It's billed as Scorched Earth but I think it wants to be called Fubar now. The previous title came from a time when the play hinged on someone getting their feet set on fire (which I think I stole from another play) and when they came back in a second act as a robot angel.
Neither of these things are still in the script.
Probably for the best.
My interest recently has been in non-traditional texts so it is satisfying to draw a line under this Play (which a capital P). It's been sitting around with me for a while. And now it doesn't have any notes in it that say I DUNNO or OH LOOK IT JUST ENDS or ARRRRGH WHAT?
Which is good.
It’s hard, man. I’ve found it far easier (though still not simple) to stage a thesis or create a bit of atmosphere than to wrought something cohesive with its own internal logic. A kick ass lighting design or a clever chorus line of ukulele playing tadpoles can't make it interesting. It’s out on its own. Playwrights. Respect.
I'm looking forward to watching director Alasdair Hunter work on it. Al's pulled in a great cast Tori Burgess, Janette Foggo and Alfie Wellcoat.
This will be the first time I’ve had a full length Play (note the capital P) read in public. I’m not sure what to expect from having a room full of other people sitting inside my head for an extended period of time.
Can you tell how tentative I am?
A few things that have informed the piece
- Kew Garden is on the Heathrow airport flight path.
- Awkwardly in the hot house, tapping away a dirty wee story about pitcher plants.
- Harry Harlow and his rhesus monkeys.
- A lot of terrible YA fiction I can’t stop myself from reading.
- Excellent support from Dominic Hill for helping to scoop out the initial idea and Rob Drummond for helping me find the Play (not the capital P)’s central question and a wee bit of Lucy Kirkwood who probably enjoys a dystopian landscape even more than I do.
Here's some pics I took from a research trip to Kew.