Sorrowful Nuisance

As lights rise on the stage we see four old and judicious Arab men, Ahmad, (most praiseworthy), Anis, (love and friendship), As’ad, (happiness), and Almahdi, (guided to the right path), standing near a deli in downtown Baghdad, conversing …Periodically a distant explosion will cause them to hold their words or repeat them. The explosions do not alarm them; instead they are a part of their daily lives in Iraq; their routine. The men, numb to the bombs frequent occurrence, are only a quick and sorrowful nuisance.  

ANIS:
Answer me, As’ad.
My brother of happiness whom I love;

(A bomb explodes from afar.)

ANIS:
Must there be a kindness, a compassion, if you will,
That permeates the human spirit?

AS’AD:
No, Anis, my friend,
Of course, there mustn’t…
But there should.
There should be if man wants to become
The son of enlightenment…

(There is a long pause now as the men regard his answer. Another bomb explodes, nearer now, yet still from afar. A slight pause following the noise.)

AS’AD:
Brother Almahdi?

ALMAHDI:
Yes, my glad and cherished friend.

AS’AD:
Must one first experience
The onslaught of war to fathom opposing it?

ALMAHDI:
That would depend upon one’s upbringing.
Upon their nurtured hope.
Were they brought up to love mankind…
Or to love a flag…

(Another explosion now much closer as the men shift slightly in the brazen sun considering his answer.)

ALMAHDI:
Most praiseworthy Ahmad, tell us…
When is a bomb most torturous?
As it descends-

(Another explosion even nearer now. The men unflinchingly continue.)

ALMAHDI:
As the bomb descends or upon its explosion?

AHMAD:
(Stretching his arms above his head yawning.)
My rightful brother, Almahdi,
And my dearest friends before me…
It is not upon its descent, nor its explosion.
(A bomb explodes very near.)
It is within the moment of seething clarity
At a mother and father’s burying of their children…

(A long pause. Soon another very powerful explosion, seemingly upon them, detonates. The long pause soon turns to silence as the men stand casually and consider his answer with great purpose. This for a very long moment as the lights slowly go to black.)

The End

Copyright © 2006 mrp

Cut and Run

“There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.”
Henry David Thoreau

PROLOGUE

DECIDER’S VOICE: Okay! Okay! Cut! Goddamnit! Where are all the extras? This scene requires bodies! Loads of them! Bring on the fucking children! Quite on the set! Cue the bombs! Mothers start screaming! Fathers get that look of anger and hate in your eyes! Children you just lie there! And roll camera and ACTION!”

CUT AND RUN (the play)Lights rise and we see what appears to be a war movie set. There are lights and cameras and debris and bombed out shells of homes and buildings; all the bells and whistles! There are many dead bodies of Iraqi children, women and men (extras) lying all over the stage in various positions. It is, quite literally, a bloodbath. Down center stage, near the edge, is a huge oversized director’s chair. It looks almost throne-like. On the back it reads “DECIDER”… Soon we hear a walkie-talkie ring out.

VOICE OF ASSISTANT:
Sir? There are no more extras. The few that were left marched off the set ten minutes ago. It’s over.DECIDER:
(Unseen but from the chair.) Over? Over! I’m the damn decider! I’ll tell you when it’s over you sniveling twit of an assistant! I’m the decider! And as decider I say this movie is not over! It has merely hit a lull! A bump in the road! All movies have delays and whining shitass extras! It ain’t over till the goddamned fat lady sings!

ASST:
The fat lady left yesterday, sir.

DECIDER:
Was she singing?

ASST:
No. She was screaming.

DECIDER:
Screaming?

ASST:
And crying and cursing and throwing things! She trampled over the sound man, the greensman, the gaffer, the grip, and the two remaining extras. They’re all dead, sir.

DECIDER:
Were the cameras rolling?

ASST: …Yes.

DECIDER:
Excellent!

ASST:
Excellent?

(DECIDER now hops down from his chair and surveys the set. He is dressed in full cowboy regalia all the way down to the boots!)

DECIDER:
Yes! Yes! I wasn’t selected bloody decider twice for nothing ya know!

ASST:
Of course not, sir.

DECIDER:
We can use it for the Cut and Run finale! It’ll also be good for the outtakes on the DVD! The people love that shit!

VOICE:
They do?

DECIDER:
Hell yes! They’ll rent it just for the outtakes alone! That, and the funny accents.

ASST:
It’s lunchtime, sir.

DECIDER:
Great! Pick me up my usual and be back here in half an hour. We’ve got a lot of filming and cutting and splicing and cadavers to position for the finale! Cut and Run’s final scene! “The Fat Lady Screams”! I’m a genius!

