Theatre review: Scarborough

Dear Dad

Teacher-pupil sexual affairs may be one of the most frowned-upon social improprieties, but they offer rich fodder for dramatists to explore.

While there is often little room for controversy here — people are uniformly vociferous in their disgust at the teachers’ exploits from a position of power — and the law is patently on the side of public opinion, there is invariably a paucity of information on the emotional imperatives and dynamics involved behind closed doors.

In Scarborough, not only does English playwright Fiona Evans lead us behind those doors to examine a couple of plausible scenarios in such affairs, she also uses an innovative dramatic form to try to question our preconceptions.

We step into the sandy bedroom of a seaside guesthouse to perve on a weekend getaway by Phys Ed teacher Lauren and pupil Daz who’s turning 16 the next day. Despite an abundance of amorous play, it is clear she is more anxious of the consequences she’d have to bear should their liaison be exposed, than she is of her young lover’s psychological welfare.

At its best, this piece is mercilessly tender; Evans’ tale is salty, sharp, and shrewd.

It is soon revealed that Lauren was herself involved in teenage seduction with her swimming coach when she was merely 13 years of age.

Joanne Redfearn portrays the now 29-year-old with a suitable mix of languid sensuality and nervousness, insecurity and visceral disquiet. Redfearn’s nuanced performance makes it easy to believe Lauren is working through her personal demons on her charge.

And Matthew Connell’s Daz is excellent and dazzling with the cocky confidence of youth. Notwithstanding the occasional snide mischief, his authentic (if naively idealistic) affection for his teacher is unmistakable.

Elegantly directed by Celeste Markwell and Loren de Jong, in Casey-Scott Corless’ gorgeous set, The Honeytrap’s production deftly raises the questions Evans asks but does not answer.

I find myself struggling with the quandaries of whether or not Daz’s instigation of the affair renders Lauren less culpable, and of whether all teachers caught up in such scandals are malevolent, given that the coach Lauren has been involved with is planning to marry her.

But most of all, I grapple to determine who the victim really is: Daz, the one who seduces but is later dumped, Lauren who succumbs to sexual recklessness as an adult as she did as a child, or her prospective husband, yesterday’s perpetrator but today’s betrayed. Or, if indeed, there is a victim at all.

Then, to these multifarious conundrums, Evans has added, in a startlingly dramatic way, the issue of gender. She puts us through the script all over again in a second scene, but this time with a male teacher, Aiden (Doug Lyons), and a female student, Beth (Libby Brockman).

Although the girl pupil displays a more apparent innocence compared with the boy student – and therefore depicts perhaps a greater vulnerability — I cannot say the older man feels more sinister than the older woman; Lyons conveys a distinct melancholy rather than any menace.

All I can say, however, is that sitting through the lines again has a sating effect, never mind that certain lines which make sense in the first scene feels somewhat absurd in the second, like when Beth asks whether the woman Aiden is marrying “has a beard”.

Still, this show is stunning for the electrifying interplay between Redfearn and Connell, Lyons and Brockman, and for the production team’s marvellous staging that takes the first half of the play into breathtaking cinematic realms.

People in Melbourne should go and see it; it is one of those shows that grows the mind. Seriously.

Defence

Dear Dad

Laughter is defence against ills;

Resolve is defence against fear.

Hard work, against regret;

Memories, against grief.

But is indifference

the only defence

against pain?

Theatre review: How I Learned To Drive

Dear Dad

We may feel we have heard and read enough about pedophilia, especially of late, to last us a lifetime. Yet here is a revival of a 1997 award-winning play by American playwright Paula Vogel that again explores this disturbing subject. But rather than adopting a blunt judgement-driven approach, Mockingbird Theatre’s staging of How I Learned To Drive handles the issue with tremendous sensitivity, control, and finesse.

Central to the action is Li’l Bit, now a 35-year-old woman, recollecting her relationship with an Uncle Peck from whom she learned how to drive. Narrating this 100-minute one-act play, she takes us on a wildly emotional ride as she tosses us back and forth through various aspects of her memory play.

She was all but 11 years old when her uncle (by marriage) made her sit on his lap in the driver’s seat and dug his hands into her breasts. She never exposed his iniquities. His advances lasted for years.

