Cover1 www.narr.de This collection of essays examines the contribution of British plays to key social, political, and intellectual debates since 2000. It explores some of the most pressing concerns that have dominated the public discourse in Britain in the last decade, focusing on their representation in dramatic texts. Each essay provides an in-depth analysis of one play, assessing its particular contribution to the debate in question. The book aims to show how contemporary drama has developed unique ways to present the complexities and ambiguities of certain issues with aesthetic as well as emotional appeal. Band 82 Kerstin Frank · Caroline Lusin (eds.) Finance, Terror, and Science on Stage Current Public Concerns in 21 st -Century British Drama Kerstin Frank · Caroline Lusin (eds.) Finance, Terror, and Science on Stage Band 82 Finance, Terror, and Science on Stage herausgegeben von Anja Bandau (Hannover), Justus Fetscher (Mannheim), Ralf Haekel (Berlin), Caroline Lusin (Mannheim), Cornelia Ruhe (Mannheim) Band 82 Kerstin Frank, Caroline Lusin (eds.) Finance, Terror, and Science on Stage Current Public Concerns in 21 st -Century British Drama Umschlagabbildung: Joan Marcus. Photo of the production of Nick Payne’s Incognito at the Manhattan Theatre Club, New York, 2016 (directed by Doug Hughes, scenic design by Scott Pask) Signet: Motiv vom Hals der Qinochoe des ‚Mannheimer Malers‘ (Reissmuseum Mannheim, Mitte des 5. Jh. v. Chr.) Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http: / / dnb.dnb.de abrufbar. © 2017 · Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH + Co. KG Dischingerweg 5 · D-72070 Tübingen Das Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist ohne Zustimmung des Verlages unzulässig und strafbar. Das gilt insbesondere für Vervielfältigungen, Übersetzungen, Mikroverfilmungen und die Einspeicherung und Verarbeitung in elektronischen Systemen. Gedruckt auf säurefreiem und alterungsbeständigem Werkdruckpapier. Internet: www.narr.de E-Mail: info@narr.de Printed in Germany Satz: pagina GmbH, Tübingen ISBN 978-3-8233-9142-5 ISSN 0175-3169 Table of Contents Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Kerstin Frank and Caroline Lusin Introduction: Current Debates and British Drama since 2000 . . . . . . . . 9 I. Politics Merle Tönnies Still / Again ‘Political’? New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Peter Paul Schnierer Immigration as Farce: Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Ariane de Waal Expel, Exploit, Exfoliate: Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 II. Finance and Austerity Caroline Lusin Surviving Boom and Bust: Finance, Responsibility, and the State of the World in Nicholas Pierpan’s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Annika Gonnermann Homo Homini Rhino Est: April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and the Deconstruction of Responsibility in Corporate Culture . . . . 101 Dorothee Birke The ‘Underclass’ Talks Back: Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 6 Table of Contents III. Science and Technology Christine Schwanecke Data Streams, Post-Human Lives, and (Virtual) Realities: Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Maurus Roller A Critical Review of Science: Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002), Individual Identity, and Human Cloning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 Stefan Glomb “No View from Nowhere”: Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 IV. Cultural Identity Lisa Schwander Re-Visiting the British Empire: Neo-Victorian Perspectives on Multicultural Britain in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) . . . . . . . 211 Kerstin Frank Defusing Stereotypes with Comedy: Conflicting Afro-Caribbean British Identities and Urban Street Culture in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 Abir Al-Laham Apple Stores and Jihadi Brides: Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and the Role of Religion in Contemporary British Society . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255 Acknowledgements 7 Acknowledgements No collection of essays is a solitary project, and therefore we would like at this point to express our gratitude to all those involved. First of all, we would like to thank our contributors, without whom this volume simply would not exist. Thank you for your excellent collaboration! Secondly, we are very grateful to the publishing team of Gunter Narr Verlag, particularly Kathrin Heyng and Vanessa Weihgold, for their unflinching support and patience. And, last but not least, we owe a great debt to Annika Gonnermann and Lisa Schwander, who assisted us in the editing process far beyond the measure of what can usually be expected. Without their staunch and committed assistance, this volume could not have been published in time. Thank you so much, you have done a fantastic job! Introduction: Current Debates and British Drama since 2000 9 Introduction: Current Debates and British Drama since 2000 Kerstin Frank and Caroline Lusin Compared to other, more recent media, the traditional theatrical setup seems curiously outdated, almost quaint: both actors and audience are actually physically present in one room, the audience is (for the most part) silent, passive, and receptive, and the actors perform something previously written, re-written, studied, and rehearsed over a considerable period of time. How does this time-honoured layout fit into a fast-moving, globalised world, in which people’s need for interactive social self-construction is manifested in Facebook identities, and in which Twitter satisfies a predilection for quick, short, snappy, fast-travelling responses to events? How can theatre keep pace with social debates that can unfold and spread within seconds of a single event or just in a casual tweet? How can it continue to be a relevant site of collective self-reflection in Britain? Because, curiously, it is still relevant, and very much so. The original and creative contributions to the stage by new talents as well as by more experienced writers bear witness to the “rude health of current playwriting” (Sierz, “Introduction”, xvii). The theatre is still a vital part of British culture. In fact, Andrew Haydon even testifies to “something of a qualified ‘golden age’ [of British theatre] in the 2000s, both artistically and economically” (40). 1 Media attention to first nights and theatre awards remains extensive, and provocative performances continue to spark heated debates. Reviewing a number of such contentious responses, Aleks Sierz concludes: “In each of these cases, the controversy proved that theatre could be a powerful way of showing us who we are, and that disagreement about such depictions were arguments about our national identity.” ( Rewriting , 144) Theatre, in other words, remains a significant diagnostic tool in tackling the challenges Britain faces in the new millennium. 2 It has proven particularly apt to negotiate the topic of national and cultural identity or the ever-contested concept of ‘Britishness’. The editors of The Methuen Drama Guide to Contemporary British Playwrights hence argue that “British playwriting 1 Of course, a changing policy in state subsidies inspired by the Boyden Report from 2000 played a role in this boom (cf. Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz ix and Haydon 70 f.). 2 As Andrew Haydon puts it rather poetically: “[T]heatre, like a nation’s press, is the sound of a culture talking to itself ” (41). 10 Kerstin Frank and Caroline Lusin has historically had a close affinity […] with the structures of British society, and especially with a more general discussion of economic, social and political issues” (Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz vii). This affinity certainly continues into the 21 st century, and the essays contained in this collection propose to explore what drama can specifically contribute to this discussion. This collection of essays considers drama as a site of social debate, focusing on the unique ways in which plays participate in public discourses about the most pressing concerns of the new millennium. We believe that the dramatic form is singularly equipped to bridge the ever-widening gaps between different other sites of discourse, such as highly specialised, academic institutions and those sites open to a wider field of contributors, such as the social media. Referring to recent black British plays, Lynette Goddard makes a similar point: These plays raise debates that would otherwise mainly be accessible through long government policy tomes and / or in ethnographic and sociological research studies. Staging these issues through playwriting renders them accessible and open to scrutiny from those who might not otherwise gain access to the complexities of these issues. (16-7) In other fields, such as science, finance, and politics, playwrights can also distil their ideas and research into dramatic forms that are more easily intelligible but still knowledgeable and well-balanced. While plays cannot react as directly and spontaneously to events as other media, they create more serious and sustainable links between their audience and specialised discourses, without constraining the complexity and accuracy of these. And then, of course, there is the creative and aesthetic factor, or the question of form. Lynette Goddard slightly overshoots the mark by suggesting “that we can […] look at these plays as quasi-sociological treatises of our times” (16). While plays can certainly mediate information from sociology and other fields to their audience, they will always add something more to it. Plays transform abstract issues into particular situations and plotlines and map them onto dramatic space and characters that allow or demand sympathy or some other form of emotional engagement. They present national or global matters in the light of their consequences for individual people, and they may foreground the ambivalence of moral choices. Beyond the basic, traditional dramatic ‘ingredients’ of characters, stage, and language, contemporary playwrights have incorporated various media, new types of venues, and different forms of engaging with the audience in order to shape and convey their topics in ways that are both emotionally and cognitively relevant to the individual observer. Indeed all traditional features of drama mentioned above have been challenged by introducing Current Debates and British Drama since 2000 11 experimental alternatives. 3 In the words of David Lane, many playwrights “are breaking through the staid and restrictive image of being simply autonomous providers of a list of lines” (1) for the benefit of “moving closer towards what we might refer to as ‘performance writing’: a space where writers explore and develop their work in a direct and active relationship with other practitioners and spaces” (ibid.). Among the plethora of different forms, verbatim theatre stands out as a particularly productive subgenre at present, but playwrights take their inspiration and techniques from a variety of different genres (cf. Adiseshiah / LePage 3). While this volume of essays focuses on the connection between current public concerns and drama, its central question of what and how contemporary plays contribute to the current debates inevitably includes the aspects of dramatic form and genre. Because the fusion of a topic with a dramatic subgenre in one particular work is always unique and complex, each essay in this volume analyses only one play in depth. This volume does not attempt to provide a comprehensive overview of all forms and themes of British theatre since the year 2000; 4 its aim is to present comprehensive analyses of selected key topics, each within one particular play, in a selection that is representative of theatre’s ongoing and creative engagement with matters of public interest. We believe that it is precisely the aptness of playwriting to explore the complexity, contradictions, and aporias of its topics which distinguishes the dramatic treatment of social concerns from other media. What, then, are the most pressing and dominant public concerns in post-millennial Britain? While perceptions and priorities may vary, the incisive moments of 9 / 11 and the London bombings of 2005 as well as the credit crunch of 2007-08 and the recession of 2009 loom large in the short history of the new millennium, entailing political consequences and decisions that continue to fuel public controversies. Scientific developments such as the Human Genome Project (2000-03), which unravelled the structure of human genes, and the increasing “confidence - some say overconfidence” of neuroscience (Rebellato 25) also inspire hopes and fears and encourage debates about the benefits and dangers of science. Technological progress in the field of computers, tablets, smartphones, 3 The conventional structures of dramatic space are challenged for instance in productions which send the audience on walks and journeys (cf. Wilkie 95 f.). Actors are dispensed with when audience members read out a script to one another (cf. Haydon 51). Playwrights experiment with different forms of involving the audience, work without scripts altogether (cf. Haydon on ‘New Work’, 61) or create and transform them in various types of collaboration (cf. Lane ch. 3). 4 For studies and collections of essays that present a wider scope, cf. Lane; Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz (eds.); Sierz, Rewriting ; Tönnies (ed.); Rebellato (ed.); Adiseshiah / LePage (eds.). 