (like those poor Centurions in the book’s prologue) and wasn’t sure where Leo was – not that it really mattered. To be kind the book is poorly written. The plot’s a sad exudation of second and even third hand ideas. Almost as if Mr. Peck had sat down and consciously decided to write a cliché riddled tale, excruciatingly off set by the most graphic depictions of violence, rape, sex he could think of.

I’m not acquainted with Mr. Peck’s earlier work. I understand he once described a book (by another author) the worst book ever written. Well, that being the case it now has competition. And perhaps that’s the key to his latest creation?

Accepting Mr. Peck believed the book he was reviewing was “the worst book ever written”, might he have witnessed it selling well despite his comments? Who knows, who can say? But at some point Mr. Peck may have heard the cash register of his soul ringing up good old dollar signs and “Body Surfing” is the result?

If we accept that Mr. Peck isn’t a total Numpty, what’s he about with a book like this? He might be a lot more clever than we give him credit for. If (like me) he looks round and sees with his own eyes books that are crap, pure and simple, selling well, making big money for authors and publishers alike, what’s he going to do? Give ‘em what they want, maybe? Write crap. Only even more so than anyone else in the marketplace! Be the big turd! The shite king! And in the process take revenge on those responsible, the book buying public and publishers that, lacking a modicum of discernment, consistently accept the third rate, consuming this crap with a voraciousness of appetite that defies satiation.

Now if this interpretation is correct, it throws a whole new light on Mr. Peck’s opus. Mr. Peck is emulating Alfred Jarry, or rather his play first performed in 1896, “Ubu roi” which shocked the theatre going public when the word merdre (the extra “r” added for emphasis) was used –

“[Shiyitt] is repeated for effect throughout a series of disjointed episodes, which see Père Ubu usurp the Polish crown. None of this in itself is of any overriding interest, for the real subject of the play is the audience, or more precisely attitudes held by the audience.”

So suggests a modern interpreter of the play, who also says: “It is meant to shock, to attack, to shake up.” Which would mean, of course, Mr. Peck is attacking the gross vulgarity of his readers; scatological jokes aside, this book is a devastating critique of the reader’s complicity in its atrocious content. It is an example of the pornography of violence which rubs the reader’s face in – blood, or the eroticisation of the grotesque, if you prefer.

Basically Mr. Peck is laughing long and loud at anyone purchasing this book. You are buying shite, and that is funny. He has dished this up especially for you. If nothing else it demonstrates what’s wrong with much modern popular fiction.

Anyhow Mr. Peck undeterred has signed a $3 million book deal details here
So expect to see more from him in the not too distant future. Bon appétit.

vale a dire, cose che sono inutili ma che mi va di scrivere…

stavo trascrivendo sul  mio diario i miei ricordi di qualche anno fa…mi è venuto in mente uno spettacolo, L’UBUADE fatto durante il festival orizzonti con la regia di due ragazzi francesi, e poi è stato replicato per i gemellaggio del nostro paesino con un altro paesino francese…

sono venuta a sapere di questa replica quasi per sbaglio, perchè il sig. amministratore non mi aveva avvertito…tralascio la brontolata che gli feci nel bel mezzo della sfilata storica, ma se lo meritava…

ho riorganizzato quei pochissimi costumi nella mattina prima dello spettacolo e la protagonista che faceva il RE UBU aveva una storta alla caviglia… insomma, replica già partita male, la gente era poca…credo che riempissero il teatro le mie due sorelle, l’amica di mia sorella, mio fratello, Lucia e il mio ragazzo, al quale non piace il teatro, ma era venuto lo stesso a vedere questo spettacolo recitato con le calzamaglie in testa…

per la prima dello spettacolo invece abbiamo ricevuto anche i complimenti e pure io, “molto carina l’idea delle calzamaglie” mi disse Anna Montinari, ma non so fino a che punto fosse vera la sua affermazione…però ci volli credere e mi allontanai da lei col sorriso…

lo stesso feci quando Massimo Scaglione mi disse che ero stata brava con i costumi dell’opera di Mozart COSI’ FAN TUTTE, la sera confessai l’accaduto a Luca Tiddia (il baritono) che mi disse che per il materaile che avevamo avevo fatto molto bene il mio lavoro quindi quello che diceva il Maestro era vero…spero… … …

cose che non saprò mai.

