Metamorphoses E-Book

Sami Ibrahim

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

Seitenzahl: 80

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

'We are here to make sense of it all.' From the everyday to the astonishing, and the ordinary to the miraculous, the Roman poet Ovid's stories of epic impossibilities explore the power of transformation, the resilience of humans, and the wonder of life. The myths of Metamorphoses have inspired generations of writers, including Shakespeare. Over two thousand years later, they are reimagined for our world by three leading British playwrights, and feature anarchy, shape-shifting and a burning chariot of fire. This entertaining and provocative new play, by Sami Ibrahim, Laura Lomas and Sabrina Mahfouz, was written for the candlelit Sam Wanamaker Playhouse at Shakespeare's Globe, London. It was first performed by four actors in 2021, and directed by Globe Associate Artistic Director, Sean Holmes and Associate Artistic Director of Headlong, Holly Race Roughan.

Leseprobe

Sami Ibrahim Laura Lomas Sabrina Mahfouz

METAMORPHOSES

Inspired by Ovid

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

Contents

Original Production Details

Introduction

A Note on Translation – Skin

Metamorphoses

Achilles

Actaeon

Arachne

Caesar

Cephalus and Procris

The Creation

Eurydice

Hecuba, Polyxena and Polydorous

Io

Juno and Jupiter

Medea

Midas and the Judgement of Apollo

The Minotaur, Ariadne, Theseus and Scylla

Myrrha

Orpheus

Orpheus and the Ciconian Women

Pentheus and Bacchus

Phaethon and Phoebus

Philemon and Baucis

Procne and Philomela

About the Authors

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Metamorphoses was first performed at the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse, Shakespeare’s Globe, London, on 6 October 2021 (previews from 30 September), with the following cast:

STEFFAN DONNELLY

FIONA HAMPTON

CHARLIE JOSEPHINE

IRFAN SHAMJI

Co-Director

Sean Holmes

Co-Director

Holly Race Roughan

Designer

Grace Smart

Candle Consultant

Simeon Miller

Introduction

This text was written by three writers but was shaped and influenced by two directors, a load of actors, and all the people who were part of our conversations along the way. Each writer was in charge of their own stories but these stories were developed by a whole company throughout workshops and rehearsals. We’ve decided not to credit individual stories to individual writers so as not to undermine the idea that this was a shared project.

The bulk of the writing was done during the summer of 2020, in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic. We’d meet over Zoom every couple of weeks to discuss Ovid’s stories, and our reactions to them. These conversations were informed by the events of that summer. As the UK and much of the world was in a state of lockdown, as the murder of George Floyd provoked global protests, as government incompetence in the UK led to rising death counts. It felt like a time when the structural inequalities in our societies were being laid bare. When the forces of chaos and power, and their effect on the rest of us, were exposed. The violent, tragic, sometimes humorous and often absurd nature of these events all informed our interpretation of Ovid’s stories. We would like to think we have found hope amongst the chaos too.

Because of the nature of the play we want the text to be more of a jumping-off point rather than something that is set in stone. It is an invitation to play and to explore.

The stories are presented here in alphabetical order but, in any future productions, we’d want you to make your own decisions as to the order the stories could go in (as well as which stories to include and exclude).

In some stories, we’ve clearly marked out who should speak which line, in others we’ve given a hint of how lines should be shared out, and sometimes we’ve just written a story as a single block of text. You should feel free to divide up lines however you wish, for as many voices as you wish.

Sami Ibrahim Laura Lomas Sabrina Mahfouz

A Note on Translation

Skin

23 mentions of skin where to begin begin with a cow black and white or brown Io a woman turned into a cow.

The Latin word for skin is pellis

or cutis or tergum or corium or tunica or paellis or tergus or pellicula or mastruca or corius or tegmentum or membrana or tegus or folliculus or excuviae or mastruga or paellicula or scortum or deglubo or decorio

all with other meanings such as armour or leather or back or bark or peel or hide so you begin to see that the beginning is never that, translation choosing the end point but in the end there are 22 more mentions of skin. Next most seen in English as ‘her native whiteness’ describing Io as she returns to human form. Latin word for white here is albus, also meaning bright and clear so she could have been ‘native bright’ meaning the glow of returning to her original form after being chased around the world for decades as a cow, by a mosquito.