12 Kerstin Frank and Caroline Lusin and the internet has not only sparked controversies but also changed the very nature of public debates, providing new platforms for disseminating (and shaping) information, for exchanging views, and for interacting socially in a virtual space. Besides these issues, debates about social structures and social (in)justice in Britain, and particularly about immigration and the integration of different cultural identities, are also close to the heart of the British public and played a central role in the ‘Brexit’ decision in 2016 (cf. Travis). These are the wider contexts for the topics and plays discussed in the present volume. The essays in this collection are grouped into four main sections: ‘Politics’, ‘Finance and Austerity’, ‘Science and Technology’, and ‘Cultural Identity’. All of them focus on plays that originated in the British literary scene and were first performed in Britain, but not necessarily written by authors of British nationality. Under the rubric of ‘Politics’, Merle Tönnies discusses Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011), demonstrating how its blending of dystopian elements with the Theatre of the Absurd raises questions about political power in a way that denies any clear answers, emphasising instead the ambiguities and complexities in modern machinations of power as well as the importance of personal responsibility. Peter Paul Schnierer shows that Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) offers an intriguing tour de force through the history of immigration in the tradition of farce, including shocking, excessive forms of humour and jarring discrepancies, but ultimately presenting immigration as a natural and beneficial process. In her essay on Mark Ravenhill’s cycle of plays Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007), Ariane de Waal analyses how its broad scope, Brechtian elements and complex use of intertextuality, condensation, and displacement present the topic of terrorism in combination with a critique of neoliberal values and rhetoric, pitting the ‘hypernormality’ of Western reality and consumer culture against the realities of war, terror, and torture, and challenging the simplifying binary opposition of ‘them’ against ‘us’. The section of ‘Finance and Austerity’ begins with Caroline Lusin’s analysis of Nicholas Pierpan’s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012). This essay investigates Pierpan’s representation of the financial crisis and the more overarching process of the increasing financialisation of different spheres of life; in the world depicted in the play, this process goes hand in hand with a strong focus on competitiveness and a striking lack of ethics and responsibility. Returning to some of these issues, Annika Gonnermann takes a closer look at corporate culture in her reading of April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) to illustrate how the play dissects the Hobbesian ethics of ‘ homo homini lupus ’ at work in corporate environments today. Closely linking the central arguments of Wild East to Hobbes’ theses, Gonnermann shows how De Angelis uses his notion of a ‘perpetual state of war’ as a sounding board to criticise the way in which the ruthless agents of Current Debates and British Drama since 2000 13 21 st -century capitalist culture are bent solely on economic gain. Dorothee Birke then engages with the flipside of the financial system and its crisis, the social problems of poverty and homelessness and the debate about ‘Broken Britain’ as presented in Home (2013) by Nadia Fall, analysing how the form of verbatim theatre, combined with aspects of engaged theatre and a specific use of music, serves to give a voice and individual stories to the marginalised, who are often summarily dismissed as the ‘underclass’ in public discourse. The division of ‘Science and Technology’ starts with a contribution by Christine Schwanecke on Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006), which deals with the effects of data streams and virtual realities on (post)human lives. Exploring the ways in which the proliferation of multiple realities in the information age impinges on human interaction and identity, Schwanecke reads Horne’s play as a critical appraisal of the virtues and drawbacks of the digital. The next contribution by Maurus Roller resumes the discussion of identity in the 21 st century by tackling the problem of human cloning as Caryl Churchill represents it in A Number (2002). Inscribing herself into the critical literary discourse about science, Churchill examines the effects of modern science and technology to critically appreciate the role of individuality in leading a meaningful life. Adding to this assessment of the limits and possibilities of modern science, Stefan Glomb then investigates the stance which Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) adopts on science, and on neuroscience in particular. Enlarging on the philosophical as well as the scientific debate on the conflict between freedom and determinism, Glomb provides a detailed analysis of Payne’s meticulous exploration of the ‘brain’ versus ‘mind’ dichotomy, which particularly highlights the complex connections of selfhood, consciousness, and freedom. In the concluding section on ‘Cultural Identity’, Lisa Schwander begins by exploring how Tanika Gupta functionalises reminiscences of the Victorian British Empire in The Empress (2013) to shed light on contemporary debates about multiculturalism. Focussing on different forms of cross-cultural relationships, the play advocates a re-engagement with (imperial) history as an important step in arriving at a more inclusive notion of what it means to be British. Continuing this debate on cross-cultural identities from a different point of view, Kerstin Frank’s reading of Gone Too Far! (2007) by Bola Agbaje analyses how the genre of social comedy helps to confront and playfully destabilise existing stereotypes concerning young immigrants’ lives in urban estates both in the real world and in so-called ‘ghetto plays’, challenging artificially constructed choices between cultural identities. In the concluding essay, Abir Al-Laham examines the complex treatment of religious belief in Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016), the most recent play discussed in this book. She shows how Abdulrazzak employs the form of stand-up comedy to explore the diverse and 14 Kerstin Frank and Caroline Lusin ambivalent roles of the Islamic faith in relation to other concerns, such as sexuality, family, consumerism, and politics. The essays and plays discussed in this volume thus not only present a variety of topics but also a number of different dramatic genres that significantly shape the treatment of the topics, ranging from verbatim theatre ( Home ) over dystopian elements ( 13 and Wild East ) to social comedy ( Gone Too Far! ), history play ( The Empress ), and farce ( England People Very Nice ). In their in-depth analyses, the authors of the essays reveal how the playwrights employ and creatively modify specific genre traditions in order to shed light on different aspects and inherent paradoxes of the respective topic. However, despite the thematic and formal variety of the plays, the analyses reveal that questions of identity - national, cultural, or personal - play a significant role in all of them. Of course, this has to do with the specific strategies of theatre to address topics by transferring them onto characters and character constellations. All the plays discussed here present characters whose sense of self and belonging is challenged, be it by the pressure of corporate workplaces on the employer, religious deliberations or cultural clashes. But to our mind, the persistent undercurrent of identity in all these texts also encapsulates a general post-millennial trend in British society and culture: an almost obsessive engagement with the self that continues the way in which the 20 th century questioned the very concept of identity (cf. Bruder; Hall 1-17), further exacerbated by the various social, political, and technological challenges of the new century. Most recently, a range of further crucial events tested our conception of what this world is like - the ‘Brexit’ referendum, the election victory of Donald Trump in the U. S., the 2017 terrorist attacks in London and Manchester, and the setback for Theresa May in the 2017 election will all have consequences that are now hard to foresee, but they will certainly be addressed and subjected to rigorous critical analysis on the British stage. Bibliography Adiseshiah, Siân, and Louise LePage (eds.). Twenty-First Century Drama: What Happens Now . London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. —. “Introduction: What Happens Now.” Twenty-First Century Drama: What Happens Now . Eds. Siân Adiseshiah and Louise LePage. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. Bruder, Klaus-Jürgen. “Das postmoderne Subjekt.” Zwischen Autonomie und Verbundenheit: Bedingungen und Formen der Behauptung von Subjektivität . Eds. Hans Rudolf Leu and Lothar Krappmann. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1999. 49-76. Goddard, Lynette. Contemporary Black British Playwrights: Margins to Mainstream . Houndsmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Current Debates and British Drama since 2000 15 Hall, Stuart. “Introduction: Who Needs ‘Identity’? ” Questions of Cultural Identity . Eds. Stuart Hall and Paul du Gay. London: Sage, 1996. 1-17. Haydon, Andrew. “Theatre in the 2000s.” Modern British Playwriting 2000-2009: Voices, Documents, New Interpretations . Ed. Dan Rebellato. London et al.: Bloomsbury, 2013. 40-98. Lane, David. Contemporary British Drama . Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP , 2010. Middeke, Martin, Peter Paul Schnierer and Aleks Sierz (eds.). The Methuen Drama Guide to Contemporary British Playwrights . London: Methuen Drama, 2011. —. “Introduction.” The Methuen Drama Guide to Contemporary British Playwrights . Eds. Martin Middeke, Peter Paul Schnierer and Aleks Sierz. London: Methuen Drama, 2011. vii-xxiv. Sierz, Aleks. Rewriting the Nation: British Theatre Today . London: Methuen Drama, 2011. —. “Introduction.” The Methuen Drama Book of Twenty-First Century British Plays . Ed. Aleks Sierz. London et al.: Bloomsbury, 2010. vii-xviii. Rebellato, Dan (ed.). Modern British Playwriting 2000-2009: Voices, Documents, New Interpretations . London et al.: Bloomsbury, 2013. Rebellato, Dan. “Introduction: Living in the 2000s.” Modern British Playwriting 2000-2009: Voices, Documents, New Interpretations . Ed. Dan Rebellato. London et al.: Bloomsbury, 2013. 1-39. Tönnies, Merle (ed.). Das englische Drama der Gegenwart: Kategorien - Entwicklungen - Modellinterpretationen . Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2010. Travis, Alan. “Fear of Immigration Drove the Leave Victory - Not Immigration Itself.” The Guardian . 24 June 2016. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ politics/ 2016/ jun/ 24/ voting-details-show-immigration-fears-were-paradoxical-but-decisive. Accessed on 22 April 2017. Wilkie, Fiona. “The Production of ‘Site’: Site-Specific Theatre.” A Concise Companion to Contemporary British and Irish Drama . Eds. Nadine Holdsworth and Mary Luckhurst. Malden et al.: Blackwell, 2008. 87-106. Introduction: Current Debates and British Drama since 2000 17 I. Politics New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 19 Still / Again ‘Political’? New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) Merle Tönnies 1. Austerity, Protest, and Political Discourse in the Second Decade of the 21 st Century The General Election on 6 May 2010 put an end to 13 years of Labour government and brought David Cameron’s coalition of Conservatives and Liberal Democrats to power. The British deficit had been represented as the crucial problem of the country in the Conservatives’ election campaign (cf. Clarke et al. 3), and consequently the Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne introduced an ‘emergency budget’ on 22 June 2010, which comprised a number of measures to reduce the debt purportedly incurred by the previous government and win back the confidence of the global markets (cf. Osborne). The approach of reducing welfare spending and public expenditure in general, freezing public sector pay for two years and raising VAT , quickly came to be subsumed under the label ‘austerity’ - a much disputed concept that has been defined as “a form of voluntary deflation in which the economy adjusts through the reduction of wages, prices, and public spending to restore competitiveness” (Blyth 2). Researchers have not only been critical of whether such measures make sense for achieving economic recovery (cf. e. g. Blyth 4 f.; Clarke et al. 36-40), but austerity is frequently understood still more negatively as a discursive “excuse to engineer a fundamental restructuring of the public sector” (Atkinson / Roberts / Savage 10), challenging the basic understanding of welfare and the state’s relationship with its citizens (cf. Farnsworth / Irving 2, 36). In this way, the status of the concept in British politics of the early 2010s approaches that of a “myth” (ibid. 14), hiding its ideological implications under a surface of “‘simple’ economics” (ibid. 35). Such mythical naturalisation processes (according to Roland Barthes’ understanding of the term) were also supported by the “progressive mathematicisation ” (Atkinson / Roberts / Savage 6, emphasis in original) of economics, which gave austerity a seemingly objective foundation in figures. What this veiled and what researchers were quick to point out, however, is the concept’s close link with existing social power structures. Kevin Farnworth and Zoë Irving have emphasised the “hegemonic qualities” of austerity, which are intensified by the ambiguities associated with it and succeeded in making it “the organising logic of public spending” in Britain from 2010 onwards (12-3). Similarly, Mark Blyth 20 Merle Tönnies has stressed the close relationship with power by calling austerity an “ ideology immune to facts and basic empirical refutation” (226, my emphasis). Indeed, it is easily possible to understand austerity as part of the much broader ideology of neoliberalism, which increasingly gained ground in the UK and beyond in the 2010s (cf. Atkinson / Roberts / Savage 4-5; Harvie 192). The actual austerity policies as well as the power structures which this concept supported entailed an