Accidental Death of an Anarchist (NHB Modern Plays) E-Book

Dario Fo

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 114

Beschreibung

An irrepressible fraudster known only as the Maniac is brought into Police Headquarters just as the officers are preparing for a judicial review of the recent 'accidental' death of a suspect in custody. Outwitting his captors, the Maniac dupes them into performing a farcical recreation of the incident, exposing the absurd corruption and terrifying idiocy at the heart of the system. Dario Fo and Franca Rame's riotous satire has been widely performed around the world since its premiere in 1970. Tom Basden's acclaimed adaptation was first performed at Sheffield Theatres in 2022, directed by Daniel Raggett, and starring Daniel Rigby as the Maniac. The production transferred to the Lyric Hammersmith Theatre in 2023, before moving to the Theatre Royal Haymarket in London's West End. 'An Italian classic reborn as an unmissable police satire' - Metro 'A glorious comedy that leaps off the stage' - The Times 'A riotous satirical farce brought bang up to date… Tom Basden's full-blooded adaptation [is] a furious but funny broadside against police malpractice… supremely, dazzlingly funny' - Guardian 'A glorious romp from the super-talented Tom Basden' - Observer

Leseprobe

Dario Fo and Franca Rame

ACCIDENTAL DEATH OF AN ANARCHIST

adapted by

Tom Basden

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Original Production Details

Accidental Death of an Anarchist

Endnote

About the Authors

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

This adaptation of Accidental Death of an Anarchist was commissioned by Holly Reiss and developed for the West End by Matthew Byam Shaw and Jack Lea for Playful Productions.

It received its West End premiere at the Theatre Royal Haymarket, London, on 12 June 2023, presented by Matthew Byam Shaw, Nia Janis and Nick Salmon for Playful Productions, Holly Reiss, Len Blavatnik and Danny Cohen for Access Entertainment, Karl Sydow for Dance with Mr D, Playing Field, Eric Kuhn and Tulchin/Bartner. The cast and creative team was as follows:

THE MANIAC

Daniel Rigby

SUPERINTENDENT CURRY

Tony Gardner

DETECTIVE DAN DAISY

Tom Andrews

INSPECTOR BURTON

Mark Hadfield

PC JOSEPH

Ro Kumar

PC JACKSON/FI PHELAN

Ruby Thomas

Director

Daniel Raggett

Set and Costume Designer

Anna Reid

Lighting Designer

Jai Morjaria

Sound Designer & Composer

Annie May Fletcher

Video Designer

Matt Powell

Additional Musical Arrangements & Supervision

Nick Barstow

Fight Director

Kenan Ali

Casting Director

Lotte Hines CDG

Production Manager

Juli Fraire

Associate Director

George Jibson

Associate Producer

Jack Lea

Costume Supervisor

Binnie Bowerman

Company Stage Manager

Paul Ferris

Deputy Stage Manager

Ray Young

Assistant Stage Manager

Bella Kelaidi

Prior to this, the adaptation was first performed at the Playhouse, Sheffield Theatres, on 23 September 2022, with the following cast:

THE MANIAC

Daniel Rigby

SUPERINTENDENT CURRY

Tony Gardner

DETECTIVE DAN DAISY

Jordan Metcalfe

INSPECTOR BURTON

Howard Ward

PC JOSEPH

Shane David-Joseph

PC JACKSON/FI PHELAN

Ruby Thomas

The production transferred to the Lyric Hammersmith Theatre, London, on 13 March 2023, with the same cast, and presented by arrangement with Jamie Hendry.

Characters

MANIAC – an unnamed, compulsive performer, the only character able to see the audience

BURTON – Inspector Burton, from the third floor

SUPERINTENDENT – Superintendent Curry, the station chief

DAISY – Detective Daisy, a plain-clothes detective

JACKSON – PC Jackson, from the third floor

JOSEPH – Agent Joseph, the superintendant’s aide

PHELAN – Fi Phelan, a journalist

RANDALL – Judge Randall, also played by the Maniac

ACT ONE

Scene One

A very normal-looking room in a police station. It has a wooden desk and chair and a small filing cabinet.

There is a large Metropolitan Police crest on the wall. And a number ‘3’. And a clock, stopped at 5:15. On the desk is a telephone. There are two doors and, to one side, a large window. A view of the city can be seen from it.

The MANIAC enters, clutching a large Liberty bag. He stands, putting the bag down, and walks around the stage, smiling and waving to the audience, taking in the ambience, smelling the space. Music plays.

INSPECTOR BURTON enters, carrying a folder and laptop, and hangs up his overcoat on the back of his chair and then sits. CONSTABLE JACKSON enters after and stands by the door. BURTON looks around, confused.

BURTON. Turn it off!

The MANIAC takes out a small tape player from his bag and turns it off. He stands and begins to stretch. First the arms. Then the calves. He squats. BURTON puts his laptop on the desk. And then looks up at the MANIAC, angrily.

Sit down!

The MANIAC does so. He stretches his neck as BURTON opens the folder. The MANIAC clears his throat. BURTON looks at him. And then resumes reading.

