The Pride E-Book

Alexi Kaye Campbell

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

Seitenzahl: 121

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

The powerful debut play from Alexi Kaye Campbell, winner of an Olivier Award, the Critics' Circle Award for Most Promising Playwright, and the John Whiting Award for Best New Play. Alternating between 1958 and 2008, The Pride examines changing attitudes to sexuality, looking at intimacy, identity and the courage it takes to be who you really are. The 1958 Philip is in love with Oliver, but married to Sylvia. The 2008 Oliver is addicted to sex with strangers. Sylvia loves them both. The Pride was first performed at the Royal Court Theatre, London, in the Jerwood Theatre Upstairs in November 2008. This edition of the play was published alongside its revival at the Trafalgar Studios in the West End in 2013.

Leseprobe

Alexi Kaye Campbell

THE PRIDE

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Title Page

Original Production

Dedication

Author’s Note

Characters

Act One

Act Two

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

The Pride was first performed at the Jerwood Theatre Upstairs at the Royal Court Theatre, London, on 21 November 2008, with the following cast:

PHILIP

JJ Feild

OLIVER

Bertie Carvel

SYLVIA

Lyndsey Marshal

THE MAN / PETER /THE DOCTOR

Tim Steed

Director

Jamie Lloyd

Designer

Soutra Gilmour

Lighting Designer

Jon Clark

Music and Sound Designers

Ben and Max Ringham

The Pride received its American premiere at the Lucille Lortel Theatre, produced by MCC Theater, on 27 January 2010, with the following cast:

PHILIP

Hugh Dancy

OLIVER

Ben Whishaw

SYLVIA

Andrea Riseborough

THE MAN / PETER /THE DOCTOR

Adam James

Director

Joe Mantello

Designer

David Zinn

Lighting Designer

Paul Gallo

Sound Designer

Jill B.C. DuBoff

The Pride was revived at the Trafalgar Studios, London, on 8 August 2013, with the following cast:

PHILIP

Harry Hadden-Paton

OLIVER

Al Weaver

SYLVIA

Hayley Atwell

THE MAN / PETER /THE DOCTOR

Mathew Horne

Director

Jamie Lloyd

Designer

Soutra Gilmour

Lighting Designer

Jon Clark

Sound and Music

Ben and Max Ringham

Associate Director

Edward Stambollouian

Voice Coach

Charmian Hoare

Fight Director

Kate Waters

To my parents, with love

Author’s Note

The main challenge in any production of this play is to handle effectively the constant scene and costume changes between the two different eras it is set in. How the director and designer deal with this challenge is up to them. Here, though, are a couple of thoughts.

When the play begins we should feel as if we are watching a 1950’s drawing-room play. Only as the play progresses does this world slowly start to disintegrate and break up. The furniture and walls gradually disappear until we find ourselves in the multi-locational second half. Then, the settings become less illustrative and more suggestive. A park bench signifies a park, a sofa signifies Sylvia’s flat.

One idea is to make a virtue of the costume changes – perhaps they take place somewhere on stage and are partly visible to the audience. Something more stylised. This might help the transitions between scenes become easier and more fluid.

The most important quality is one of confluence. The two different periods should meld into each other. They are distinct from each other in appearance but they know each other in spirit: a young woman standing next to her elder self. Different clothes, different hairstyles, different textures of skin… but the eyes are the same. The past is a ghost in the present just as the present is a ghost of prescience in the past.

Thanks to Ruth Little, Polly Teale, Nick Hytner, Federay Holmes, John Sackville, Noa Maxwell, Mark Leadbetter, Stephen Omer, Victoria Hamilton, Ben Daniels, Gregor Truter, and everyone at the National Theatre Studio.

Characters

1958OLIVER, mid-thirtiesPHILIP, mid-thirtiesSYLVIA, mid-thirtiesTHE DOCTOR, late thirties

2008OLIVER, mid-thirtiesPHILIP, mid-thirtiesSYLVIA, mid-thirtiesTHE MANPETER

OLIVER, PHILIP and SYLVIA are to be played by the same actors in both periods. One actor plays the DOCTOR, the MAN and PETER.

ACT ONE

1958

PHILIP and SYLVIA’s apartment in London. It is modest but tasteful. Lots of books, a sofa and armchairs, a few pictures on the wall.