intensifying sense of alienation among those who felt (and often were) excluded in Britain (cf. Clement 121). Large-scale protests first flared up in November and December 2010 with the National Campaign against Fees and Cuts, as students unsuccessfully tried to oppose the increase in the maximum tuition fees implemented by the coalition government. However, as the rhetoric of the Conservative government built on the 1990s underclass debates (cf. Atkinson / Roberts / Savage 10), prominently establishing metaphors of breakdown as a way of referring to sections of society which were perceived as problematic (cf. McKenzie 9-11), even more violent opposition made itself felt in inner-city areas. The widespread anger caused by the web of austerity measures and by discursive exclusion erupted most notably in the riots of August 2011 (cf. Clement 118-20). Initially triggered by the shooting of Mark Duggan in Tottenham and the perceived reluctance of the police to provide information, rioting and looting spread to further parts of London and to other cities between 6 and 9 August 2011. Far beyond their factual consequences, these events deepened the general ‘unease’ highlighted in Michael Billington’s review of 13 , “a sensation that we are sleepwalking into some kind of disaster”. In October 2011 the sense that something needed to be changed then crystallised in the Occupy movement. The ‘Occupy London’ protests were sparked off by ‘Occupy Wall Street’ in the US and led to the setting up of a camp next to St. Paul’s Cathedral on 15 October, as protesters were prevented from camping outside the London Stock Exchange. Further camps followed in different parts of London, with the last site being cleared in June 2012, while the camp at St. Paul’s Cathedral had already been closed down in February 2012. Again, the significance of these events as both an expression of and a contribution to a deep sense of unease went far beyond their actual scope and duration. Apart from austerity and the policies related to it, the widespread dissatisfaction with established political institutions and procedures was also connected with a fundamental discursive shift that predated the 2010 coalition government by some 15 years. From his party leadership in 1994 and especially from the 1997 election campaign onwards, Tony Blair and his ‘New’ Labour Party had continuously moved political rhetoric away from the discussion of real issues and from any structured, argumentative approach. Instead, the focus was on a fairly limited set of isolated keywords which constantly recurred in speeches New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 21 in ever-varying combinations and absorbed the listeners’ attention (cf. Fairclough 17-9, 40 f., 58-60). This effect of veiling any potential political content by an impenetrable discursive web was supported by the destruction of syntactic complexity through ellipses and the overwhelming predominance of paratactic constructions (cf. ibid. 28). Moreover, the striking combination of terms which would traditionally have been associated with Labour (like ‘community’ or ‘together’) with others which had pronounced Conservative connotations (for instance ‘choice’, ‘strength’, and ‘Britain’/ ‘the nation’) most effectively contributed to evacuating any remaining meaning from these words. This rhetoric became more and more widespread in Britain throughout the first decade of the 21 st century, influencing the discourse not only of the Labour Party but increasingly of the Conservatives as well. Thus, it does not come as a surprise that Cameron as the new Prime Minister used the same discourse as his predecessors, also suspending structure and logical cohesion in his speeches by prioritising very small syntactic units which are apparently randomly strung together. He also employed extremely simplified vocabulary and often reproduced typical Blairite keywords. This is for instance demonstrated by the added italics in the following excerpt from Cameron’s 2010 “Big Society Speech”, where he juggles especially with Blair’s well-established semantic fields of ‘newness’ and ‘community’: You can call it liberalism. You can call it empowerment. You can call it freedom. You can call it responsibility. I call it the Big Society. The Big Society is about a huge culture change … […] It’s time for something different, something bold - something that doesn’t just pour money down the throat of wasteful, top-down government schemes. The Big Society is that something different and bold. It’s about saying if we want real change for the long-term, we need people to come together and work together - because we’re all in this together . (Cameron, my emphases) If anything, the sense that real problems like deprivation and growing social unrest were not addressed by politicians but instead hidden by a smokescreen of rhetoric thus intensified at the beginning of the 21 st century, and the change of government did not seem to help at all, on the contrary. On the whole, it was thus a rather fraught situation to which Bartlett’s play responded in October 2011 - premiering literally just a few days after the beginning of Occupy London and staging events which evince striking similarities with actual reality (cf. Megson 53-4). 22 Merle Tönnies 2. 13 as a Response to the Social and Political Context After Earthquakes in London of August 2010 and Love, Love, Love of October 2010, 13 is another large-scale drama by Mike Bartlett, with which he even made it to the National Theatre’s Olivier theatre. Bartlett (born in 1980) had only had his professional debut in 2007, with My Child at the Royal Court Theatre. Accordingly, the negative review of 13 in the Express stressed critically that he was “the youngest writer in 10 years to have work commissioned for the National’s main […] auditorium” (Edge). After growing up in Abingdon and studying at Leeds University, where he already gained a lot of practical theatrical experience, Bartlett participated in the Royal Court Young Writers’ Group under Simon Stephens and was a member of The Apathists. This ironically named group (cf. Bartlett in Hoby) ran for a year from March 2006 to March 2007 and was committed to producing short pieces of new writing for the Battersea Theatre 503 (cf. Haydon 60). In 2007, he was Pearson Playwright-in-Residence at the Royal Court Theatre and in 2011 Writer-in-Residence at the National Theatre. Bartlett’s plays for theatre, radio, and television have won a number of awards, including the Olivier Awards for Outstanding Achievement in an Affiliate Theatre for his 2009 Royal Court play Cock and for Best New Play for King Charles III , which was first performed at the Almeida Theatre in April 2014 and then went on to a successful West End run. The topics of his works vary from personal relationships to climate change or surveillance and media criticism in Game of 2015, which returned to a smaller scale again. Generally, Bartlett’s plays tend to contain some kind of challenge to the spectators, often inciting them to question seemingly ingrained certainties or - as Deborah Bowman has put it - “to consider the nature of allegiance”. In 13 , this probing and the desire to activate the audience prominently involve the nature of political power and the means of influencing the attitudes of the population. The play was first performed at the National Theatre on 18 October 2011 and had rather mixed reviews. While in The Guardian , for instance, Michael Billington on the whole approved of the “powerful, disturbing play” (“Review”), in which the author “pinned down, in a way few dramatists recently have, the unease that is currently in the air” (ibid.), Charles Spencer of The Telegraph talked about a “credibility-straining play [which] adds up to less than the sum of its parts”. Moreover, Bartlett’s work has been given very different and even diametrically opposed interpretations, which may of course be connected to the critics’ diverse ratings. From a certain time distance, the play and the interpretative controversies surrounding it can be seen as highly representative both of its social and political context and of the theatrical situation in the early 2010s. New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 23 Questions of political power and ideology had frequently been addressed on the stage from the mid-1950s (with Look Back in Anger of 1956 often cited as a starting point) to the early 1990s - as summed up in Michael Patterson’s definition of traditional British political theatre: “a kind of theatre that not only depicts social interaction and political events but implies the possibility of radical change on socialist lines” (3 f.). The exact format of the plays varied, but the basic approach remained very constant from agitprop and social realism to the state-of-the-nation plays of the 1980s. At the beginning of the 1990s, however, this established form seemed to disappear rather suddenly (cf. Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz xiii-xiv; Kritzer 24; Saunders 3, 5 f.), with well-known ‘political’ writers turning to foreign affairs or only addressing political issues obliquely as mirrored in private relationships. This also holds true for the most obvious new theatrical form of the decade, In-Yer-Face Theatre, which employed very graphic shock tactics from the mid-1990s onwards, but approached the traditional ‘political’ questions as indirectly as the more subtle psychologically oriented drama for instance of David Hare (cf. also Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz xiii). A possible explanation for this turn away from the political can indeed be found in the rhetorical developments outlined above, which made it more and more difficult for playwrights to break through the pervasive discursive veil to address fundamental questions of power imbalances and ideology (cf. Tönnies, “New Lingo”, 174, 181-3; Tönnies, “Immobility”). At most, this worked for concrete issues and case studies, which may explain the rise and lasting popularity of documentary and verbatim theatre from the mid-1990s onwards (cf. e. g. Kritzer 24; Haydon 45; Rebellato 13). Keeping close to actual events, even down to the level of the words used by the participants, apparently offered playwrights a point of orientation in an increasingly blurred and linguistically uniform political landscape. In the first years of the 21 st century, this development was more widely recognised and often perceived as problematic. Thus, The Guardian for instance launched a series in spring 2003 in which the role of political theatre was scrutinised by a number of leading dramatists (cf. especially Edgar on the “meagre” theatrical response to New Labour in the 1990s). At about that time, however, there was also a sense that maybe things might be changing for the better again, with Billington’s December survey of that year stressing that the theatre finally seemed to be paying attention to “the big issues” again. Playwrights indeed managed to return to the traditional interest in unequal power relations in the 2000s (cf. also Angelaki 60; Adiseshiah 104-5; Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz xiv), but it cannot be stressed enough that many of the new works left out a salient element from Patterson’s above-quoted definition: Instead of ‘implying the possibility of radical change’ in a specified direction, they approached their 24 Merle Tönnies subject matter in a rather abstract way, refusing to establish a direct, unequivocal relationship with the spectators and to offer any clear-cut solutions. This tendency was particularly pronounced in a form which may be labelled ‘absurdist dystopia’ due to its combination of certain established genre characteristics, and of which Caryl Churchill’s Far Away (2000) is probably the most frequently discussed example (cf. Tönnies, “Immobility”). 1 This form seemed to constitute one of the few approaches by which the theatre could bypass the smokescreen of political rhetoric in the early 2000s and return to fundamental issues of power and ideology that extended beyond concrete cases. The plays were usually characterised by pronounced minimalism as far as their length and cast was concerned and produced intense experiential effects on the audience along the lines of the Theatre of the Absurd, while at the same time preserving a typically dystopian distance from contemporary Britain. When one now turns to Barlett’s 13 against the social and political as well as the theatrical backgrounds outlined so far, it is immediately recognisable that this play about a “popular protest movement” (Billington, “Review”) in London - crystallising around John, a charismatic leader figure - picks up on many developments of its time. Specifically, there are references to underfunded universities (21), 2 student protests against tuition fees (9) and a general longing for change (e. g. 58 f.), which is increasingly acted out in the streets. With hindsight, it seems almost uncanny that the play’s premiere more or less coincided with the beginning of ‘Occupy London’ (18 and 15 October 2011 respectively). After all, the protests in 13 are pointedly peaceful (apart from the chaotic response to the discrediting of John at the very end, 128) - in contrast to the August riots, which would have suggested themselves as the most likely reference point before 15 October. Bartlett’s stage directions foreground the peaceful element by making the crowd’s chanting “[b]eautiful, choral” (125) instead of threatening or even demanding and stressing the protesters’ “good-natured” “[e]nergy and conviction - passion” (91). Despite the suggested size of the crowd, visible instances of violence do not go beyond Amir exasperatedly hurling a shopping trolley at the police, who have taken hold of his girl-friend Rachel (12), and Holly’s grandmother throwing probably the same trolley into the window of her bank for taking too much money and not showing her respect (74 f.). 