MANIAC. Mi mi mi mi mi…

BURTON. And shut up.

The MANIAC does so.

Flight attendant, naval engineer, minor royal… quite the repertoire you’ve got, isn’t it?

MANIAC. Thank you very much.

BURTON. Heart surgeon?! Bloody hell!

MANIAC. A theatre’s a theatre, Inspector, be it West End or operating. I’m not fussy, I’ll work anywhere.

BURTON. So I see. Translator for the Russian Embassy. You speak Russian then, do you?

MANIAC. Ha! No, not a word.

BURTON. So how did you manage that then?

MANIAC. Oh don’t be obtuse, man. A good translation does not reproduce the source material word for word, it captures the essence, not the detail. And in the case of the Russian Embassy, the essence of every press release or communiqué is always ‘The accusation is outrageous and anyway you did it first…’

BURTON. All told, we’re talking… five, six –

MANIAC. Twelve.

BURTON flicks through the file as the MANIAC creeps round to read over his shoulder.

BURTON. Eight, nine –

MANIAC. It is twelve –

BURTON. Twelve arrests for impersonation –

MANIAC. But not a single charge. As you can see, my record is unsullied.

BURTON. Yeah, not for long. I don’t know how you’ve got away with it so far, but you’re getting sullied today, I promise you.

The MANIAC puts his arm around him coyly.

MANIAC. Please be gentle, Inspector, it’s my first time.

BURTON pushes him away.

BURTON. So what is it now then? Therapist.

MANIAC. Psychiatrist, actually.

BURTON finds a business card.

BURTON. ‘Senior Professor of Psychiatrics, Wadham College Oxford.’ Ha! Well that’s a crime right off. Inventing qualifications.

MANIAC. Of course it is. Fabricating doctorates, degrees, identities would be a criminal offence if I were sane. But I’m sadly not.

BURTON. You’re what?

MANIAC. I’m not.

BURTON. You’re not what?

MANIAC. Sane. I’m mad.

BURTON. Is that right?

MANIAC. It is. Certifiable. Literally, look.

He takes a framed certificate out of his bag and passes it to BURTON.

None of it is my fault. I have a serious mental illness.

BURTON. Which is what exactly?

MANIAC. The desire to act. ‘Istrionomania’ to give it its technical name.

BURTON writes this down.

BURTON. Istro… what?

MANIAC. Istrionomania. From the Italian istrione, meaning classical actor, with the hint of the ham. Istrione al proscuitto crudo if you will. The condition of compulsively needing to perform, anywhere, anyone, any time. Hence my pathological fear of the dark.

BURTON. What… Why?

MANIAC. Well because blackouts are very death to the actor. I am always on, Inspector. So it’s essential that the lights are as well.

BURTON. Jesus… you’re kidding me. You’re like this all the time?

MANIAC. I’m afraid so, yes. All the world’s a stage for me. I think of daily life as a kind of théâtre vérité in which the rest of the cast are made up of non-actors who are unaware that a show is taking place. Which is lucky because I couldn’t afford to pay them.

BURTON. Looks like you could afford it now though, doesn’t it? You could afford to build a bloody theatre with the money you’ve been making as a so-called therapist.

MANIAC. Psychiatrist! How dare you!

BURTON. What’s the difference?

MANIAC. Psychiatrists can charge far more.

BURTON. Right, yeah… Five grand per session.

JACKSON. Fucking hell.

MANIAC. I know. Very cheap really when you consider my training…

BURTON. What training’s that? Drama school?

MANIAC. Almost. Mental hospital. Twenty years at sixteen different institutions, among the thousands of patients like myself. I’ve studied them up close, not just nine-to-five like your average workaday shrink, but twenty-four-seven. I’ve eaten with them, showered with them, slept with them. Among them, I’ve not – I’ve very rarely slept with them. QED I am prodigiously good at knowing what makes people tick. Or tock. Or quack, depending on the condition.

BURTON. I should hope so. Thirty-five grand you’ve charged people so far.

MANIAC. But, my dear Inspector, I had to charge that much. For my patients’ sake.

BURTON. Oh it was for their sake, was it?

MANIAC. Of course. The more you cost, the more you’re worth. The more people think you know what you’re doing. Was it not Freud who said, ‘To truly cure the mentally ill, add some zeros to your bill.’ It has enormous health benefits, I assure you, particularly for the doctor.

BURTON. But you’re not a doctor, are you? And you’re certainly not… (Reads.) ‘Antony Bile: MA, Senior Professor of Psychiatrics, Wadham College Oxford.’

MANIAC. I never said I was.

BURTON. Of course you did. You’ve got a bloody business card.

MANIAC. Business card? Who said it was a business card?

BURTON. Well what is it then?

MANIAC. It’s very clearly a script.

BURTON. A what? A script?

MANIAC. The pages are small, I grant you, but the formatting is unmistakable. Look at the punctuation. (Reads.) Antony Bile, colon, indicating that what follows is of course my line.

BURTON. Okay, go on then, so you say… M-A.

