Boy Parts E-Book

Eliza Clark

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: NHB Modern Plays
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 56

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

'I wonder what I have to do for people to recognise me as a threat. Do I have to smash a glass over the head of every single man I come into contact with, just so I leave a mark?' Irina takes erotic photos of average-looking men. Always behind the lens, she watches, she moulds, and she stalks. These boys are putty in her hands, just the way she likes it. When the opportunity to show her photographs in a fashionable London gallery coincides with a new boy to obsess over, cracks begin to appear. How far can she push her new prey for the perfect shot, or has she already gone too far? Based on the critically acclaimed debut novel by Eliza Clark, which was a finalist for the Women's Prize Futures Award, Boy Parts is a pitch-black psychological thriller that subverts the erotic gaze and asks what happens when our need for connection gets twisted. This stage adaptation for one actor by Gillian Greer was premiered in 2023 at Soho Theatre, London, in a co-production between Metal Rabbit Productions and Soho Theatre, and directed by Sara Joyce. Praise for Eliza Clark's novel: 'Hilariously sardonic… Will make most readers howl with laughter and/or shut their eyes in horror'Guardian 'A carnival funhouse ride: terrifying, feverish, hilarious' Julia Armfield 'Boundaries are for breaking and if anyone can crash through and reinterpret the fear of our time, Eliza Clark can'Mslexia 'Hallucinogenic, electric and sharp' Jessica Andrews 'Delightfully and deviously rooted in the now with its delectable internet and culture references and evocative and real-feeling portrait of women'Dazed 'Smart, stylish, and very funny' Lara Williams 'Explores the darkest corners of artistic practice, sexuality and violence with bold wit and fearlessness. A dazzling, horrifying debut'Irish Times

Leseprobe

Eliza Clark

BOY PARTS

Adapted by Gillian Greer

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Original Production

Characters

Boy Parts

About the Authors

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Boy Parts was first performed on 19 October 2023 at Soho Theatre, London, with the following cast:

IRINA

Aimée Kelly (she/her)

Director

Sara Joyce (she/her)

Video Designer

Hayley Egan (she/her)

Set & Costume Designer

Peter Butler (he/him)

Lighting Designer

Christopher Nairne (he/him)

Sound Designer

Tom Foskett-Barnes (he/him)

Casting Director

Jacob Sparrow (he/him)

Production Manager

Ryan Funnell (he/him)

Associate Production Manager

Jake Hughes (he/him)

Assistant Director & Stage Manager

Katie Jackson (they/them)

Assistant Stage Manager

Han Sayles (they/them)

General Manager

RJG Productions

Produced by

Sofi Berenger and George Warren for Metal Rabbit Productions and Soho Theatre

Associate Producer

Zoe Weldon (she/her)

Associate Producer

Oli Seymour (he/him)

Press

Caitlin Plimmer for Chloé Nelkin Consulting

Marketing

Soho Theatre

Digital Marketing

Soho Theatre and Elan James

Photographer

Rebecca Need-Menear

Graphic Design

Soho Theatre

Set

Prompt Side

Video Hire

Blue-i Theatre Technology

Lighting Hire

Version 2 Lights

Video Associate

Melissa Chan

Lighting Associate

Jacob Shooter

Sound Associate

Characters

IRINA, mid-twenties, from Newcastle. Beautiful, frightening

Irina also voices: SUIT SUIT 2 SUIT 3 ALKIE RYAN FLO WILL EDDIE MICHAEL ARTSY LAD DENNIS NURSE STEPHEN

Note on Text

A line ending with no punctuation indicates an unfinished moment or thought.

Text in italics indicates dialogue between Irina and other characters.

Text in bold belongs to a different world to the rest of the play. Still spoken by Irina, perhaps live, perhaps in voice-over, they are moments of lost control, the outside creeping in.

This is the story as IRINA tells it. She is an artist, a monster, a liar. She should not be trusted.

One – Bar

IRINA. I’m sick in my mouth on the bus into work, the sandwich I choked down at the Tesco self-checkout still identifiable by texture and flavour.

When it pulls over, I wobble on my heels. I imagine going over on my ankle, the bone snapping and breaking the skin. Driver looming over me, face full of concern, offering to take a look, to call an ambulance. Doe eyes from me, a wince. I would be very brave.