1 Despite the importance of many individual plays which follow this model, the combination of typical dystopian traits with elements deriving from the Theatre of the Absurd (according to Martin Esslin’s definition, cf. 23-6) has so far gone more or less unnoticed. The growing frequency of “dystopic visions of the future” on the stage at the beginning of the 21 st century has been observed in general by Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz (xiv). 2 In the following, references to Bartlett’s 13 will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 25 For the play’s first audiences, John’s use of the word “occupy” with regard to the fictional protesters’ movement into Trafalgar Square (99) will certainly have seemed like a topical allusion, and reviewers repeatedly documented a sense that 13 was set in “a parallel universe” (Sierz; cf. also McGinn), “a not-so-alternative present-day world of street protests and economic misery” (Taylor). This impression is strengthened by the fact that the crowd in the play confronts a Conservative government whose Prime Minister, Ruth, worries about and finally consents to taking part in a US military strike against Iran after that country has withdrawn from the Nuclear Non-proliferation Treaty. 3 Showing a female Prime Minister here invites obvious comparisons with Margret Thatcher, and Stephen - an atheist teaching “at a London university” (12) 4 and an old companion of Ruth - indeed makes that connection in the play (cf. 38 and also Edith’s hostile comparison, 75). From today’s perspective, one is of course almost irresistibly reminded of the Conservative Prime Minister Theresa May, especially as the fictional politician seems to be quoting another prominent political figure from the contemporary world as well in professing her determination to “make this country great again” (29). In the play, the three central figures John, Ruth and Stephen are surrounded by a whole range of very diverse characters, many of whom come to join John’s protest movement in the course of the plot. In the end, the movement collapses after a shrewd (and highly unfair) tactical move on Ruth’s part. 3. 13 as a Large-scale (and more Implicit) ‘Absurdist Dystopia’ Despite its pronounced realistic elements, 13 pointedly does not follow the prominent documentary and verbatim trends of the 2000s, and it also responds to the topical situation more indirectly than for instance the playwrights involved in the anti-austerity project ‘Theatre Uncut’ did in March 2011 (cf. O'Thomas 135 f.; Brennan et al.). Instead, Bartlett builds on the form of absurdist dystopia, which had developed in the early 2000s, thus very much situating his work in a particular theatrical as well as a social and political context. Reviewers repeatedly noted a certain dystopian quality of the play (cf. e. g. Spencer; Benedict), and a plot element like the huge crowd of protesters all receiving a text message from the government at the same time (128) is indeed reminiscent of 3 This plot element may allude to the UK’s participation in the March 2011 attack on Libya or can again be seen as an almost prophetic instance, as relations between the UK and Iran worsened dramatically in November 2011 with the storming of the British embassy in Teheran. 4 The character Stephen may well be alluding to the role and positions of Richard Dawkins in Britain in the early 2010s. 26 Merle Tönnies the rulers’ control of the population in classical dystopias like George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949). 5 Along those lines, the realistic references in the play could then be linked with dystopia’s genre characteristic of starting out with the author’s actual world and then distancing the fictional situation from it by intensifying the tendencies that the readers are supposed to recognise as dangerous (cf. Zeißler 31 f.; Booker, “Dystopia”, 5). Generally, this distancing is less pronounced in 13 , compared not only with classical dystopias, but also with the absurdist dystopias of the 2000s, which toned down contemporary allusions and made the inequality inherent in their political systems much more explicit at the same time. Some critics indeed explicitly complained about a lack of realism in the Prime Minister being able to decide about going to war without any parliamentary influence (cf. e. g. Taylor), instead of reading this manifestation of absolutist power as a typical dystopian trait. Similarly, the play’s use of techniques deriving from the Theatre of the Absurd is more muted than in the earlier absurdist dystopias and has therefore often been overlooked. Reviewers have regularly denounced the characters as “two-dimensional illustrations of ‘types’ rather than complex individuals with rich stories” (Bowman; cf. also Taylor) and have bemoaned the impossibility of audience identification with them (cf. Bowman). The connection with the figures put on stage by the Theatre of the Absurd looms large here, especially as in contrast to other theatrical forms working with reduced characters (like for instance farce) 13 has a strong disturbing effect at the same time. As is typical of the 2000s absurdist dystopias (cf. Tönnies, “Impossibility”), the spectators are at a certain distance from the characters but cannot really escape from the impact of the play as a whole. Fittingly, lexical items from the word field of ‘unease’ abound in the reviews (cf. e. g. McGinn; Benedict; anon.), and as in Michael Billington’s statement quoted at the beginning of this paper, there is often a sense that this reaches beyond concrete grievances to a far more fundamental and irrational sense of being under threat. The recurrent nightmare, which is shared by most of the people on stage and starts off the first three acts of the play, strengthens this indefinable, Pinteresque menace, especially as the Laurie Anderson song “Someone Else’s Dream” indicating this dream’s presence runs for a shorter period each time (cf. 7, 13, 72). This creates a deepening sense of time running out (cf. Megson 51), mirrored in Ruth’s ominous impression that it “is getting darker”, which seems to apply to far more than the bad weather (68). This effect is still intensified by the uncanny 5 Another play discussed in this volume, Wild East (2005) by April De Angelis, also features dystopian elements reminiscent of Nineteen Eighty-Four , as Annika Gonnermann points out in her contribution. New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 27 recurrence of the number 13, which turns into a veritable leitmotif from the title of the play onwards (cf. Megson 50). The instances themselves are often unimportant and seemingly coincidental (as for instance the number of steps listed in the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, 41), but the number’s connection with the nightmare from the very beginning of the play onwards (with the dreamers waking up in shock at 7.13 am each time) foregrounds its conventional ill-omened connotations. Moreover, at least readers of the play will certainly notice that the killing of eleven-year-old Ruby by her own mother - reminiscent of Ionesco in its pointedly unrealistic staging - takes place in the 13 th scene of act two. As in the whole of the Theatre of the Absurd, the vagueness of the perceived threat heightens its intensity and broadens its scope, potentially widening it to the fundamental sense of exposure inherent in the human condition “in a world of shattered beliefs” (Esslin 23). It fits in well with this that the overall approach of the play is deliberately irrational, repeatedly leaving events unexplained by a logical context. In the last scene of the first act for instance images of “the people of London” dancing in the streets blend into “a nuclear blast” before the blackout ending the act, and the stage directions pointedly refuse to give a clear-cut explanation: “The student party after the protest maybe, or a dream, a memory …” (40) - or indeed, one may add, a sudden direct insight into the recurrent nightmare, about which the audience otherwise receives only little information (34, 42). Generally, 13 has a pronounced episodic structure, which has been criticised as “meandering” (Orr) and lacking “focus” (Shuttleworth). The suspension of conventional narrative logic is highlighted by the increasing interconnections that establish themselves between the different narrative strands seemingly of their own accord, especially through scenes blending into each other, taking place simultaneously and / or through the actions and statements of different characters mirroring each other (cf. e. g. 80-5, 90). This can create a “spooky” (Sierz), “ominous” (Taylor) sense of a world following its own strange rules, completely “out of harmony” with human rationality (Esslin 23, cf. also 24), as is often the case in the Theatre of the Absurd. Just as Martin Esslin famously observed about that theatrical form, 13 makes the audience experience its unsettling world directly instead of arguing about it rationally (cf. 24-6). In the first production of the play at the National Theatre, this effect was also supported by the stage design. While Bartlett’s first stage direction in the published playtext states ambiguously that “[t]he play should be performed with a circle” (6), the production worked with a large black cube structure. Critics have stressed the intense effect of this design and its role in the overall atmosphere created by the play, calling the structure on stage “ominous” (Orr) or “sinister” (McGinn) and stressing its “abstract” (ibid.) quality that refused to mirror any of the contemporary details 28 Merle Tönnies and concrete London locations which feature in the plot. Yet again, one can thus observe a parallel with the experiential approach of the Theatre of the Absurd, where intense stage images play a pivotal role as well (cf. Esslin 25 f.). What distinguishes 13 from the Theatre of the Absurd and may well have contributed to the reviewers’ tendency to judge (and criticise) it according to the rules of realist drama is its “immense scale” (Bowman). Written for the large stage of the Olivier theatre and using the traditional number of five acts (though refusing to keep to the even, symmetrical structure conventionally associated with this form), the play demands recognition much more graphically than the minimalist absurdist dystopias of the 2000s (and probably also more than Bartlett’s 2010 five-act play Earthquakes in London , which was staged at the National’s much smaller Cottesloe Theatre). In this respect, 13 seems to conform to the demands of the so-called ‘Monsterists’ - a group of young playwrights of which Bartlett was not a member but whose 2005 “Manifesto” called for the “elevation of new theatre writing […] to the main stage”, including a “[l]arge scale, large concept and, possibly, large cast” (Eldridge). With this context of confident assertiveness, it is not surprising that Bartlett’s play has been situated in the tradition of state-of-the-nation drama (cf. Megson 52), potentially even widened to “state-of-the-globe” (Trueman). From this angle, one might indeed expect more clear-cut points, a more straightforward plot and greater audience involvement than Bartlett chooses to provide. 4. The Play’s Central Conflict about Political Power With its approach of dystopian distancing and absurdist abstraction and irrationality, 13 definitely manages to push a critical attitude to political power and social inequality past the smokescreen of rhetoric and also beyond the widespread focus on concrete case studies. Like other absurdist dystopias, the play poses fundamental questions about the validity of power and the values that it should be based on. In the course of the first three acts Ruth, who has been Prime Minister for two years at this point (107), and John, who has gradually turned into the leader of the popular protest movement after first appearing more like a social outcast (7 f., 22), increasingly come to embody two diametrically opposed positions in this respect. After the interval, the fourth act then leads to a personal confrontation between these two central characters in what is by far the longest scene of the play ( IV .9). On the face of it, this exchange is about John trying to persuade Ruth not to take part in the American attack on Iran, but it is clear throughout that the real confrontation is about concepts of political power and their moral implications. For part of the discussion, the binary opposition is complemented by Stephen, whom Ruth has asked to join New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 29 them “for a while”, because - in keeping with the uncanny interlocking of different plot strands in the play - not only Ruth and Stephen but “all [of them] know each other” (106). As transpires in the course of the scene, this does not simply refer back to endless political debates in the past, before John suddenly vanished, but the reason for his disappearance actually seems to have been his presence at and potential involvement in the death of Ruth’s son. At the same time, the spectators already know from an earlier scene where Stephen chances upon one of John’s speeches in the park that the two of them used to be lecturer and student (65) and (as is highlighted when a speech by John is intercut with Stephen’s Oxford Union polemic against the Iranian government, 88-90) that their opinions are diametrically opposed to each other. In the climactic exchange between the three characters, John clearly stands for the movement that has crystallised around him, with his supporters waiting both in front of 10 Downing Street and in Trafalgar Square. While the protests originally started out from concrete grievances like student fees, John rarely addresses actual issues. His topics are much more abstract (cf. Megson 52), urging the importance of dreams, feelings and - most importantly - belief (“through believing in the impossible you might just make it happen”), and move on from empty everyday routines to reaching idealistic and seemingly unrealistic