ASST:
Soy milk, sir?

DECIDER:
Is there any other kind, shit for brains?

ASST:
No, sir. Not since the global Mad Cow epidemic.

DECIDER:
Just go!

ASST:
Yes, sir.

DECIDER:
Idiot… Always answering rhetorical questions.

(He walks about nudging bodies with his boot. After he discerns there are none living he calls out.)

DECIDER:
Hello?! Hello?!

(DECIDER’S voice echoes for several moments as he stands in his own cavern of emptiness. Soon he comes downstage and scans the faces of the audience for quite a long while.)

DECIDER:
This is not my fault! (Beat.) If you’ve been in the business as long as I have, my father before me and his father and his father’s father, you get to see this happen from time to time. It’s part of the territory. Come to think of it…I’m five for five. All five of my movies have had massive resistance! …It all began with my debut film of “One Flew over the Whitehouse”, then came “Neo-Con Air Part Two”. I tried the Cinema Verité style with this particular movie. What a load of crap that one turned out to be! I’m not very good at sequels… or the truth… But you go where the money is. At least I do. …But this one! This albatross is not my damned problem!

(Long pause.)

DECIDER:
Where was I? Oh. Yes. After “Neo-Con Air” I directed “The Last of the Neocons”. Raised quite a stink with that one. Sure did. The premise was stupid anyway and it had the additional benefit of being quite implausible. I should have known better, but you go where the money is right? Let’s see, after that behemoth flop I directed a film called “Kill Bill – The Aftermath”. Another damned flop. Not because it was far-fetched, or had a weak plot, or even the fact that it was a sequel. No. It was real enough, but it was my first go at Dark Comedy. My audience wasn’t quite ready for such full bore irony. Neither was I. …Then came the film that was supposed to be my masterpiece. The one that should have sent my marketability through the damned roof! “Mid-Term”. Oh! “Mid-Term”! It was Oscar time, baby! I was going to be king of the world! King of the world I tell ya! King of the goddamned world! Oh! Mid-Term! The glory! The suspense! The spectacular drama of a group of people who won the most decisive election battle in U.S. history! God! What unmitigated drama! Utter suspence and elation! …But, again, my audience, many of them captured, weren’t ready for such high concept realism. A dramatization of the battle that turned out to be the turning point for the entire world isn’t exactly going to keep them in their seats, unless you’re Mel fucking Gibson…

(He roams about the stage again nudging bodies.)

ASST:
This film. This one is my last go, folks. My decider finale. Seriously. I’m done after this one. Hollywood can make a person forget what’s important in life, ya know? Forget who we are. Ruthless bastards! So, I’m going fishing with daddy… or duck hunting with Dick. (Beat.) On second thought…

(Suddenly the walkie-talkie blares.)

ASST:
Sir?

DECIDER:
(Startled.) Holy mother of God!

ASST:
Sir?

DECIDER:
What!? What for Christ sake you goddamned sniveling toad!

ASST:
I quit! Get a different assistant you washed up no-good abusive prick! I called the authorities, too! I told them all about all the dead bodies and that you don’t care! You don’t care as long as you’re making money! Well I’m not that kind of person! I have a conscience! I’ve taken the cashbox, too! You not only don’t have any actors or crew, but now there’s no money! It’s all gone and so is every living soul! They’re all gone! They all blame you for ruining this film! You did it! You barked orders and treated people like dirt! You’re the worst decider of all time! And that’s an extremely long list of asshats!

DECIDER:
You’ll never work in this town again! You walk off this set and you’re history! You hear me? History! H.I.S.T.E.R.Y! Got that?

ASST:
Jesus! You’re a stupid bastard!

(A loud feedback is heard as the ASSISTANT has obviously thrown the walkie-talkie. It comes skidding to a stop at DECIDER’S feet. He stands motionless for a good while not moving. Soon he turns and faces the audience. Smiling weakly, he comes downstage.)

DECIDER:
Fishing with daddy.

(DECIDER looks front watching the audience intently. The extras begin to move. They slowly begin to rise like zombies.)

DECIDER:
I am the decider. I’ve decided to go fishing. I’ve already been paid! And they call me the idiot! Ha! I’m rich beyond my audiences imagination so what the hell do I care! Right? You are all going to regret my absence, but you know what? Screw you! Yeah! You heard me! Screw you! My genius is lost on the world! My talents are out of your reach! I know how to get things done in this town! I’m a genius and I’m rich rich rich! I’m the decider and as the decider I get to decide and I’ve decided to go fishing! So screw you! (Turning.) And screw this movie! Agggghhhhhh! What the-

(The zombies are upon him. The women, men and children zombies now begin to devour him.)

