59. Salvation and Justification Reprised Anew by Brian Chikwava (James)
“So I bliss’ pilgrim
Start anew,
with blazing foot on ladder.”
If there’s anything I’ve taken away from the 66 Books (and let’s be clear I’ve taken far more from this than any other theatre I can think of this year) - it’s how much the Bible, both Old and New Testament, is tinged with disappointment - with despair, failed promises, shattered glories and opportunities not taken. But deeper than that, is that always, until the end of all ends, hope remains. This section was about that hope for me - brimming with growth, acceptance, reconciliation and an understanding of where we have failed and lost. And, after the darkness of the previous section, I think Chikwava’s piece here sung and danced excellently by Jonjo O’Neill was a beautiful way to start. O’Neill was beatific, turning the dance into it’s own form of worship and exploration of face, with a simple refreshing joy.
60. Snow in Sheffield by Helen Mort (1 Peter) *
“I let the sheet rest on my face and I don’t breathe too much.
But today, the cold’s woken me up and I ache with it
so I make myself skin up, I make myself get out of bed,
make myself a cup of piss-weak tea. I drag myself
into the hallway where the floor’s all white too
because I stopped opening the post a long while ago,
the last time they let me see Sam, or further back from that
maybe I haven’t touched it since they sent me home.
Today, there’s a new letter on top of them all.
I notice it because the envelope is small and black
and it makes me think of coal in the snow, coal
for a snowman’s nose, or it makes me think of a footprint
or it makes me think of a bullet hole, like most things
do, so before you know, I’m bending down to pick it up,
gentle, like I’m taking something from a vicious dog”
Given that Phil Cumbus is one of the actors that has thoroughly impressed me this year, it’s not surprising that I would love this, but it was a truly excellent casting combination of actor and play – with the response very much fitting what I feel Cumbus does best. Managing to marry natural speech rhythms with a beautiful poetry and sense of magic. Making the real extraordinary. Very simply staged, it was the words here that were completely captivating. And it gently ached. Crammed full of very striking images that have continued to linger.
61. False Teachers by Suhayala El Bushra (2 Peter)
“AMIR: Then, I checked the label, right. Pork! Fucking pork. I said mum - this is pork. Not only is it batty, it’s fucking haram. You know what she said? ‘Amir, what does it matter anymore?’ What d’you think my dad woulda said to that? Sajid’s right man. The fucking Muslims in this country are actually worse than the English.
ASHLEY: Carl says it’s alright to hate Muslims. It’s not like hating people for being Pakis or whatever cos that ain’t their fault is it? They can’t help that. But you can help being a Muslim. You can just stop.
AMIR: You keep hating us mate. Cos the more of you there are hating us, the bigger we get.”
A really interesting piece, that’s difficult to describe simply, but is something of a ceasefire in a religion divide between two sundered friends, set in a school toilet’s, a no-man’s-land following a battle the night before. I really liked the conceit of having an imaginary toilet cubicle (though the toilet itself was real) – allowing us to see both the aggression outside and the choices being made inside. The ideas the script explored were both very poignant at the moment and interesting and I found the abandoned friendship between the boys fascinating – with both Divian Ladwa and Jamie Samuel impressing.
62. Something, Someone, Somewhere by David Eldridge (1 John)
“JOHN: I feel like I’ve let you down.
KAYE: You have.
JOHN: Have I?
KAYE: Yes you have.
JOHN: Have I?
KAYE: You’ve let us both down in a way. We could have had a life together. But you never had the courage.”
Another relationship that never quite worked, another missed opportunity, though this one seemed more coloured by a sense of acceptance and gentle regret. The anger and pain was missing, which felt right by this stage in the night (day?). It reminded me deeply of a friend who died of cancer a few years ago, so the peace of the response was very welcome.
63. Men In Verse by Nathalie Handal (2 John)
“This letter is the same letter. This place is the same place I wrote, Walk with me, this land is our verse.”
Another piece about friendship breaking down due to the religious divide, here the continuing conflict across the Gaza strip, though in this response the hopeful note at the end was much more clear and defined. It struck me that this was half a fairy story in tone and structure, which I loved. Plus I couldn’t help but smile at the cleverness of telling a literal tale of two Johns.