Vogel first shows us how manipulative an offender can be when Uncle Peck repeatedly assures his niece he “would not do anything she didn’t want”, thereby sowing the seed of complicity — and hence imposing self-enforced silence — in the young girl’s mind.

But when the narrative unfolds to reveal how he is always there as her confidante in a less-than-nurturing family environment – and she, his — one starts to (reluctantly) question a black and white moralistic stance.

Under Chris Baldock’s elegant direction, the staging is in keeping with this dilemma, subtly shaping in a palpable tension between desire and discomfort during Li’l Bit’s times alone with Uncle Peck as she progresses through her teenage years.

Nevertheless, the predatory character of Peck, played by Jason Cavanagh, is never far from that: predatory. A fishing scene with a young nephew quickly reinforces our initial opinion of him although Cavanagh is utterly adept in shifting into and out of the avuncular, the machiavellian, the troubled, obsessed, and wasted.

His character’s background as a traumatised returned war Marine and his subsequent marriage proposal to Li’l Bit only intensify our struggle to grasp his motivations.

It is Sarah Reuben’s Li’l Bit, however, that captivates and steals the show. From the carefree, innocent adolescent offering conversation as solace to her distressed uncle, to the inebriated teenager, the tormented 18-year old, then the world-weary adult, Li’l Bit’s every emotion is carved onto Reuben’s face and every anguish pours from her dark eloquent eyes.

Whether the set conjures Maryland in the 1960s is arguable, but the occasional analogy with car and traffic symbols projected by voice or on a giant screen towards the back of the stage is an unfortunate distraction, and sometimes detracts from the riveting drama unfurling in front of it.

Baldock’s renown choreography and the timeliness of the other cast as family and members of the Greek chorus, however, are indubitably effective in demonstrating how the abuse later goes into fashioning Li’l Bit’s attitudes towards prospective relationships in her young adult life.

But the final grace of this often poetic, often hilarious piece of theatre is found in Li’l Bit’s attempts as a grown woman to understand what drove her uncle’s actions, and in how she ultimately found it within herself to forgive him, however much he haunts her life, her memories, and her freedom.

A tender moving staging of an exceptional play.

Mood(s) Of Grammar

Dear Dad

A couple of days ago, I was exchanging emails with my girl friend overseas.

“If David were sincere in all that he said, he would have shielded me from his mother’s abusive language.” She wrote, understandably still hurting from a recent break-up.

“If he was sincere, you mean.” I had written in my reply, before trying my best to empathise with her. “I am sure he had been – at one stage, anyhow — until it all got too much for him.”

You’re about to jump in and say I am wrong, aren’t you? You’re about to say I am too clever by half, aren’t you? But, wait a minute, I perfectly understand the concept of subjunctive mood, trust me. Tell me if I’m mistaken, but here’s what little I have retained from my high school days: the subjunctive — or one form of it – prescribes that were be used when hypothesising about a situation that is not true.

I know we (generally) agree David has proven to be less sincere than my friend would’ve liked; he’d otherwise have done everything to save the relationship. Were does seem to be appropriate in her lament, initially, I don’t deny that.

Trouble is, we often forget that the subjunctive mood swings in only when the hypothetical scenario carries with it the element of impossibility.

Typically, we see it being used in places such as, “If I were you, I would cherish this as a learning experience, and move on.” Here, were is befitting as a subjunctive because I cannot be you; it is just NOT possible.

It then follows that because it was not impossible for David to be sincere — my friend is one of the loveliest persons I know — the choice of subjunctive may not be judicious.

So, you see, apart from being good and observing the many mind-busting rules of English grammar, the use (or otherwise) of the subjunctive conveys implicitly the perception, position, or opinion of the speaker or writer, and, therefore, can turn out to be somewhat contentious.

In a letter to our national newspaper, one contributor writes, “If the mother of the Boston marathon bombers was honourable, she would not be defending her children.” I spent some time mulling over whether the subjunctive should be used; she is their mother after all.

Either way, I hope I have been vindicated.

Since we’re on the subject of the subjunctive, perhaps we will also consider another form of this grammatical mood that is (arguably) not quite so moot.