PHILIP is standing by the front door. He is dressed for a night out. OLIVER has just arrived.

OLIVER. Philip.

PHILIP. Oliver.

OLIVER. Yes.

PHILIP. At last.

OLIVER. Yes.

PHILIP. I’ve heard so many things.

OLIVER. Have you?

PHILIP. So many things about you.

OLIVER. Gosh.

PHILIP. All good.

OLIVER. That’s a relief.

PHILIP. Sylvia’s always talking about you.

OLIVER. Is she?

PHILIP. I’m beginning to get rather jealous.

OLIVER. No need, I’m sure.

PHILIP. She thinks you’re a genius.

OLIVER. There are many things I am, but a genius is definitely not one of them.

PHILIP. Extraordinary is what she calls you.

OLIVER. Does she?

PHILIP. Out of the ordinary.

A slight pause.

Let me take your coat.

OLIVER. Thank you.

OLIVER takes off his coat and hands it to PHILIP, who hangs it up carefully.

PHILIP. I’m afraid the lady is running a little late. Applying the face paint, I believe. That ancient ritual.

OLIVER. I’m early.

PHILIP. Not at all. You’re right on time.

OLIVER. I walked. I thought it would take me slightly longer.

PHILIP. It’s a lovely evening.

OLIVER. Well, no rain in any case.

PHILIP. All the way from Maida Vale?

OLIVER. Yes, Maida Vale.

PHILIP. Across the park, eh?

OLIVER. Yes.

PHILIP. That’s a long walk.

OLIVER. I enjoyed it.

PHILIP. It’s the season for it.

OLIVER. Everything in full bloom.

PHILIP. Lovely.

A slight pause.

What can I get you to drink?

OLIVER. A Scotch?

PHILIP. Ice and water?

OLIVER. Perfect.

PHILIP. I think I’ll have the same.

PHILIP walks over to a small drinks table and pours them a couple of drinks.

She thinks your stories are wonderful.

OLIVER. She’s certainly captured the spirit of the thing.

PHILIP. She seems to care. About the book, I mean.

OLIVER. She’s very, very talented.

PHILIP. Can’t stop talking about it. Something about a garden.

OLIVER. Well, it’s more of a jungle, really.

PHILIP. A jungle.

OLIVER. Let’s call it a jungle in the heart of England. Or at least a very overgrown and rather tropical garden.

PHILIP. What is it with children’s writers and gardens? There seems to be a proliferation of them. Most of them secret, I dare say.

OLIVER. You’re right.

PHILIP. Well, she’s very busy with it in any case. Sketches of strange creatures all over the place. I came across a rather alarming picture of something that resembled a two-headed antelope in the bathroom the other day. Fascinating.

OLIVER. That’ll be the Bellyfinch. I’m supposed to be having a first look at it on Friday morning, I believe.

PHILIP. Bellyfinch indeed. I’m afraid by comparison my life seems rather lacklustre.

OLIVER. I don’t honestly believe there is such a thing as a lacklustre life.

PHILIP. You haven’t sold property for a living.

OLIVER. Unexplored perhaps, but not lacklustre.

PHILIP hands him his drink. They sit.

PHILIP. I’ve never met anyone like you before. A writer, I mean.

OLIVER. Haven’t you?

PHILIP. Apart from this ghastly friend of my mother’s who’s published a book on baking cakes.

OLIVER. Baking cakes?

PHILIP. I’m not sure that really counts.

OLIVER. That sounds a little unfair. Nothing wrong with books about cakes.

PHILIP. Have you only ever written for children?

OLIVER. For the most part. But I’ve written two travel books as well.

PHILIP. Sylvia mentioned it. One on Athens.

OLIVER. I lived there for a year.

PHILIP. And the other?

OLIVER. The other on the Lebanon.

PHILIP. The Lebanon?

OLIVER. But mostly I’m drawn to writing for children.

PHILIP. I wonder why.

OLIVER. I don’t really know. I think it might have something to do with running completely wild.

PHILIP. Wild?

OLIVER. The possibilities are infinite. The parameters and conventions of adult fiction I find a great deal more restrictive.

PHILIP. I see.