goals (63, also 91 f.). This character’s success with the people of London is clearly connected with the fact that everyone is left free to fill in his or her own concrete desire for change here - as John says explicitly in the end: “[I]t’s not the object of belief that’s important but belief itself.” (128) Moreover, it is also the caring sympathy that he seems to radiate which successively turns very different kinds of characters (and finally even the seemingly blasé Mark, 100 f.) into his devoted followers. John apparently pays genuine attention to people’s individual problems, intuiting with dazzling accuracy what is wrong with them and what they need most at the moment. As Rachel (who at first responded rather critically to John’s return, 20) tells Amir, whom John has just seemingly miraculously freed from detention: “I mean actually of all people he was the one we needed but - […].” (32) In this respect, the focus increasingly shifts from factual problems to people’s emotional situation both in John’s speeches and in his personal contact with other characters, highlighted by the question: “[H]ow do you feel? ” (89) The hope that he spreads is also closely connected with the community spirit that he preaches to counter the prevalent sense of loneliness (e. g. 90), condensed in the almost liturgical slogan “In our name! ” (92), which the protesters come to chant. In terms of the play’s experiential approach, the growing interweaving of the characters’ stories may well mirror this sense of community - though (as was discussed above) these seemingly uncontrollable interconnections also 30 Merle Tönnies transport rather uncanny associations in the play. Indeed, despite (or perhaps because of) John’s sway over the great majority of the people on stage, the play finally does not encourage the audience to see him as an unambiguously positive force. His progress until act four clearly has messianic overtones (cf. Sierz), with the gathering of disciples from all social groups and the healing effect he seems to have on his followers. This group at first sight seems to be equivalent to “The Twelve” in the cast list (3), with obvious apostolic associations - but one has to note that this list includes Ruth and Stephen, who pointedly do not fall under John’s influence. Factually, the number ‘twelve’ here singles out those susceptible to the nightmares, which possibly undercuts John’s role as a new messiah in the subtext. Nevertheless, the term ‘disciples’ is promoted by the press in the play (101), and the first of this group, Holly, is fittingly a woman who - in the leader’s own words - “has sex for money” (65). Moreover, John apparently knows the future and is able to see through surface appearances, correctly predicting rain (64-6) and pointing out Stephen’s as yet not completely diagnosed cancer (106). His constant patience and willingness to turn the other cheek may almost seem too good to be true, and the coincidences associated with him also elicit critical comments in the play (32, 115), thereby potentially bringing in the uncanny connotations of the growing interconnectedness of all the individual stories. Indeed, the title of 13 pointedly foregrounds that the addition of the leader figure to the biblical number of disciples results in negative connotations which are spread still further by the related leitmotif. Like the coincidences, the link between John and ‘thirteen’ is also explicitly commented on in the play when Zia explains to Shannon that counting the letters in John’s speeches “in the right way” results in that number “again and again” (77). The unease pervading the responses to the play may thus also relate to this charismatic leader and his power, the source of which finally remains obscure. In marked contrast to John, Ruth as his key counterpart is shown to stand alone at the point when they confront each other directly. Visually, she is the only one of ‘The Twelve’ left standing - and “centre stage”, too - at the end of the previous act, when the other characters bend down in the face of an overwhelming finding or realisation in their lives (90). At this moment, John, who is giving a speech, has just asked his audience whether they feel “[a]lone” (ibid.), while two scenes earlier Dennis, the US President’s special envoy, had already told Ruth: “[Y]ou’re on your own […].” (84) In the first scenes of Act Four the spectators then see her team (with the exception of one small gesture of support) refusing to back her decision to talk to John (97, 101 f.), leaving her to conclude: “I understand, I’m on my own.” (102) For about half of the exchange with John, Stephen is still present at Ruth’s side, but the audience will be aware long before he is taken to hospital that his health is too bad to allow him to be New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 31 a real help to Ruth. After all, he, too, was seen to collapse in the final scene of the third act, but in contrast to the other characters very obviously for physical reasons, tellingly not allowing him to finish his Oxford Union speech (88-90). Nevertheless, for the first half of the pivotal conversation, Ruth hangs back a little and leaves much of the grappling with John to Stephen, which gives the former a lot of scope for expounding his views on the basis of political power and the ways in which it should be used. John again stresses the importance of “dreams” in politics instead of “compromise” (108, 110) and urges Ruth to take radical decisions (like raising taxes or refusing to join in the strike against Iran) based on “Purpose. Conviction, Belief ” (114), the last of which is reiterated as John’s fundamental value (115). According to him, “the people” (whom Stephen denounces as too unreliable to be trusted with power, 116 f.) would back such a course (114, 108-10), because his “generation isn’t apathetic, we’re voting every second of the day”, as “millions of views, opinions, solutions” are constantly available on the internet (114). Thus, John argues for relying on an empowering sense of community both in Britain and with the Iranian people, whom he wants to trust to bring down their government themselves (114 f.). At one point, it even seems as if he might be able to reach Ruth with these arguments (116), but that moment passes again very quickly. As Ruth only really enters the discussion once Stephen has left, John’s views are already well-known to the audience as a contrastive foil then. While earlier on she admitted to believing in God again privately (37), she explicitly juxtaposes the underlying basis of her politics to John’s here: “compassion and feeling and emotion ” are necessary (123, emphases in original), but the “solution to a nasty world” is “[h]ard work, opportunity, and in the end, yes, self-interest” (ibid.). Accordingly, “compromise”, “discussion and thought ” (126, emphasis in original) should take precedence over “ideologies” (ibid.) as well as John’s dreams: “We dream of things that don’t exist all the time.” (127) With her rational approach, the ideal leader of the country is the “manager” (126) explicitly rejected by John earlier on (110). Ruth even goes a step further and denies her interlocutor what he considers the most important justification of his own and any political power, as she asserts that in contrast to him, her son, who died from drunkenly jumping off a bridge in John’s presence, “had real belief in the people” (118). With regard to her, the principal value on which power and political decisions are based can be described as responsibility, as recognised by Stephen (108). While Ruth does not use the term itself, she repeatedly accuses John of lacking this quality, in relation to both her son’s death and the conversation that he had with Sarah, Ruby’s mother, before she killed her daughter: “I think you make people do stupid things. I think you encourage them to take the brakes off […].” (125) Indeed, just like belief (cf. Megson 42, 55), the importance 32 Merle Tönnies of personal responsibility runs through the play like a leitmotif (cf. Sierz; Bowman), with the characters (including John’s followers) regularly blaming each other for shirking responsibility (31, 95). From this perspective, John clearly falls short, as his disappearance is understood as irresponsibility from the first scenes of the play onwards (16) and he apparently has no arguments against this charge (106 f.). Indeed, if one believes Holly’s report in act five, he ends up doing exactly the same thing again after his movement has collapsed: after checking all possible directions, John could have taken on that night and drawing a blank each time, the loyal follower is only left with “looking” and “wait[ing]” (131). However, Ruth’s position, too, is to some extent discredited in the end: she wins the struggle with John through the unfair gambit of releasing a video where Sarah links her murder of her daughter to John’s messages (124 f., 128), so that he is no longer in a position to call for the planned general strike. It seems to fit in well with this course of action that in contrast to John’s idealism, Ruth’s concept of responsibility is closely connected with a pragmatic approach to politics. She stresses that “[t]o any difficult problem, there is never a right solution, there is only ever the best solution” (122, emphases in original), and openly rejects moral absolutes like good and evil: “You know what I believe [note the choice of this word] in John? The grey area. The bit between […] impure reality […].” (122, 124, emphasis in original) Interestingly, the characters in the play who do endorse concepts like ‘good’ or ‘evil’ tend to be highly problematic. Most prominently, this discourse features with Sarah and her husband (Dennis, the US President’s envoy) when they talk about their daughter, who is herself preoccupied with the amount of “evil in the world” (47). While Sarah insists throughout that Ruby is “not good ” (70, emphasis in original, 104), Dennis sees her as “a good kid” (76) but does not realise how deep and absolute Sarah’s judgement is. When John - again bringing in his key theme - tells her that “[s]ometimes you have to do what you believe to be right” (62, my emphasis), she takes this as a confirmation of her murderous plan, as she considers him to be “good” (ibid.). Similarly, on a less dramatic scale, moral absolutes are put into question through their use by Ruth’s advisor Martin. He evaluates John in exactly the same terms as Sarah (103) but seems to have given up in the end: “I want a small life. Don’t think there’s anything much anyone can do, except get through it.” (131 f.) Against the background of these plot strands, Ruth’s focus on ‘the grey area’ in-between the absolutes seems more sensible and almost sympathetic again. Nevertheless, one also needs to recall that in contrast to her constant insistence on rationality and realism, 13 - as an absurdist dystopia - achieves its most intense effects by exactly the opposite means. New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 33 In keeping with the prominence of ambiguity in this form (and in marked contrast to traditional British political drama), the play thus does not represent either John’s or Ruth’s position on political power as the right one. This observation is also supported by the ways in which 13 refers back to the developments in British political rhetoric explained above. Speeches are of great importance in this work - stressing that despite its scale, it cannot fully be subsumed under the category of ‘Monsterism’, which prominently demands a primacy of showing over telling (cf. Eldridge). Even more obviously than the final exchange between Ruth and John, the rhetoric used in their speeches to the public reproduces many of the keywords that have become so characteristic of British political discourse. Thus, Ruth’s speech in the first act (tellingly appearing in scene 13) includes recognisably Blairite terms like ‘modernise’, ‘work’, and ‘this country’. Moreover, she compares the new development of the Conservative party associated with her to Labour’s move away “from outdated socialism” (29), thus establishing a connection with Blair without naming him directly. 6 Bartlett indeed also draws attention to the predominance of rhetoric in the contemporary world more generally, which may induce audiences to respond rather critically to Ruth in this respect: already in act one, Holly, who is looking for actual religious experiences, disrupts an Alpha course by objecting to the pat phrases used there (25), while Alice points out that her key qualification for becoming a lawyer’s assistant is that she is “good with words” (14). However, it is typical of the play that the ironic criticism potentially implied here concerns John just as much as Ruth. While his first public appearances still seem relatively authentic (63), the well-known discursive web establishes itself securely once he has fully moved into the political sphere. In his speeches just before and at the meeting in Trafalgar Square, 7 the keywords are even more densely interwoven than with Ruth, covering the whole spectrum established by Blair and often also introducing synonyms to emphasise the desired associations still further: ‘together’ (90), ‘today’ (90, 92), ‘future’ (92), ‘change’ (90, 92), ‘country’ (91, 92), ‘nation’ (91), and ‘strength’ (91). In addition, John also adopts rhetorical strategies that recall Blair’s specific mode of delivering speeches, for instance by emphasising the communicative situation through phrases like ‘I say to …’ (92, Blair). John also operates directly on the level of rhetoric when emphatically setting out to reclaim the term “ society ” (91, emphasis in original) 6 It must be noted, however, that although Ruth insists on the party having “moved on from the days of Thatcher” (29), her use of the keyword ‘opportunity’ links her with this politician - as does her adoption of responsibility as a key value (cf. e. g. the use of the two keywords in Thatcher). 