The subjunctive, I have since learned, is also mandated for use in wishes, in commands, or requests. Like when I say “I request that mum cook my favourite dish”, we recognise the subjunctive verb has been used because the singular noun mum has been paired off with the third-person-singular-present verb cook, rather than with the usual and expected verb form cooks.

You can see why many people, me included, usually prefer to stay away from the (moody) subjunctive — it’s a bit like walking on eggshells, too easy to put my foot in - and choose instead to say “I request mum to cook my favourite dish.”

That, unfortunately, is not always practicable.

While I can ask, want, beg, and love mum to cook my favourite dish, I really cannot insist, suggest, or hope mum to cook my favourite dish. The sentences become stilted. We are forced to negotiate the subjunctive mood with subordinate clauses marked often by that. We come up with sentences like “I insist (or suggest or hope) that mum cook my favourite dish.”

I believe most of us would write or speak correctly, anyway, without realising we are happily contending with the subjunctive mood. And for all its tetchiness, I must agree, it is way more intuitive than women’s temperaments.

Nevertheless, inattention with the grammar variety will subject you to a grammatical condition called subjunctivitis — or conjunctivitis, not the pink eye, because subjunctives are sometimes known as conjunctives — while inattention with the feminine kind will only give you momentary grief.

And back to my heartbroken friend; why, I could very well be diagnosed with subjunctivitis myself. I really cannot say I know David, can I?

Sin-free Literary Tastes

Dear Dad

I have a confession to make. People might caution me against making it so public; they think it is embarrassing. Not me.

The fact is: I like reading (what some call) trashy novels. By this, I mean I enjoy novels one does not have to think too much about. You know, those ones you can turn the pages without having to unpack sentences or analyse pregnant meanings.

Books of this genre I like generally have plots that include a sinfully sexy female protagonist and some dark, enigmatic man, who is almost always rich and powerful, or reserved but sensitive. The characters are likely to come from vastly different backgrounds. They meet under the most awkward circumstances, and fall in love. There are steamy, cinematic scenes; there would be the odd intrigue, some suspense, copious heartaches, more steamy scenes, ultimatums, followed by a perfect ending.

Yep, you know those ones, don’t you? Mills and Boon does them well. Sidney Sheldon and Jackie Collins are all-time favourites. And EL James is fast rising up the ranks, although of the more unorthodox variety.

Now, I’ve had a long day. All I want to do in the evening is to escape into a world of blind passion, of star-struck magic, misunderstandings, and resolutions. I know these books aren’t the most sublime literary endeavours. But, come on, do I really have to be ploughing through the abstruse text of Ulysses or Faust or Iliad or The Magic Mountain all the time?

There are some people who clearly think so.

I was at the orthodontist’s office last week — yes, I am coping well with my braces, thank you — and knowing how long I would be made to wait, I had brought a (dead-tree) book with me.

I was finishing off one of EL James’ Fifty Shades trilogy whilst waiting. When my turn came, I clambered onto the chair, and rested the book casually on my lap. The orthodontist tilted his head to see the title.

I don’t know whether you’d noticed, but people are often inquisitive about what others are reading. Whether you’re in a coffee shop, on a tram, at the gym, or in a park, you would find necks craning and eyes searching for the cover of the book you happen to be holding. Okay, I am sometimes one of them too. The difference, though, is I believe I don’t then go off and judge the reader on what is being read.

“Ah, having an erotic read?” the orthodontist asked, obviously aware of James’ controversial novels.

I was saved from answering because my mouth was prised open then — I was having brackets fitted on that day — but throughout the hour-and-a-half long session, the orthodontist indulged himself in an (unopposed) diatribe about how books like Fifty Shades were a societal bane deleterious to one’s personal development. At one stage, it almost sounded as if reading them could literally damage your brain, and destroy the soul. He scoffed not only the author, but anyone “inane” enough to read her books.

“My daughter’s only 16,” he went on. “And I make darn sure she reads only Homer, Mann, or Joyce.”

When I was finally allowed to close my mouth, traumatised physically and psychologically, he promptly sent me on my way. I felt consigned to the rubbish bin of the imbecile.

Thing is, what’s exactly wrong with being partial to romantic or erotic novels, even if they’re not the most enriching? I am aware lollies cause caries, but one every now and then is not going to rot all my teeth, surely?