DECIDER:
Cut! Cut! No! Bad choice of words! …Help! Help!

(His emptiness echoes for a good moment as lights fade.)

The End.

Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

(Cinéma vérité is a style of filmmaking, combining naturalistic techniques that originated in documentary filmmaking, with the storytelling elements typical of a scripted film. It is also known for taking a provocative stance toward its topics. The name is French and means, roughly, “cinema of truth”.)

Sunflower

As the audience files in they see a single flower growing out of center stage underneath a soft spotlight. It is a magnificent yellow sunflower rising up to greet the afternoon sun. A soft violin solo fills the air. Houselights fade and all is dark save for the soft light. The violin swells and the light slowly fades. The music fades out as we hear a woman speaking from the dark. Lights rise on and around the flower now and we see a woman kneeling on a blanket.

WOMAN:
Are you warm enough? I brought a blanket to sit on. I will leave it with you. I’m sure nights here are dreadfully cold. Is that okay? Can I leave the blanket for you? (Beat.) Good. Then I will. (Beat.) Yes. (Beat.) After I leave. (Long pause.)  The children are doing fine. (Beat.) Chelsea made the honor roll. (Beat.) Wait? No. I- I probably already told you that, huh? (Beat.) That was last year. (Beat.) My mind always travels backward now. Since you were- …Since you’ve been gone I can’t even remember what day of the week it is. Or was I always like that? (Beat.) Forgetful. Harebrained.  (Beat.) Yes. Yes. I guess I was. (Beat.) Still, I forget too many things now.(Long pause.)William won the fifth grade city football championship this year. I remember that. (Beat.) Yes. It was this year. This month. This week even. I know because I lost my voice for three days. I just got it back today. (Beat.) How? Well you know me… I screamed at the refs ’til I blew out my chords I guess. (Beat.) “What are you blind, ref?” “Where’d you learn to call like that, zebra boy?” (Beat.) “You’re an idiot!” “Penalty?” “Penalty?” “What the f’in’ hell is wrong with you, ref? Are you a g.d. f’in’ moron!?” “Oh! F you, ref! He was not out of f’in’ bounds! It’s a damned touchdown you f’in’ brainless imp of an s.o.b.!” “F you, you stupid cocksucker! F you!”

(Sudden and long pause.)

They didn’t do anything to me. They didn’t even threaten to kick me out of the stadium. Bunch of cowards. (Beat.) They just stared at me… They thought I was nuts! That I was crazy… But they knew. Of course they knew. …All those dazzling and polished PTA Sunday School mothers and fathers with their sideways glances loading their damn kids into their Escalades! They- They know. They know! Everybody knows! “Oh. Poor Jenny. She lost her-“ …”Shut up! Shut up! You think I don’t know you’re talking about me? F you! F you you stupid pretentious bitch!” (Pause.)Of course they did, Michael. They knew why I was yelling. They damn well knew. (Beat.) They didn’t do a damn thing to me… Just stared at me in slack jawed sympathy like I was a mortally wounded puppy.(Pause.)

William couldn’t look at me after the game. He said I was just hurting and that I shouldn’t have gone to his game in the first place. (Beat.) He couldn’t even look at me, honey… Not a word was said on the way home. (Beat.) Well, except Chelsea telling me I was the coolest mom ever. She’s sixteen, what does she know, right? She kept saying how cool I was for telling off the ref. “You rock, mom!” “You f’in rock!” I slapped her. I slapped her across the face. It was so sudden. I don’t know where it came from. I slapped her hard. I don’t know why I did that, Michael… I made her cry. Not the kind of cry from physical pain. More like a staggered and broken soul kind of cry. You know? Like when they came to tell me you were-. (Beat.) It was the same kind of cry. The most awful thing to witness, you know? Mouth open wide, no sound, no breath, no tears… Kind of a gaping, empty cry. (Beat.) It’s more painful to watch than it is to actually do. (Pause.) Needless to say, the ride home was the longest fall off a cliff I’ve ever experienced. The worst kind of silence in the world.

(Long pause.)