I imagine taking a photo in A&E and sending it to Ryan; yikes, guess I can’t come into work today! Sad face. I imagine sick pay, and flowers, and pain meds.

But I can’t make myself fall over. It’s like trying to drown yourself in the bath, you know? You just can’t.

I get to the bar late and it’s quiet.

I’m opening, Ryan’s not here yet. Deep breaths.

I am absolutely fucking hanging.

I hear them before I see them. First punters of the day, a gaggle of men in suits on their lunch break. Ties off, collars unbuttoned. High-fives and old fashioneds all round. Must be pay day.

They tell me I’m taking too long with their drinks, got to get back to the office, big board meeting.

Of course. Home Counties transplants. Colonisers. Cunts.

We’re one of three nearly identical bars scattered strategically around the Quayside. Watering holes of this particular brand of men, who left London for cheap pints and cheap property.

I restock the fridges, check the kegs, chop fruit, my head throbbing, my last shot of tequila still sour on the back of my tongue. I finish, they’re still stood there drinking, and I am in hell.

The ringleader separates from the pack. Mid-forties. Black eyes, like a pig. His slicked-back hair is thinning. I can see the colour of his scalp. He should order a drink but he just starts talking. Talking, and talking, and talking.

SUIT. I’m a partner you see, my time is very expensive

IRINA. Oh yeah? So is mine.

He slaps a twenty on the bar.

SUIT. That makes you mine for the day now, does it?

IRINA. Maybe the next five minutes

ALKIE. Excuse me

IRINA. A middle-aged woman bobs through the gaggle of suits and tries to push past him. She’s small but sharp. Fake tan a nut-brown, botched dye job. Probably an alkie. She’s got those urgent eyes.

ALKIE. Excuse me

IRINA. The suit slaps another twenty on the bar. Insulting. I pocket the money.

SUIT. So what time do you get off?

ALKIE. Excuse me

IRINA. He’s got some fuckin cheek

I’m just gonna serve this lady –

SUIT. I think you’ll find I was here first –

ALKIE. Excuse me??

IRINA. He leans over and grabs my wrist, belly pressing against the bar top. We are nose to nose.

SUIT. You’re shaking

Are you frightened?

IRINA. He is drunker than I realised. At this angle, his throat is exposed. I’ve got a free hand, a chorus line of bottles within reach. His eyes glitter like glass. I wish I had my camera.

ALKIE. Excuse me?! How old do you think my son is?

IRINA. The suit drops my wrist like the skin has burnt him.

Eh?

ALKIE. I said, how old do you think my son is?

IRINA. She thrusts her phone in my face. My website is on the screen. She is showing me a photo. A black-and-white still of a boy. It’s a close-up of his face, shoulders bare. Collarbones sharp and white. Mouth open, tongue bared like a present.

There is a hand grasping at his face. His tongue squirms between an index and middle finger.

My hand. My finger.

Ah.

ALKIE. Just how old does this lad look to you?

IRINA. He’s twenty.

ALKIE. Twenty? Does he fucking look twenty to you?

IRINA. She flashes her phone at the suit like it’s evidence.

SUIT. You’re into this sort of shit are you?

IRINA. He signed a consent form and brought ID, I can show ya –

ALKIE. That’s Dean, you stupid bitch, that’s my older boy’s passport. Daniel is sixteen. I’ll call the fucking police if you don’t take that down.

IRINA. Well, Daniel lied to me and brought false ID. I can’t be held responsible.

The suits cheer me on –

ALKIE. Delete it, delete it right now

SUIT 2. I’ll pose for one sweetheart

SUIT 3. Yeah, me too!

IRINA. The ringleader is loving this.

SUIT. I’ve got a stag do coming up. Do you do a Groupon or something?

IRINA. I liked him better when he was assaulting me.

I boot the back end of my website and delete the photo.

There. Gone.

ALKIE. I want to see a manager

IRINA. I am the manager

ALKIE. I want to see your manager then

IRINA. You see anyone else in?

The ringleader places a hand on the alkie’s shoulder

SUIT. Ladies, I’m sure we can come to some sort of conclusion here

ALKIE. Don’t fucking touch me you soft shite!

IRINA. Something turns in the room.