No, of course I know I am not of the most intellectual breed but what makes you think I want to be? We don’t all have to be doctors and dentists, or writing PhD theses, do we? I can’t help it if I like reading trash. I was born like that!

So, Dr Orthodontist, stop criticising me. Stop insulting me. And. Stop. Judging. Me. There is no need for you to prove how clever you are by judging what I read. And if all that high falutin literature is that edifying, why has it not worked its way toward producing a more gracious, more tolerant attitude?

Besides, none of us is truly qualified to judge others. By whose standards do we use to judge? Do we launch into a cycle of derision when we feel someone else is not as good as us?

If so, let me send a gentle reminder that all manner of things are relative. One may feel more superior because they think they are smarter, swankier, wealthier, or more moral. There are, however, stacks of others more so than them. How would they feel being on the other side of the ledger?

Apart from one’s own conscious conscience, perhaps only the One — not the priest — to whom I confess is the only one fit to judge.

Send Me A Song

Last night my

dreams were woven with

your voice, (y)our song

I was searching

for meaning between stitches

love behind colour

Blood started to

pour; I was drenched

but did not run

I walked through

each letter, every lyric

Painting the path scarlet

and wet; but when

you took my hand

and held me close

“I looked fear

in the face and

said, I just don’t care”

Patch Quilt of Life

Dear Dad

A while ago, over the summer vacation, my heart was massively broken. The man who said he loved me had changed his mind.

I found my way to the hairdresser’s, and came home with a fringe three inches up my forehead, coloured a shocking green.

Mum was sewing when I walked into the door. She sucked in a deep breath the moment she saw me. I trundled up to where she was, fell into a heap on the floor in front of her, and buried my anguish in her lap.

The following day, she coloured my hair back to what it was — as much as possible — although I still lived looking like a moron for all of the next couple of months before the length grew back.

There was a need for mum’s constant company in the subsequent weeks. I sat with her while she sewed. We talked deeply about relationships, about dreams, and life, in a manner that mothers and daughters do.

“Much of life is about coping,” she said, without looking up. “Most of us will fall down along the way, but it’s the getting up, brushing off, and carrying on that counts.”

I watched as mum pushed the needle through the thickness of the cloth, and pulled the thread out on the other side with a long, languid motion. And again. And again. Her movements were strong and seasoned. The patch quilt was becoming more and more vibrant. Every now and then, mum would struggle to put the thread through the needle. And I’d give her a hand.

It was then that I realised how much mum had aged – life without you was showing — but I also noticed how she hadn’t lost any of her grace: her eyes were tired but soft; her lips had lost their lustre, but they were as shapely as before. She still hardly has a bad word about anyone, and always reminds me to see the best in others.

“Ouch!” she cried out, and pressed her thumb to her mouth.

I jumped to her side. Blood was oozing from the needle prick. I raced to get a band-aid, and sealed the cut. I knew how much that hurt; it was partly because of these needle jags that my own patch quilt was stuck in its amorphous shape. Mum picked up her needle, and went on with her rhythmic motion, as if there had been no hiatus.

“I wish I were more like you, mum,” I said. “You’re resilient, self-assured, wise, and beautiful.”

“That usually comes with age,” she replied, as she took off her glasses, and squeezed the back of her neck. “What time takes from physical capacity, it often compensates with experience.”

I walked round to stand behind her chair, and gently rubbed her shoulders.

This is not about mum’s quilt, my broken heart, or even mum’s virtuous character, but about the passage of time, and the shift of circumstances that goes with it. Mum and I occupy different stages of the life cycle: I am, I suppose, only entering the maturity phase where situation demands that I make choices about career, about relationships, and prospects of family; mum, on the other hand, is — I think it’s fair to say — into the post-maturity chapter where she has seen much, and lived much, and where her focus is slowly moving from nurturing, to mentoring, and increasingly towards her own physical decline .

The fact is every part of the cycle brings with it its own challenges. While I am still searching for my own pattern in the patch quilt of my life, mum is contending with aching muscles and a deteriorating eyesight, as she works towards completing hers. Surely, we should both be savouring where we are, and admiring where the other is, rather than lamenting what we’ve lost, or have yet to gain.

Since then, however, I have picked up my needle again, and in between countless jabs and band-aids, my very own patch quilt is finally coming into shape. I think.