Another word for white is candidus, which also means bright and shining, brown yellow beige black skin can be bright and shining, someone chose for it to not mean this.

Whiteness was decided where it wasn’t so the translators of the time could please their prejudice, ancient texts to prove a racism invented.

The myths themselves came from

Achilles

Achilles. Son of a king and a nymph. Warrior of the Trojan war.

Some say I’m the greatest warrior that ever lived.

Some say I’m a whore son of a bitch.

Both are right.

I cut off a lot of heads

and I did a lot of dodgy sex stuff.

One thing I really regret.

The whole ‘sacrifice Polyxena at the foot of my grave’ demand.

I was really overwhelmed with the power of being a ghost.

A heroic ghost too, I had the whole Greek army just waiting to do,

well, absolutely whatever I asked them to.

I know it was hard on Hecuba, to lose another daughter,

but it was Polyxena who led me to my death.

Yes, I could have asked for Paris, the man who actually shot me in the heel,

to be sacrificed instead, but I didn’t and that’s what I’m here to face.

Maybe I thought me and her… who knows.

She managed to escape in one of the tributaries of the River Styx,

so I never got to explore where that thought might go.

I’ve had a lot of time down here for self-reflection

and I can conclude that this demand was particularly selfish of me.

On a broader level, thinking about my childhood,

I don’t think it’s advisable to bring someone up to think they’re glorious

and celebrate their skills in bringing death and destruction and violence

to everything they touch.

It’s just… weird.

And there’s not much room left then for, you know, love.

Which is where I’m at in my journey.

Realising that’s all it was about, all I wanted, through all the wars.

Too late now of course, but it’s always good to work on yourself.

Sorry, Polyxena. Peace.

Actaeon

Actaeon was a nobleman

Son of Aristaeus

Grandchild of the gods

Some say he was the greatest hunter in all of Greece

It’s summer

The shadows, short. Midday heat.

Actaeon and his men have been out since first light, they’ve risen with the dawn and sweated through all the colours of the morning

Their nets are full. Their hands filthy. Their dogs are tired, their claws and their jaws, matted with the blood of dead animals

It’s time to go home

We’re in the middle of the forest. The bowl of a mountain range surrounds us. The sun bakes and bounces off hard rock, arid earth.

And close by to all this, in the valley of Gargaphia, there is a gorge. Hidden by trees, unknown to the hunters, this mountain well, is the bathing place of

Diana

Goddess of the hunt

And it’s hot, did we say it was hot?

Diana is bathing, her hunt done, she stands on the edge of the cool water, her body glistening with fresh blood

And there she undresses

Her nymphs help her

One takes her sword

Another her bow and arrows

Another loosens her thick hair, tousled and knotted from the morning’s charge

Another removes her gown

And a final takes her wreathed crown

Until she stands there,

Dappled in forest light

And this goddess is beautiful

This goddess is enormous, full of blood and heat

Her eyes shine

And her body radiates

As into the water she climbs, and sinks, her whole self under, until she emerges, at the foot of the gorge, flooded by water and light, and there she stays, the water cascading over her gigantic body, as her nymphs wash and bathe her

Now Actaeon is walking close by

His blood still racing from the last kill

He’s lost his hunting party

He’s taken refuge in the high pines and cool earth of the dark forest

When he hears, the gargling of the gorge

And he’s pulled, not by curiosity, but by something deeper, something more like fate, towards the sound

And so, he goes through the dappled light

And all the while the sound is moving through his body

He cuts through the trees

The sound becoming louder, he scrambles up a steep bank, the noise now beating in his chest and his head

And a wind rushes down, through the trees to warn him

But still, he goes

Because this sound, is the sound of his own desire, it’s the sound of his own blood moving through his own veins

He skids down a mossy scree, his whole body vibrating

Until all at once he reaches a clearing, and there he follows,

The ripples of the water, each rung disappearing as he traces a line to the origin of their energy

And sees

At the foot of the gorge

The Goddess Diana

Naked. In all her beauty

–

The nymphs scream

They twist their demented faces

They scatter to shield the naked goddess

But it’s no use

So high is this goddess

So big and so beautiful

She rises up, above them all

And Actaeon, he can’t help but stare

As if in seeing her, he is suddenly seeing eternity

As if this moment could sustain him

As if he could feast on it for a thousand years

And somewhere in the depths of his conscience he knows he should turn away

Somewhere he knows, that this isn’t right