OLIVER. I feel a lot happier in a world of talking tigers and magic mirrors. More in my element, really.

PHILIP. Fair enough.

OLIVER. Maybe one day adult fiction will embrace my more extravagant flights of fancy, but for the time being I’m quite happy writing for the under-twelves.

PHILIP. Well, it seems to keep a roof over your head.

OLIVER. A leaking one, but yes, just about.

PHILIP. Well, here’s to the book anyway.

OLIVER. The book.

They toast.

PHILIP. It’s strange.

OLIVER. What is?

PHILIP. When I opened the door.

OLIVER. Yes?

PHILIP. You look familiar, is what I think I’m saying.

OLIVER. Yes, I thought so too.

PHILIP. Did you?

OLIVER. Yes, I think I did.

PHILIP. Well, maybe we’ve bumped into each other. On the Underground or something.

OLIVER. Maybe.

PHILIP. Stranger things have happened.

Pause.

Or maybe it’s just because she talks about you so often.

OLIVER. Talks about me?

PHILIP. So perhaps that’s why I felt like I’d seen you before.

OLIVER. How d’you mean?

PHILIP. Oh, it’s just that sometimes if you’ve heard a great deal about someone, if you’ve been expecting them in some way, you sort of imagine them before they actually arrive.

OLIVER. Yes.

PHILIP. If you know what I mean.

OLIVER. Yes, I think I do.

SYLVIA enters. She is smartly dressed for an evening out.

PHILIP. Here she is.

SYLVIA (to OLIVER). Has he been interrogating you?

PHILIP. Mercilessly.

OLIVER. Hello, Sylvia.

SYLVIA. He’s a very jealous kind of man.

PHILIP. Rabid with it.

SYLVIA. Can easily become violent. Philip, be a darling and do me up.

She turns her back to him so that he can help her with the top hook of her dress.

Comes in handy though from time to time, I must say. I see he’s offered you a drink.

OLIVER. He’s been the perfect host.

SYLVIA. So all that training wasn’t a complete waste of time after all.

PHILIP. I’m learning fast. Gin?

SYLVIA. I’ve booked the table for eight.

PHILIP. A quick one.

SYLVIA. Thank you, darling.

PHILIP goes to the bar to pour her a drink.

PHILIP. I’ve been telling Oliver how you keep talking about him.

SYLVIA. You haven’t been embarrassing me in front of my employer, have you?

PHILIP. Probably.

SYLVIA. I’ve been rather nervous, you know. God knows why.

OLIVER. Nervous?

SYLVIA. About the two of you meeting.

PHILIP. She has been putting it off, hasn’t she, Oliver?

OLIVER. Now that you mention it.

SYLVIA. It’s a silly thing, really. I suppose it’s just that I want you to get on.

PHILIP. We were doing just fine.

SYLVIA. To like each other, I mean.

OLIVER. I don’t see why we shouldn’t.

PHILIP. As long as I don’t discover you’ve been having a torrid affair behind my back we should get on just fine.

SYLVIA. I did warn you about his sense of humour, Oliver.

PHILIP. Sense of humour?

SYLVIA. Or lack of it, I should say.

PHILIP. You’re heartless.

SYLVIA. Just honest.

A slightly awkward pause. PHILIP hands SYLVIA her drink.

I hope you like Italian food, Oliver.

PHILIP. We’ve made a reservation at a little Italian place around the corner.

OLIVER. Lovely.

SYLVIA. Philip’s always making fun of it but I find it charming.

PHILIP. It’s extremely red. Everything in it is red.

OLIVER. I’m partial to a little red.

PHILIP. The walls, the tablecloths, the waiter’s face. Everything’s red.

SYLVIA. Philip’s convinced they’re not real Italians.

PHILIP. They’re Yugoslavians. I’m convinced they’re Yugoslavians pretending to be Italians.

OLIVER. It sounds interesting.

SYLVIA. But the food is good.

PHILIP. With a strong Serbian flavour to it.

OLIVER. Delicious, I’m sure.

A slight pause as they all sit down.

I’m very pleased to hear that a Bellyfinch has been spotted hanging around the house.

SYLVIA. Just a preliminary sketch, I’m afraid, but it’s getting there.

OLIVER. I can’t wait to see it.

