(Illustration by Kareena Zerefos)
I was approached about writing a play for the STC Ed program. The
brief was 'gothic horror', which thrilled me to bits, and I went
off and read some of the classics of the genre: Frankenstein, Dr Jekylland Mr Hyde, The Turn of the Screw. This
last I hadn't read before, and it had a profound effect on me. It's
so tightly wound, so suggestive, and the narrator is either a
heroine or a madwoman, depending on how you interpret her
account.
For some time I'd had in the back of my mind two thoughts: one a
technical idea, about starting a play with the best thing that
could possibly happen (as playwrights we are often more interested
in the opposite); and the other a narrative idea, about the
restoration of a missing child and how a parent then relates to
them.
I brought these ideas together in the treatment I presented to the
STC. The only problem was - what I'd written was psychological
horror. Its suspense depends on suggestion and dread. This was not
appropriate for young audiences. So that, I thought, was
that.
However! Talking some months later with Polly (Rowe, STC's Literary
Manager), who had remained intrigued by the treatment, she asked
how I imagined it realised, and I said the word 'puppets'. Her face
lit up - she had just finished working with the brilliant puppeteer
Alice Osborne. Polly arranged a meeting, creative sparks flew, and
next thing we had a week's workshop with The Residents, a strange
assortment of objects gleaned from the Props Department, and masses
of tin foil, plastic, cornflakes, shredded paper, and other
treasures from Reverse Garbage.
I entered the process knowing nothing about puppetry - my
mentioning a puppet had been simply a solution to having a small
child onstage. But what opened before me was a world of astonishing
possibilities. So much can be done with scale, with air and light;
the specificity of a corkscrew's movement can bring it to life and
break the heart. Alice made child-size dresses from paper and
plastic, and by investing in these as living children, the actors
created images of beauty and melancholy.
Because we wanted to keep the workshop as experimental as possible,
we set ourselves parameters, such as: not working from the
treatment, but plucking the eyes out of it in terms of images,
ideas, resonant phrases. We drip-fed the actors information, so
that they responded without any second-guessing. Polly asked that I
hold off writing till after the workshop, and when I did start on
the first draft, to do away with stage directions, to suggest
everything through the text. All this has served to make the work
highly visual and movement-driven, relying as much on images as on
the words.
As a playwright, I'm drawn to working in new ways, collaborating
with artists from different practices, and this process has been
very rewarding. The play is now gathering energy and adherents -
director, designer, actors - and with each conversation the
possibilities for this spare, ambiguous text continue to
unfold.
The Splinter, Wharf 1, 10 August - 15 September, 2012.