Veronica Soldera (la mezzo-soprano) con la quale avevo lavorato sia per il Cantiere Internazionale d’Arte, sia per l’opera sopra citata, mi aveva rivelato che in teatro funziona così: tutti si aspettano i complimenti dagli altri, soprattutto gli attori e i cantanti, quindi, si usa fare i complimenti anche se lo spettacolo non ti è piaciuto, tutti devono essere in qualche modo lodati nel mondo dello spettacolo, è così che si fa, nonostante ci siano molte antipatie, uno deve fare i complimenti…

da quell’affermazione, non credo ai complimenti, non credo a quando mi dicono che sono brava, sono molto più diffidente del solito, anche se mi viene da chiedere, perchè mai uno dovrebbe fare i complimenti a me, che sto dietro le mie quinte? e allora mi piace pensare che forse non è tutta ipocrisia…e mi allontano con il sorriso…

I have got to go. All right, everyone off the boat. That’s as far as you go Mr. Lundren. Rap you on the knuckles, bad boy. I warned you.

OH NO! The police.

Yes, that’ll do for now. So Chrystal got the letter and she and Vernon got nervous about having such a high profile and smelling the eucalyptus undercover.

The real one showed up and so she and Vernon had to run. Here’s to family values. But who was the one who died in the car? Top dressing has its advantages but it doesn’t drain quite right, now does it?

Which one of them is indispensible? Can I ask you one thing? Shall we dance?

The trend, it seems, is professional theatre companies producing well known plays and musicals in hopes of a more commercial success, and Universities producing obscure, important works like Ubu Roi. (A play I love, but typically leaves audience scratching their heads and wishing they had stayed home to catch “Flavor of Love” which, ironically, has a very similar protagonist.)

So where is the middle ground? What falls between the important classics and the commercial plot-less wonder? Why can’t I get Six Feet Under on stage?

It’s because new work is being ignored. Great playwrights like Martin McDonagh, Connor McPherson, and David Auburn have answered my call for the “Middle Ground” of theatre, but their work has only been noticed because it was picked up on Broadway. Unfortunately, there is only room for about four new dramas on Broadway each year.

Don’t wait to be the first theater in your area to reproduce this work. Dig up your own gem. Yes, some of your patrons will be weary to pay full price to see something they don’t already know. Guess what, new work is cheap – or even better, free. Playwrights are dying to get their work produced, and they may very well let you produce it for nothing more than a playbill and a free seat.

Sure, theatre production is expensive– so cut the production costs, get back to basics and explore simple representational design. (The bare bones designs of Ming Choe Lee are some of the most influential scenic designs in the American theatre to date.) Seek out plays with small casts that don’t require much. The less money you put in, the less you need to get back out– the margin for profit is higher, too.

Hopefully, your theater has produced a quality of work that the audience trusts. Consider yourself a brand name. Don’t forget what got you going, but remember to put out new products. It is the direction that theatre has to move toward, so you might as well help start the new trend.

Summaire

Ubu Roi

Cet travail controversé qui a immédiatement outragé les Francais avec ses références scatologiques pendant la première en 1896. La farce satirise la tendance du bourgeois de maltraiter son autorité et de devenir irresponsable avec leur pouvoir. Soutenu comme premier drame d’absurdist, Ubu Roi comporte un caractère principal qui est cruel, glouton, et grotesque.

Voici quelques liens qui vous aideront à mieux comprendre le texte.

• Full Text of Ubu Roi

copie du texte entiere sur Project Guttenberg

production d’Ubu Roi sur YouTube

• Article on the linguistics of Ubu Roi
• \”Potty Talk in Parisian Plays\”, article sur JSTOR

Questions/Information sur Ubu Roi

• ubu1

pensées sur Ubu Roi

Selon moi, cette piece de théâtre peut être traduit comme commentaire sur les dangers d’une élite néo-coloniale– une nouvelle élite qui supplante la vieille élite, mais institutionalise le même niveau de la corruption. Mon exemple ? La situation avec l’indépendance haïtienne.
Les haïtiens sont très fiers de l’indépendance de 1804, mais l’élite mulâtre qui est venue à la puissance était également mal. Les présidents du Haïti, naturellement, incarnent cette corruption néo-coloniale.