BREAK
64. Room 303 by Enda Walsh (3 John)
“I had working muscles then – now I am more of a quilt in substance. Fuck it! Now I am more of the bed – belong to the bed – my country is this room – my town is this mattress – my home is my head – and ordinarily I would complete a task.”
Another recorded piece, and whilst I still can’t quite shake the feeling that I would have found it more effective with a real live actor present, there was definitely an interesting, almost beneficial, reaction caused by the distancing effect of the recording. It was almost as if it gave my head space to allow the other stories I’d heard during the night and day to filter back through. Throughout these three last pieces I kept finding myself seeing flashes of other responses – Allie dead beside her television, a corridor buried in letters, the Chronicler reciting his histories, a stone held in a hand, a dead lion from a circus... Plus the decision to leave the shutters open, giving us a glimpse of the setting sun, worked incredibly well. And echoed back to the sun rising as Billy Bragg had sung nearly 12 hours before, welcoming in the New Testament.
65. The Goat at Midnight by Anne Carson (Jude)
“Beside his bed at Guantanamo
is a beside table.
In the table a drawer.
In the drawer a Gideon Bible.
Jude looks himself up.
For certain men, he reads.
Have crept in unnoticed.”
I still shudder a little when I remember this one, it is tinged with visceral horror for me. The shutters left open for the previous response, were banged shut with a note of finality and in near darkness Jude entered – haunting, cold, fearsome and fearful. An almost unrecognisable Nav Sidhu, creating a highly memorable performance. All heightened by Michael Bruce’s powerful music. (Bruce did a masterful job throughout of leading us from the different tones of one piece to another, displaying a vast range of influences. He’s a talent I watch with continued excitement.)
66. Endpapers by Kate
“(Stops writing.) Was there a journey? (Taps head.)Or was it only here? The doctors said I was ill, but how could they know? But they talked to me in a language I barely understood. (Beat.) I was a refugee. A woman in a land where women’s voices were of no account. A mother, once. (Beat.) If I was ill, it was grief that had made me so.”
I’ve not selected a favourite from these last three responses – because it was the combination of them together that I found incredible – they all but slew me, leaving me feeling utterly stricken. Endpapers, a slowly unravelling mixture of hope and fear and uncertainty. The piece took place in a room filled with childhood mementoes; a rocking horse covered with a dustsheet sticking in my mind, and with the quote above there was an added poignancy to the setting. The performance by Zoe Waites was tender, subtle and slightly heartbreaking. A feeling deepened when during the final joyous moments of a New Earth and a New Heaven, she opened her suitcase to reveal the green and blues of the world made out of what looked like a child’s blanket. The grief was almost crippling but couldn’t destroy the beauty that it was combined with.
CONCLUSION
It’s incredibly difficult to describe the immediate impact of 66 Books – a mixture of exhaustion and euphoria and pure emotion. Added to which was this incredible sense of warmth and community flowing from everyone at the theatre as the creative team joined the stage for the final curtain call, an absolute outpouring of joy and respect. It was an incredible achievement of every imaginable level – the work of the stage management team alone makes my mind boggle. It was an amazing twenty four hours that I hope (and suspect) I’ll never forget and I’ll treasure the candle they gave those of us who had lasted the night at the end. Absolutely superb. An artistic Everest, that they succeeded with sheer guts, hard work and panache.
The other, slightly less emotional or pseudo-intellectual response, is that this has built a huge amount of brand loyalty for me to the Bush. Which I suppose is a dirty word of sorts in the arts. It’s a theatre I’ve enjoyed before, but both its location and shared premises with a pub had put me off visiting. Now though, with the beautiful new venue, the comfortable hanging out areas and the warm glow I get just thinking about the venue, I’ll definitely be back. Plus I feel like I just had the best taster session ever. I hadn’t paid much attention to their next project, The Kitchen Sink, but checking it out again now – it’s written by Tom Wells of the superb Beardy, features Ryan Sampson who impressed me in Sole Fide – By Faith Alone and is directed by Tamara Harvey who was behind several pieces I love. How could I resist? (It’s also excellent if you’re thinking about giving it a go).
All in all a theatrical masterpiece, that I feel honoured to have witnessed.
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