SYLVIA. Hopefully by Friday it will be a little more confident. As we speak it’s looking a trifle too purple for its own good.

PHILIP. All this talk of Bellyfinch and Hampshire jungles has made me very curious. I can’t wait to read the damn thing.

SYLVIA. Well, you’ll have to be patient, won’t you?

OLIVER. Nearly there.

SYLVIA. Nearly. And in the meantime, you’re not to snoop.

PHILIP. It’s not my fault if you leave pictures of alarming things scattered across our home.

OLIVER. Is he a snooper?

SYLVIA. Of the very worst kind.

PHILIP. In the bathroom. On the sofa. Even in the fridge.

OLIVER. The fridge?

SYLVIA. Just once.

PHILIP. Something brown crawling up a tree. In the fridge. It was most disconcerting.

SYLVIA. The doorbell was ringing. I was preparing dinner. A moment of absent-mindedness, that’s all.

PHILIP. Your story has invaded us. And then I’m accused of being a snooper.

OLIVER. Please accept my apologies.

PHILIP. Apologies accepted.

They laugh. There is a pause.

I am envious of you two, you know.

OLIVER. Envious?

SYLVIA. Whatever of?

PHILIP. Oh, you know, your work. Doing something creative I suppose is what I mean. Being able to invest a certain amount of passion in what you do for a living.

OLIVER. It doesn’t feel passionate. Lonely more like.

SYLVIA. Philip is very frustrated in his work, aren’t you, darling?

PHILIP. I sell houses, Oliver.

OLIVER. You were saying.

PHILIP. Houses and flats.

SYLVIA. The thing that you really ought to know is that Philip came into his line of work almost by accident.

OLIVER. Accident?

PHILIP. My father died.

SYLVIA. Philip’s father died when he was just twenty-one.

PHILIP. I’d just left university.

SYLVIA. Philip’s father had spent years running his own business buying and selling property. Philip’s brother was all set up to take it over.

PHILIP. Well, he was being groomed for it, really. Father was grooming him for it. I was the useless one. Rather aimless, I’m afraid.

SYLVIA. But then two years later, Roger –

PHILIP. That’s my brother.

SYLVIA. Roger was killed.

PHILIP. It was an accident.

SYLVIA. A car accident. A terrible thing.

PHILIP. I had to look after my mother.

SYLVIA. And your sister.

PHILIP. So I had no choice, really. The business just sort of fell into my hands, as it were.

SYLVIA. I sometimes wonder what you would have done. What you would have been. If things had turned out differently, I mean.

PHILIP. God knows, so do I. I’d have emigrated, probably.

OLIVER. Emigrated?

SYLVIA. Philip’s always had this terribly mad idea of emigrating.

OLIVER. How exciting.

SYLVIA. Australia, Canada, that sort of thing.

PHILIP. Somewhere new.

SYLVIA. Do you remember you became obsessed with the whole idea of moving to Africa?

PHILIP. Africa, yes.

SYLVIA. He read every possible book that he could get his hands on. Books on Kenya, books on Rhodesia. They were strewn all over the house.

OLIVER. I’d love to visit Africa.

PHILIP. Never did make it further than Brighton, I’m afraid.

SYLVIA. One day.

OLIVER. One day.

PHILIP. Then next thing you know you wake up and you’ve spent the good part of your life showing people around empty flats.

SYLVIA. There are worse things one could do with one’s life.

PHILIP. Are there?

OLIVER. I’m sure Sylvia’s right.

PHILIP. (kindly). She always is.

Pause.

Now you on the other hand, Oliver, have made it beyond Brighton.

OLIVER. I’ve been to a few places.

SYLVIA. Oh, stop being modest, you’ve been absolutely everywhere.

OLIVER. Not quite everywhere.

SYLVIA. Oliver lived in Greece.

PHILIP. Yes, he was saying…

SYLVIA. And Italy. And Beirut. And Syria.

OLIVER. I do have an affinity with that part of the world.

PHILIP. How exciting. To have lived there.

SYLVIA. Oliver was based in Athens.

PHILIP. How wonderful.

OLIVER. I lived in a tiny little house at the foot of the Acropolis. Infested with mice, but absolutely charming.

SYLVIA. How utterly romantic.