7 Cf. also Megson (55) on the visual undercutting of John’s words in his call for the Trafalgar demonstration. 34 Merle Tönnies from its denigration by Thatcherist discourse. Thus, from the perspective of being caught up in the contemporary rhetorical web (and potentially using it to veil real issues), too, the play refuses to take a decision between Ruth and John, leaving their diametrically opposed positions on political power standing for the spectators to make their own choices. 5. Conclusion As has been shown, 13 follows the overall approach of absurdist dystopia by mixing constitutive characteristics of dystopia with those of the Theatre of the Absurd to push from the concrete issues and events troubling Britain at the beginning of the 2010s to the level of more fundamental questions about political power, its basis and the ways in which it may be used - exactly the topics typically negotiated in British political theatre from the 1950s to the 1990s. However, as has also been demonstrated, 13 is more oblique in evoking the characteristics of the two genres than the absurdist dystopias of the 2000s, and since it uses a much larger format at the same time, this has caused some misunderstandings on the part of the critics. This may also be connected with the fact that as far as the power issues themselves are concerned, the play intensifies ambiguity far beyond the situation in the absurdist dystopias of the 2000s. Whereas there the stronger dystopian elements meant that the ruling group was clearly recognisable as enforcing an unjust hierarchy and any opposition was pointedly left out as well, 13 is more open. Social inequality is clearly an important topic in the play through the recurrent links with the situation in the early 2010s (and John also likes to draw attention to it, 112), but its sources and its relationship with each of the two main positions and their respective proponents remain rather obscure. Reviewers have consequently come up with highly conflicting readings of the play. In some cases, Bartlett is seen as exposing “the dangers of trusting messianic leaders” (Sierz; Bowman; Taylor), while other critics see the play as “passionately argu[ing] for some kind of spiritual revolution” (Billington, “Review”; Trueman). In interviews, the playwright himself deliberately seemed to keep to the middle ground between these two extremes, describing his motivation for the play as wondering about the feasibility of “someone mak[ing] a speech and chang[ing] the world”: “Could someone do that? Could we go with that, and really make it work? ” (as quoted in McGinn) Some commentators have also pointed out the intense ambiguity of 13 (cf. Shuttleworth), but this has often been mistaken for a weakness, with Benedict for instance complaining about “Bartlett’s uncharacteristic lack of decision about his play’s sense of direction”. New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 35 However, when one takes the background of absurdist dystopia into consideration, it becomes clear that this apparent ‘lack of decision’ is not only deliberate but a constitutive characteristic of the play. It is indeed still intensified in the short fifth act, which produces the final impressions that the audience is left with. Here, ‘The Twelve’ stand on stage and soliloquise about their experiences after the collapse of the protest movement. It is highly significant that each of them talks to the spectators separately, thus mirroring Ruth’s prognosis that “the singing will stop and become individual voices again” (126). Fittingly, the characters’ stories often show some kind of retreat into the domestic sphere and a reallocation of priorities to “home” (129, 130) and private relationships. The ruinous implications for John’s insistence that belief has to and will last and will ultimately prove beneficial for everyone (126, 128) were already prepared by the violent riots at the end of act four, which leave the spectators with images diametrically opposed to any kind of community spirit. Typically, however, act five is equally devastating for Ruth’s position. She openly admits that she is at a loss about whether she took the right decision and whether the values on which it was based still hold (130, 132). The key experience that Ruth seems to be left with now is loneliness, having no one to call at night when everything becomes too much for her (132 f.). In this respect, the order of the soliloquies openly links her both with Edith, who is planning to kill herself (130), and with Sarah (132), who used to be diametrically opposed to the Prime Minister through her belief in moral absolutes but is now troubled by insomnia and insistent memories and dreams in a very similar manner (131 f.). Finally, thus, it does not seem to matter whether one chooses to base one’s actions on the belief in a strict division between good and evil or on Ruth’s ‘grey area’ in-between - the outcome is always guilt, desolation and confusion. This bleak result is finally pinpointed again by the soldier Rob, who has been a minor character so far but is now given the concluding soliloquy. He followed John’s career on the internet, because he wanted “to know” and thought “[ John]’d help” (133), and was then sent to Iran as a result of Ruth’s decision. Rob presents a very detailed, almost stream-of-consciousness narrative of a crucial scene at a roadblock in Iran where he could not decide whether a veiled woman running towards him was “good” or “evil” (134), in the end following the rules and shooting her anyway. Now he is troubled by permanent uncertainty even more than by guilt, just like Ruth: “So in the end, we can’t tell. If she [the running woman] was good, or evil” (135) - and therefore, if his decision was right or wrong. Rob realises retrospectively that this was exactly the kind of moral certainty that he craved from John (135) but did not get, despite all the idealism that this leader stood for. Thus, the soldier ends on a very fitting summary not only of his own (and the other characters’) position after 36 Merle Tönnies John’s disappearance but also of the audience’s situation after watching the play: “Left us all to - work it out ourselves.” (135) As the highly metadramatic statement makes clear, this is the ultimate aim of the play - making the spectators aware of the fundamental issues so often hidden by the web of political rhetoric, drawing them into these problems through an experiential approach and then leaving each audience member ‘to work it out himor herself ’. As Dan Rebellato (15, 27) has noted, this ultimate “openness” and “instability” (which he diagnoses - among other works - with regard to Bartlett’s Earthquakes in London ) 8 is very different from earlier British political theatre and may even come across as deliberate “radical naivety” (ibid., 18, 27). Nevertheless, this pointedly does not make the new plays any less effective compared with the tradition; on the contrary, they become “politically more questioning and radical” (ibid., 27). According well with Rebellato’s points, the foregoing analysis of 13 has demonstrated how - after the apparent disappearance of political theatre in the 1990s - absurdist dystopia has become a means of returning to the issue of political power, its aims and its justifications in the 21 st century. Compared with earlier examples, 13 uses this form more obliquely and thereby ultimately intensifies the evocation of both ambiguity and unease, refusing the audience any kind of guidance or consolation and leaving them completely on their own in confronting these grave and possibly unanswerable questions. This effect is obviously at its most intense in the direct confrontation with the play in the theatre. Thus, 13 and its experiential approach can be considered an impressive demonstration of the unique potential of (performed) drama for working on the spectators’ emotions even with regard to apparently purely rational issues like political power and ideology, thereby making it very hard for them to retreat to a safe distance. Bibliography Primary Sources Bartlett, Mike. Game. London: Nick Hern Books, 2015. —. King Charles III . London: Nick Hern Books, 2014. —. 13. London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2014 [2011]. —. Love, Love, Love. London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2010. —. Earthquakes in London. London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2010. —. Cock. London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2009. —. My Child [2007]. Plays: 1. London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2016 [2011]. Blair, Tony. “Leader’s Speech.” Labour Party Conference. Brighton. 30 September 1997. 8 Megson (53) has also related Rebellato’s points directly to 13 . New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 37 Cameron, David. “The Big Society.” Liverpool. 19 July 2010. May, Theresa. “Speech on Brexit.” Lancaster House. 17 January 2017. —. “Shared Society: Charity Commission Annual Lecture.” London. 9 January 2017. Osborne, George. “Budget 2010.” The Telegraph . 22 June 2010. http: / / www.telegraph. co.uk/ finance/ budget/ 7846849/ Budget-2010-Full-text-of-George-Osbornes-statement.html. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Secondary Sources Adiseshiah, Siân. “Political Returns on the Twenty-First Century Stage: Caryl Churchill’s Far Away, Drunk enough to Say I Love You? , and Seven Jewish Children. ” C21 Literature: Journal of 21 st -century Writings 1.1 (2012): 103-21. Angelaki, Vicky. “Politics for the Middle Classes: Contemporary Audiences and the Violence of Now.” Contemporary British Theatre: Breaking New Ground. Ed. Vicky Angelaki. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. 57-78. Atkinson, Will, Steven Roberts and Mike Savage. “Introduction: A Critical Sociology of the Age of Austerity.” Class Inequality in Austerity Britain: Power, Difference and Suffering. Eds. Will Atkinson, Steven Roberts and Mike Savage. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. 1-12. Benedict, David. “Review: ‘13’”. Variety. 26 October 2011. http: / / variety.com/ 2011/ legit/ reviews/ 13-1117946455/ . Accessed on 29 March 2017. Billington, Michael. “13 - Review.” The Guardian. 26 October 2011. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ stage/ 2011/ oct/ 26/ 13-review. Accessed on 29 March 2017. —. “Hello Cruel World.” The Guardian . 17 December 2003. https: / / www.theguardian. com/ stage/ 2003/ dec/ 17/ theatre3. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Blyth, Mark. Austerity: The History of a Dangerous Idea . Oxford: Oxford UP , 2013 [2005]. Booker, M. Keith. Dystopia . Ipswich, Mass.: Salem Press, 2013. —. The Dystopian Impulse in Modern Literature: Fiction as Social Criticism . Westport: Greenwood Press, 1994. Bowman, Deborah. “Arts Review: 13.” Times Higher Education . 3 November 2011. https: / / www.timeshighereducation.com/ features/ culture/ arts-review-13/ 418011. article. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Brennan, Clara, David Greig, Dennis Kelly, Lucy Kirkwood, Laura Thomas, Anders Lustgarten, Jack Thorne and Mark Ravenhill. Theatre Uncut: The Anthology: A Response to the Countrywide Spending Cuts. London: Oberon, 2011. Clarke, Harold D., Peter Kellner, Marianne Stewart, Joe Twyman, and Paul Whiteley. Austerity and the Political Choice in Britain. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. Clement, Matt. “The Urban Outcasts of the British City.” Class Inequality in Austerity Britain: Power, Difference and Suffering. Eds. Will Atkinson, Steven Roberts and Mike Savage. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. 111-27. Edgar, David. “Secret Lives.” The Guardian . 19 April 2003. https: / / www.theguardian. com/ stage/ 2003/ apr/ 19/ theatre.artsfeatures. Accessed on 29 March 2017. 38 Merle Tönnies Edge, Simon. “13, National Theatre, London.” Express. 28 October 2011. http: / / www.express.co.uk/ entertainment/ theatre/ 280257/ 13-National-Theatre-London-review. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Eldridge, David. “Massive Attack.” The Guardian . 27 June 2005. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ stage/ 2005/ jun/ 27/ theatre. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Esslin, Martin. The Theatre of the Absurd . London: Penguin, 1991 [1961]. Fairclough, Norman. New Labour, New Language? London: Routledge, 2003. Farnsworth, Kevin and Zoë Irving. “Social Policy in the Age of Austerity.” Social Policy in Times of Austerity: Global Economic Crisis and the New Politics of Welfare. Eds. Kevin Farnsworth and Zoë Irving. Bristol: Policy Press, 2015. 1-8. —. “Austerity: More than the Sum of its Parts.” Social Policy in Times of Austerity: Global Economic Crisis and the New Politics of Welfare. Eds. Kevin Farnsworth and Zoë Irving. Bristol: Policy Press, 2015. 9-41. Harvie, Jen. Fair Play: Art, Performance, and Neoliberalism . Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Haydon, Andrew. “Theatre in the 2000s.” Modern British Playwriting 2000-2009 . Ed. Dan Rebellato. London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2013. 40-96. Hoby, Hermione. “Most Theatre is Still Really Bad.” The Guardian . 8 November 2009. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ culture/ 2009/ nov/ 08/ mike-bartlett-royal-court-cock. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Kritzer, Amelia Howe. Political Theatre in Post-Thatcher Britain: New Writing: 1995-2005 . Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008. McGinn, Caroline. “Mike Bartlett’s 13.” Time Out London . 17 October 2011. https: / / www.timeout.com/ london/ theatre/ mike-bartletts-13. Accessed on 29 March 2017. McKenzie, Lisa. Getting By: Estates, Class and Culture in Austerity Britain. Bristol: Policy Press, 2015. Megson, Chris. “Beyond Belief: British Theatre and the ‘Re-Enchantment of the World’.” Twenty First Century Drama. Eds. 