MANIAC. I say ‘Ma’. Well I shout it. It’s capitalised because I’m shouting you see. ‘MA!’ I’m calling my mother. And then I turn to the members of our group, hence the comma, to signify a shift of perspective and say ‘Senior Professor of Psychiatrics’ to get his attention and then another comma as I turn to the spire that looms up ahead, ‘Wadham College Oxford.’ We’re approaching by bus, you see. This is all perfectly clear in context.

BURTON. You really expect me to believe this is from a play?

MANIAC. Of course, I’ll perform if for you.

The MANIAC acts sitting on a bus. And seeing something.

‘MA, Senior Professor of Psychiatrics, Wadham College Oxford!’

BURTON. That’s fucking rubbish.

MANIAC (offended). Well you clearly haven’t seen much theatre. I can give you a crash course if you like. We’ll start with the Greeks and work our way west.

BURTON. Yeah, yeah, I know what this is. I’m not an idiot, you know?

MANIAC. Oh, are you not? Good for you.

BURTON. I’ve seen this before.

MANIAC. Quite possibly. It was first staged in 1970.

BURTON. You’re acting alright. You’re acting like a loony so I let you go. I bet, underneath it all, you’re saner than I am.

The MANIAC takes a stethoscope from his bag and launches himself at BURTON over the desk.

MANIAC. Well I wouldn’t know. Let’s have a look at you and find out. Pop your trousers on the desk for me –

BURTON pushes him away.

BURTON. And it won’t work. Not with me. I’m going to finish this statement and see that this gets taken seriously.

MANIAC. Fantastic. Let me help! I can type sixty words a minute, as long as the words are ‘A’ or ‘I’.

The MANIAC tries to start typing on the laptop keyboard.

BURTON. Sit down or I’ll cuff you –

MANIAC. Ah bless. No, I’m sorry, you won’t. Section 136 of the Mental Health Act. Without an assessment from an AHCP (appropriate healthcare practitioner) and the presence of an AMHP (approved mental health professional) I’m afraid you can do AFFOFEOFA – about four-fifths of five-eighths of fuck-all.

BURTON. So you’re a legal expert as well, are you?

MANIAC. I am actually. I was fortunate enough to share a cell with a schizophrenic attorney general. He taught me every law out there – criminal, civil, medical, military, sharia, Newtonian, Murphy’s, Sod’s.

BURTON (checks the file). Huh. And yet you’ve never impersonated a lawyer?

MANIAC. Oh no, I’d hate that. Having to bother with tedious things like juries and facts. No, no, I want to decide the truth for myself and assemble the evidence accordingly – like the brave men and women of the Metropolitan Police.

BURTON stands.

BURTON. Watch it!

MANIAC. Officer, I’m paying you a compliment. I’m saying, yours is a far more artistic career than that of the lawyer. It requires genuine invention and panache. I’m not being sarky, I swear.

BURTON. Okay, well, I’ll be the judge of that –

MANIAC. Oh, now you’re talking! How I would love to play a judge. Ai me! The power, the dignity! You hit sixty, sixty-five, just as you should be tossed on the scrapheap, you’re suddenly in your prime.

The MANIAC sits in BURTON’s chair.

Just as factory workers are getting RSI, brickies are getting asbestosis, cabbies can’t remember where the A2 is, judges are just getting going. Seventy, eighty, ninety, deaf, senile, incontinent, never you mind, you crack on, old boy. As long as you can send people down we’ll keep promoting you. They only bang that hammer thingy to keep themselves awake… Order!

The MANIAC bangs his fist on the desk.

Order! Someone order me a gin fizz!

BURTON. Stop banging, you bloody loony!

BURTON goes to restrain him. The MANIAC spins round.

MANIAC. Hands off me or I’ll bite!

BURTON. And get out of my chair!

MANIAC. Make me.

BURTON (to JACKSON). Make him!

JACKSON. He’ll bite me.

BURTON. Of course he won’t.

MANIAC. I might. I might bite. I am a bit of a biter. I blame the rabies.

BURTON walks over to the door and opens it.

BURTON. Alright, fuck this, you win, get out. I don’t need this, you can go.

MANIAC. Oh no please, Inspector, please don’t kick me out! Just as we’re becoming friends. I beg you…

BURTON. Out! Go on! I’ve got enough to deal with as it is.

The MANIAC springs up and makes for the desk.

MANIAC. Then let me help! I can be the Watson to your Holmes. I can make people talk! I know how to waterboard! Or wineboard! Or cheeseboard! I know how to punch people without leaving a bruise! I’ll be a credit to the force. At least give me an application form!

BURTON. Piss off!

BURTON heads for the MANIAC. He jinks away, around the desk to the window.

MANIAC. No, please, it’s dangerous out there. The streets are heaving with electric scooters and bad tattoos and children wielding breadknives!

I can’t go back, I can’t, I… I’ll throw myself out the window!

BURTON freezes.

JACKSON. Oh my God, not another one.

MANIAC. What? What’s this? Another what?

BURTON. Nothing. She didn’t say anything.

MANIAC. But of course. This is where the poor sod flung himself out of the window! This very police station.

BURTON. It is, yeah –