After we got home Chelsea went over to Pam’s house. More like she ran to Pam’s house. (Beat.) Yes. You know the girl down the street. (Beat.) Yes. Her dad’s the man that sold us our house. Anyway, William went straight to his room without saying a thing or even looking at me. (Pause.) I could hear him throwing things around in his room for a long time. (Beat.) He broke all of his things. He broke them all with his favorite bat. (Beat.) He broke all of your things, too… He was screaming the whole time. Crash. Scream. Scream. Crash. …Yelling at me, too. I’m downstairs and he’s upstairs in his room yelling and screaming as if I’m right there with him. (Beat.) Then he starts yelling at you. (Beat.) Terrible things, Michael. I had never heard him talk like that before. It scared me. I was shaking and crying and then… everything went silent. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. Of course, I panicked. I thought “Oh God! Oh God!” I ran upstairs to his room and he was laying on the bed, what was left of it anyway. He was just laying there reading one of your comic books… (Beat.) Yes. A comic book, Michael. He had your entire collection in his room, and the one he was reading? Superman! He was reading Superman! Super-f’in’-man! It was the only one he hadn’t torn to shreds! Superman… Isn’t that ironic? (Beat.) He won’t even look at me. He won’t. Nobody else seems to have a problem looking at me, just our son…

(Long pause.)

Why, Michael? (Beat.) Why did you have to go to that damnable war? You should have stayed home, Michael. You should have stayed home with your wife and kids. (Beat.) I could kill that son of a bitch! I could!

(She can contain her flood no longer.)

Oh! God! Goddamnit! They just stared at me with that disgusting pity! The kind of pity that can only be found in “Thank God it wasn’t my husband or wife or son or daughter that was slaughtered by those scary fucking Arabs!” The pity of stained ignorance! Fools! Bunch of goddamned fools! Think they know everything! They don’t know a goddamned thing, Michael! Nothing! (Beat.) No! What makes you think you can help me? Jesus! You’re not here, Michael! You’re not here! I need you, but you’re not here are you? Your children need you! They need their father more than they need me! I’m here, so why the hell would they need me!? (Beat.) They’re going to grow up to hate, Michael. They’re going to grow up plotting revenge. Problem is they’ll be plotting against the wrong enemy. (Beat.) What am I supposed to do, Michael, huh? Tell them their father was killed by Iraqis? Arabs? By Islamic fascists? By the brown skinned? By people jealous of our freedoms? Huh? What am I supposed to tell them? What’s the right thing to do? (Beat.) Does everyone in this fucking country expect me to lie to my children? That I should say that America’s the greatest nation on earth? We’re the defenders of freedom for freedom’s sake? That it was because Iraq posed some threat, orchestrated 9/11, WMD? Well I will not do that! I will not lie to my children! (Beat.) I’ll curse at refs and take all the shitasses’ sideways glances, but I will not lie about the reason their father died! (Beat.) I will tell them exactly why. I will tell them that you died for nothing, Michael! For greed! For rich motherfucking assholes so they can get richer! I don’t care how that sounds, Michael! I don’t! I don’t give a damn if the slack jawed PTA try to run me down with their Escalades, I will tell our children the truth! They deserve to know! They deserve to know that you loved them dearly and that you were murdered! Executed by fucking oil barons bent on goddamned empire!

(She is nearly spent now. Long pause.)

I will tell them the truth. I will not lie. I will tell them the whole ugly disgusting truth. I will not pretend. I will not wave the flag and act like the good little patriot’s wife. I won’t do that.

(Lights begin to fade.)

There’s nothing left, Michael. (Beat.) Nothing but the truth. The truth and this beautiful sunflower. (Beat.) This sunflower is the truth. It is the only thing left. (Beat.) Isn’t it beautiful, Michael?

(Lights have faded now, save for a single spot on the sunflower.)

Isn’t it just beautiful?

(The spot on the flower intensifies with the sudden and ferocious start of the violin solo. After a moment the music shrieks to a halt. The sunflower stays lit until the audience is gone.)

The End.

Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

The Anti-War Theatre

THE MASK OF WAR

(Two mothers, one Israeli and one Lebanese, stand center as lights rise on the bare stage.) 

M1:
Come now, Bara’ah! Time for school!

M2:
Hedasaa! Where are your books?

M1:
Bara’ah, hurry! You will be late for school!

M2:
Hedasaa, hurry! I have your lunch! Let’s go!

M1:
Bara’ah!

M2:
Hedasaa! (The women now cross left and right and then cross downstage edge calling out over the audience.)

M2:
Did you hear your mother?

M1:
I said for you to come now!

(A slow and sad violin solo now begins to play. The women look toward one another but do not acknowledge the other as broken concrete and debris begins to slowly descend around them from above. The women again call out over the audience.)

M1:
I said come on, slow poke!

M2:
You better get a move on! I’m giving you ten seconds, young lady! M1:
It is time for school, Bara’ah!M2:
…Five! Four! Three! Two! One!(The concrete and debris touches the floor and the violin peaks! The women’s cries now turn to desperation as they walk about their respective debris searching for their children.)