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New Approaches to Questioning Power in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011) 39 Saunders, Graham. “Introduction.” Cool Britannia? British Political Drama in the 1990s. Eds. Rebecca D’Monté and Graham Saunders. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008. 1-19. Shuttleworth, Ian. “13, National Theatre (Olivier), London.” Financial Times . 30 October 2011. https: / / www.ft.com/ content/ c7708cee-ffe7-11e0-ba79-00144feabdc0. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Sierz, Aleks. “13, National Theatre.” The Art Desk . 25 October 2011. http: / / www.theartsdesk.com/ theatre/ 13-national-theatre. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Spencer, Charles. “13, National Theatre, Review.” The Telegraph . 26 October 2011. http: / / www.telegraph.co.uk/ culture/ theatre/ theatre-reviews/ 8848998/ 13-National-Theatre-review.html. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Taylor, Paul. “13, National Theatre: Olivier, London.“ The Independent . 27 October 2011. http: / / www.independent.co.uk/ arts-entertainment/ theatre-dance/ reviews/ 13-national-theatre-olivier-london-2376736.html. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Thatcher, Margaret. “The Renewal of Britain.” Conservative Political Centre Summer School. Trinity College Cambridge. 6 July 1979. Trueman, Matt. “Review: 13 National Theatre.” Matttrueman . 26 October 2011. http: / / matttrueman.co.uk/ 2011/ 10/ review-13-national-theatre.html. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Tönnies, Merle. “‘New Lingo - New Theatre? ’ New Labour’s Rhetoric and Political Drama in Contemporary Britain.” anglistik & englischunterricht 65 (2003): 169-91. —. “The Immobility of Power in British Political Theatre after 2000: Absurdist Dystopias.” JCDE 5.1. (2017): 156-72. Zeißler, Elena. Dunkle Welten: Die Dystopie auf dem Weg ins 21. Jahrhundert . Marburg: Tectum Verlag, 2008. Immigration as Farce: Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 41 Immigration as Farce: Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) Peter Paul Schnierer 1. Immigration in Contemporary British Discourse The challenges and opportunities offered by large-scale immigration are central to Britain’s political discourse in the 21 st century. At the time of writing, the coming departure of the United Kingdom from the European Union (‘Brexit’) is dominating the headlines; the process was triggered by, among a range of lesser grievances, a combination of dissatisfaction and hope: dissatisfaction with the perceived loss of control of who enters the country and for how long, and the hope of better times to return once unregulated immigration, from European countries as well as from further abroad, were stopped. The arguments traded between the increasingly entrenched camps do not contain much that is new: in fact, the popular sentiment that led to the narrow victory of the Brexiteers has not changed substantially since 1980, when the punk group The Clash sang They say the immigrants steal the hubcaps Of respected gentlemen They say it would be wine and roses If England were for Englishmen again (“Something about England”) Britain, like any other country, has her share of xenophobes and welcoming citizens alike, but the political discourse contains a few elements that are less pronounced elsewhere. The most fundamental of these is the constant influence of Britain’s insular position; there is no need to negotiate joint problems on a daily basis; no roadworks need to be coordinated, no rules for police in hot pursuit across the border have to be set up. What is more: the petty border traffic that generates so much awareness of neighbourhood and similarity in mainland Europe simply does not exist. The border between Northern Ireland and the Republic could have served as an example, and there is much greater fluidity of movement nowadays, but the border is still too burdened down with memories of recent conflict. Most other trips abroad require sea travel or flights, and the one exception, the channel tunnel opened in 1994, only came into being after decades of warnings about the invasion of Britain by French rats and rabid dogs - a fear that is best understood in terms of unwanted immigration and which was seen abroad to embody “British paranoia” (Ipsen). It is easier to cast 42 Peter Paul Schnierer ‘Johnny Foreigner’ as a dangerous or ludicrous character if you do not regularly get the chance to observe him at home. As a result, using national stereotypes in politics, entertainment and other public discourses requires the speaker to set irony markers, but not to apologise up front or afterwards. Often it is enough to identify the genre to make the cliché acceptable: TV comedy is a good example. A show like ‘Allo ‘Allo! (1982-92), set in Nazi-occupied France and employing excruciatingly predictable behaviour patterns for comic effect, may well have attained cult status for that very reason. One of the bestselling books of 2015 was Stephen Clarke’s semi-ironically patriotic history of Anglo-French relations entitled 1000 Years of Annoying the French . Another peculiarity of the public debate on immigration is the recollection of Britain’s imperial past, the “wine and roses” of which The Clash sing. Nostalgia, of course, is not confined to one country or culture, but a sense of tradition that rests on commonly held assumptions of what is acceptable is palpable everywhere in the United Kingdom. Its manifestations range from the quaint (Henry VIII -faced rubber ducks) to the incendiary (Ulster Orange marches). Thus, during the campaign leading up to the Brexit referendum, there was no lack of voices that expressed a longing for the England before harmful immigration began; the definition of ‘harmful’ was and is a core concern of the debate, and it is duly mirrored in the play under review here. From this debate, a sense emerged in which desirable immigration from Commonwealth countries was contrasted with the noxious influx of Eastern Europeans. This may be due to familiarity: immigrants from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh as well as those from the Caribbean have been arriving in large numbers from 1948, when the troopship Empire Windrush brought some 500 migrants from Jamaica - not the first to arrive from the West Indies, but the best-reported ones. 1 The Windrush episode is compulsory in any account of post-war immigration to Britain, however brief. Similarly, a reference to Enoch Powell’s “Rivers of Blood” speech on immigration in 1968 is required; when the Conservative politician cast himself as Virgil seeing “the River Tiber foaming with much blood” he was widely seen to condone, if not to invite, violence against immigrants. The speech has been quoted and misquoted ever since, but the rivers of blood had failed to materialise in the 20 th century. One remarkable facet of the history of immigration to Britain has been its comparative absence of violence. There have been riots, but even those of Brixton (London), Toxteth (Liverpool), Handsworth (Birmingham) and Moss Side (Manchester) in 1981, the fiercest instances 1 The contribution by Kerstin Frank in this volume discusses questions of black British cultural identities in the wake of immigration from the Caribbean and Africa in more detail. Immigration as Farce in Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 43 of public unrest outside Northern Ireland, did not cause a single casualty. For all the belligerent rhetoric from left and right race relations in Britain until recently have been comparatively peaceful. Against this background, terrorism and the increase in hate crimes since the referendum, across the whole spectrum from xenophobic graffiti to (in one instance in 2016, deadly) attacks on Polish immigrants, is unusual and worrying. It is too early to discern the influence the debate on immigration accompanying that on Brexit will have on British drama and theatre, but to judge from past experience it will be there. 2. Immigration on the British Stage It is, perhaps, an admissible generalisation that drama is uniquely suited to the presentation of conflict. The clash of rival positions is most evident if those are literally embodied by protagonists and antagonists. Thus the criss-crossing frontlines of any complex political debate can be made tangible; playwrights throughout the history of theatre have shown the power of such incarnations. These range from the emblematic figures of late mediaeval morality plays to the sophisticated characters (‘sophisticated’ not in the sense of socially advanced, but of ‘multi-dimensional’) of Brecht’s great tragedies. Narrowed down to the history of British immigration plays, the character spectrum stretches from Shakespeare’s Othello to Peter Flannery’s Singer (1989), via the captive Frenchmen in late Restoration comedy, to the stage Irish of 19 th -century London plays, and the American characters of the comedy of manners. Yet all of these, even if they are stock figures with predictable ideas, actions and linguistic peculiarities, are individuals. They do not represent the ethnic group they belong to, they merely exhibit its alleged characteristics. This makes them recognisable and, in the case of comedy, instantly entertaining, but they are not there to make points about immigration. The same is even true for tragic characters: Othello may be used as a starting point for a critical investigation into the conditions of immigration in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, but the play itself does not address them. The Moor is stigmatised by his skin colour, but not seen as the representative of the wider problem Venice (or indeed London) had with Barbary mercenaries. The closest English-language drama gets to the topic of mass human displacement before the 1980s is the Irish emigration play, starting with some of Dion Boucicault’s 19 th -century melodramas and encompassing plays like John B. Keane’s Many Young Men of Twenty (1946) and Brian Friel’s Philadelphia, Here I Come! (1964). Immigration as a subject in its own right only became visible on British stages once the immigrants themselves began to write. The work of Tanika Gupta may serve as a point of reference here, although plays by 44 Peter Paul Schnierer Kwame Kwei-Armah or Winsome Pinnock, to name but two other important contemporary playwrights, could be adduced. 2 The immigrants in Gupta’s plays cover many reasons for displacement, from second-generation Indians with no intention of ‘going back’, to refugees fleeing the wars of the world, in Sudan ( White Boy , 2008), Afghanistan ( Fragile Land , 2003) or Rwanda ( Sanctuary , 2002). Gupta’s audiences are never supposed to forget that these people are not merely interesting characters whose tribulations, well-dramatised, may move, entertain and instruct, but that their fate is symptomatic of a global miscarriage of humanity (cf. Griffin). 3. Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice Richard Bean was born in the Northern English city of Hull in 1956. He is a psychologist by training and came to writing for the stage relatively late in life; his first playtext, a libretto, dates from 1995. In 2003 he wrote his first outright farce ( Smack Family Robinson ). Since then, he has had some two dozen of his plays performed. Some of these are adaptations, including the hugely successful One Man, Two Guvnors (2011), a version of Carlo Goldoni’s Il servitore di due padroni (1753). Bean modernised the setting, but more importantly he gave the man / servant plenty of room and time to ad-lib and to take a more and more aggressive stance towards an increasing number of audience members, culminating in physical on-stage humiliation. When the present author saw the play, some shocked spectators left at the interval, too soon to realise (at the curtain call) that the most ill-treated ‘victim’ was in fact an actor - her distress performed so palpably as to redraw the boundaries of comedy. At first glance, one could argue that Bean just avails himself of the commedia dell’arte tradition of improvisation Goldoni himself used, but Bean’s confrontational stance is original. He actually tries to scandalise the audience. Scandals have become a rare commodity in British theatres this century. No matter how outrageous the subject matter and its treatment in a new play, audiences seem to take it all in their stride. In 1980, Howard Brenton’s Romans in Britain led to calls for the reintroduction of censorship, and in 1994 Sarah Kane’s Blasted at least had the reviewers shellshocked and divided, but the wave of plays that followed soon had to accept the law of diminishing returns. In-yerface theatre, in Aleks Sierz’ term (cf. Sierz), made transgression almost mandatory, but had to struggle more and more to recover any disturbing potential. At 2 Lisa Schwander’s essay in this volume shows how Gupta’s The Empress (2013) combines a larger political view of nineteenth-century Empire politics with the concrete experience of a group of Asian immigrants to Victorian England. Immigration as Farce in Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 45 the same time, the numerous acts of sexual humiliation, cannibalism, torture, and defecation, accompanied by prolific verbal violence, were oddly unspecific. Kane’s play is set in a Leeds hotel room “so expensive it could be anywhere in the world” (Kane 3), and many of Mark Ravenhill’s or Anthony Neilson’s stage plays operate almost allegorically, too: They do not, as a rule, engage with concrete political situations the way docudrama and verbatim theatre did after the turn of the century, and they do not go in for subtle character studies. Situational humour is not their forte either. It is against this background of conventionalised, Puritan offensiveness that Richard Bean’s achievement in alienating so many critics and other theatre-goers with England People Very Nice must be appreciated. The playwright Hussain Ismail for instance, reviewing the play in The Guardian , did not enjoy himself: England People Very Nice is a dirty offensive against the French, the Irish, the Jews and the Muslims. It’s supposed be a satirical - or even, an ironic - potted history of immigration to London. But it didn't make me laugh or even learn; it just made me angry. (Ismail) This statement, evidently made with real concern and hurt, nevertheless assembles a whole cluster of misconceptions of the role of theatre in the larger societal debate on immigration. The original production of England People Very Nice had its press night on 4 February 2009. It marked a high point in Bean’s career; the Olivier theatre, the largest of the National Theatre’s stages, is probably the most prestigious performance space in the United Kingdom. To be allowed to attempt to fill that stage (to say nothing of the 1,150 capacity auditorium) is either a sign of an author’s renown or of confidence in him or her on the part of the theatre’s leadership. In Bean’s case, Nicholas Hytner, the artistic director of the National Theatre at the time, directed the play himself. The stage was set for a major theatrical event, one of the state of the nation plays the National at regular intervals feels compelled to showcase. 