M1:
Bara’ah!

M2:
Hedassa!

M1:
Come my child! Where are you?

M2:
Hedassa!

M1:
Where are you? Bara’ah! Mama needs you to come to her!

M2:
Hedassa, please talk to me! Mama needs to hear your voice! Hedassa!

M1:
Bara’ah! My innocent child!

M2:
Hedassa! My shining star!

(The women, standing near different blocks of concrete, are now horrified.)

M1:
BARA’AH!

M2:
HEDASSA!

(As they speak the next lines they cross behind the concrete and pick up colorful blankets [their children]. They weep and hold them dear.)

M1:
My child!

M2:
Oh my baby!

M1:
My beautiful innocence! My Bara’ah!

M2:
Hedassa! My lovely baby! No!

M1:
Oh! My dearest baby!

M2:
Mommy is here! Mommy is here…

(They now weep for a good moment holding their children. Soon, WAR, A man dressed in all black and wearing a haunting all white theatrical mask, enters and crosses to them and takes the children (the colorful blankets) and then crosses to the downstage center edge.)

M1:
Oh! Freshly turning earth! What have you done to my child!

M2:
Finish this! End thy collection of death!

M1:
Why has Dawn collapsed around us? Around our children?

M2:
Our children did nothing to deserve this!

M1:
They were innocents! You should have taken me!

M2:
Why have you forsaken us? Their small wings clamoring for heaven!

WAR:
HEY! …I know nothing of clamoring wings or heaven. I am also not earth.

M1:
Who are you?

WAR:
Who I am matters not.

M2:
Then what are you?

WAR:
I am War.

M1/M2:
War?

WAR:
Yes. You may know me best as death or destruction or any number of trite terms for my reality, but I am war and I have taken your children.

M1:
They were innocent children! Why would you take them?

WAR:
Why matters not.

M2:
Yes! Yes! Why matters most!

M1:
Why children? Why a child?

WAR:
Ladies, I merely collect. I do not ask who or why. Good day. (Exiting.)

M2:
No! Answer our questions! Answer them!

M1:
Yes! You owe us that much!

WAR:
(Turning.) I owe you nothing! I am war! Your questions are for your God! Your questions are of no concern to me! I am mighty war! I am of vital importance to the State!

M2:
Whose?

WAR:
Like I said, lady. Who mat-

M1:
Why do you wear a mask if “who” matters not?

WAR:
For effect…

M2:
Then you needn’t wear it…your effect is great enough.

WAR:
Thank you. I suppose it is.

M1:
I always thought war would be-

WAR:
What? A bloody beast? A deformed monster?

M1:
No. Taller.

WAR:
(An aside to the audience.) I knew I should have gone to Iran or Syria today…

M2:
But the children…Why the children? They haven’t anything to do with you!

WAR:
They’re just collateral damage. If I allowed myself to get all boo-hoo about these sorts of things I’d go bonkers!

M1:
You feel nothing?

WAR:
I am pure courage, strictness, malevolence, sincerity and wisdom. End of story.

M2:
What?

M1:
Wisdom? Sincerity?

M2:
You are not wise or sincere! You are ugly!

WAR:
Like I said everyone has their opinion about what I am, yet it matters not.

M1:
You feel nothing?

WAR:
Nothing. Other than I should not have engaged in this idiotic dialogue.

M1:
You feel no remorse? No sorrow? No guilt?

WAR:
Nothing.

(W2 slams WAR in the back of the head with a large chunk of concrete and he falls to the ground hard and the children (blankets) fall to his side.)

M2:
Did you feel that?

(The ladies pick up their children and lay them to the side, then, armed with concrete, they proceed to savagely pummel him. They beat him with great anger and sorrow. They scream and lay into WAR as if they had lost all of their humanity, this for some time with their backs to the audience. The beating stopped, the women rise and pick up their children and cross downstage. Blood drips from their faces, hands and body. This sight for a good moment, then…)

M2:
What will you do now War?

M1:
Yes. What, now that you are dead?

M2:
You shall not return for my son.

M1:
Yes. You shall never slaughter again!

M2:
“Who” certainly matters not now!

(The women hug and smile. They soon begin exiting in opposite directions carrying their children. Each spit upon WAR’S body as they pass. The violin solo has peaked again. Soon WAR begins to show signs of life as lights begin to slowly fade to a spot upon him. WAR has made it to his knees. His mask is still intact. Thick blood oozes and drips from his limbs and out the holes of his mask. He raises his head and looks straight out at the audience for a long moment. The violin screeches! Sudden blackout!)

The End

Copyright © 2006 mrp thepoetryman