22 actors and a spectacular display of stage machinery, old-fashioned wooden set constructions and sophisticated projecting equipment underscored the creative team’s determination to do things properly. The play operates on several levels of fictionality, and its structure is actually more clearly evident in performance than on the page. It depicts a group of asylum seekers guarded by immigration officers while performing a play about immigration under the direction of two British theatre workers. The exchanges between and within those three groups constitute the framing play that make up the prologue at the very beginning of the play, the last few minutes (not called ‘epilogue’, though) of the third act right up to the interval, the prologue to the fourth act and its epilogue. Two frames, therefore, enclose the three acts of 46 Peter Paul Schnierer the first half and a single fourth one; this indicates the relative importance that Bean assigns to the characters and events of the second half of the play within the play, when its action arrives in our present. The embedded history play gets off to a brutal, speedy and sarcastic start: ( Enter Roman .) First came the Roman with his rule ( Stabs man .) And steeled the cockney with his tool ( Rapes woman .) This seminal act improved the tribe ( Literate man / wife .) And issued forth a learned scribe ( Men killed .) The Saxons came, and came again ( Same woman raped .) Were followed by the lusty Dane ( Men killed .) They fought and fought eternal wars ( Woman raped again .) The ladies loved the conquerors (Bean, England People Very Nice, 15) 1 A point effectively made: Romans, Saxons and Vikings all make up the “tribe”, but they do so by coming as murderers and rapists. Immigration proceeds accompanied by violence; Bean will show this repeatedly in the course of the play, although some later migrants will be offered violence rather than practice it. The first act opens in the year 1685 or shortly afterwards, when the revocation of the edict of Nantes, taking away the religious liberties hitherto enjoyed by France’s Protestants, brought large numbers of Huguenots to London, where many of them settled in the areas of Spitalfields and Bethnal Green, just outside and to the east of the City of London. The play’s timeline is broadly linear, and the major political events are more or less historically correct, with occasional anachronisms that are not the author’s error but are addressed in the frame play. The function of these subtle irritations is mainly to highlight the intrinsic unreliability of a stage presentation; in any case, the reference to Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (published 34 years later, 17), for instance, is as irrelevant to the plot as most later such lapses. There may be a link, however, to Defoe’s The True-Born Englishman , published in 1701, where he argues for the fluidity of English identity (cf. Voigts-Virchow 13). This needs to be distinguished from anachronisms that do not depend on factual errors committed by the writers of the inset play. The play is full of them, and they typically combine linguistic features unusual or impossible at the time of speaking with a recognition trigger for an audience aware of the underlying debate. A striking example is the comment by Rennie, himself a very early migrant from Barbados, making clear that the Huguenots are not welcome: 3 In the following, references to England People Very Nice will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. Immigration as Farce in Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 47 “There’ll be rivers of blood boy! ” (18) Enoch Powell’s similar statement referred to above still can be counted on to be remembered by British audiences. Act two, set around the year 1780, sees the Irish arrive in Spitalfields; this time it is legislation providing for greater religious freedom for Catholics that ostensibly furnishes reasons for rioting. The Huguenots, meanwhile, are completely integrated: Gascoignes have become Gaskins; the large church in Brick Lane caters for their spiritual needs. By this time Bean’s structural conceit has become evident: wave after wave of immigrants is absorbed into whatever passes for ‘English’ at the moment, only to replicate the prejudices and fears of the previous generation. When the Irish arrive, Rennie, one of the ‘eternal’ characters of the play, predicts that “[t]he rivers of London will run with blood boy! ” (35), turning Powell’s chilling prediction into a running gag - spoken, we remember or see, by a black man. In act three, it is 1888, and Eastern European Jews, fleeing from religious and racial persecution, arrive in Spitalfields. We can extrapolate the plot: they will encounter hatred and love, they will thrive, and they will assimilate. In fact, by the end of the third act they buy the French church in order to turn it into a synagogue. When act four opens, the setting is still the same pub as in the previous acts, but now it is 1941, and the new set of foreigners is here for different reasons: the Indian lascars, sailors recruited to man the British Merchant Navy in order to help with the war effort of the Empire’s mother country, are officially welcomed. Nevertheless, superficial toleration explodes into aggression and racial insults at the slightest provocation, and they are left to commemorate their many war casualties alone. The action fast-forwards to 1975 without an act change; the lascars’ once Indian home region of Sylhet, after a brief and bloody spell as part of East Pakistan, is now part of desperately poor Bangladesh, and many more Sylhetis make their way to Britain. They find it more difficult to integrate; young men turn to street crime, young women celebrate the New York attacks - we are now in our own century, and the synagogue has turned into a mosque. The fourth act ends the play within the play in familiar fashion; while for the fourth time some of the immigrants realise that “Bethnal Green is the only paradise you’ll ever know” (passim), others plan a move to Redbridge, a more genteel London suburb slightly further to the north-east. The frame play concludes with a short scene in which the actors receive the long expected envelopes that either contain permissions to stay in Britain or extradition orders, which are executed immediately by immigration officers present throughout. This summary has ignored most of the little subplots, love stories and even killings that make up the fabric of this sprawling play; while these differ from scene to scene, they are sufficiently parallel to complement the many exact verbal repetitions that add to the farcical character of Bean’s text. 48 Peter Paul Schnierer 4. Farce The history of drama in England, particularly that of comic drama, knows many formats that flourished for a time but eventually died out. Shepherd’s plays, interludes and sentimental comedies all have had their day but are now only to be found on library shelves and possibly in the occasional revival by amateurs or directors in search of the unusual. The history of English farce is different: its conventions, themselves inherited from Roman predecessors, have remained surprisingly stable and effective for the last four centuries. William Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors , an example of the hyperbolic power of the genre, is probably his play least in need of modernisation or explanatory mediation. It was just as hard for 16 th -century audiences (or just as easy) as it is for us to accept that twins not only look the same and have the same name, but occur in multiple pairs and never bump into one another despite frantic movement in a small space. Mistaken identity, physical pursuit, repetitive violence of a moderate kind, and above all a sense of futility and inevitability still characterise farce’s morphology. It is worth noting at this point, however, that the tradition only partially continued: the physicality, the improbabilities, the slapstick survived well; what did not last was the farce as a vehicle for satire. In the 18 th century, the power of farce was considered dangerous enough to bring about legislation on censorship. Henry Fielding’s output in particular was deemed so subversive by the authorities that the 1737 Licensing Act forced him to switch to a genre less immediately pernicious: the novel. Since then, farce became cognate with belly laughs and unsophisticated entertainment, the tradition to which Gilbert and Sullivan’s Savoy Operas, Ben Travers’ Aldwych farces and Peter Shaffer’s early plays belong. It is only with the abolition of censorship in 1968 and the outrageous queer farces of Joe Orton that the sense of political relevance is re-instilled in the format, and even then no specific grievances are addressed. In this context, Richard Bean’s decision to engage in the debate about immigration by writing a farce and, what is more, combining it with the format of the history play, is most unusual. 5. Comic Techniques Farce, as will be assumed in the following arguments, does not need to be funny. There is an empty, almost nihilistic quality to some of the best farces, and Bean occasionally touches that. Nevertheless, he mainly relies on stalwarts of physical comedy and verbal wit to generate comedy. The Irish bring a live pig, people are surprised while having illicit sex, there are disguises, and there is Immigration as Farce in Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 49 sometimes grotesque violence such as the killing of a one-eyed baby. In these moments, Bean sails close to the wind: after a barrage of anti-Irish incest jokes and one-liners about monocularity (“Oh, what a beautiful baby! She’s got her mother’s eye! ”, 45) the murder is meant to be disturbing, not funny: HUGO throws the child out of the window. The doll / baby lands on the stage. The audience should see it land and be shocked with the texture of its bounce. Enter SCHIMMEL and family. Jews from the Pale. SCHIMMEL . Oy gevalt! Did you see that! And you think it’s tough being Jewish! (47) Characteristically, the shocking image is followed by yet another joke using ethnic stereotypes, resulting in an invitation to laughter that operates on three discrete levels: the most basic one is the visual and linguistic stereotype of the Jew, who, as a representative of the third wave of immigrants, has been expected by the audience as the source of the third round of running gags. The next level is the joke itself: even in adversity, this Jewish speaker can assume an ironical distance to the plight of his people. Thirdly, there is an opportunity for laughter to shake off the impact of the killing. A glance at the theories of laughter shows three main mechanisms at work: superiority, incongruity, and relief. (There are more, but Henri Bergson’s theory of mechanisation, for instance, does not apply here; it fits very well, however, in a structural analysis of the play). The first of these three mechanisms describes hostile or condescending laughter, the second laughter of surprise, and the third laughter to release tension. What is noteworthy is that the result is the same whatever the cause was: individual audience members may well react to only one of the three stimuli with amusement while the others may not work or may even be resented. In such a constellation, somebody far removed from finding Jewish matters or characters the proper subject for derision might still laugh at that moment - out of sheer relief that there is no second sickening moment of death. Thus, one may find oneself laughing in the wrong company, and worse, one may be mistaken for laughing for the wrong reason. I suspect that is at the bottom of the resentment the hostile reviews articulate: the theatre critics found themselves laughing in the wrong places, against their better judgement and whatever constraints politically acceptable speech acts had to obey in their view. Nicholas de Jongh reveals as much when he begins his review for the Evening Standard by stating that “I have never had a more uncomfortable or unpleasant experience at the National Theatre than at the premiere of Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice . I hated this gross, cartoon history”, while at the same time conceding: “Its invective is often funny, sometimes inventively so.” De Jongh concludes that the play fails to make an intellectual contribution to the ongoing debate about immigration. The counter position to this of course is 50 Peter Paul Schnierer that theatre is not primarily designed to make intellectual contributions but to present conflicts. If it exports these conflicts to a critic who experiences discomfort, unpleasantness and hatred while acknowledging inventive fun it seems to create a second-order dilemma that is now the critic’s problem. Bean uses this technique in many variations, actively offering a choice of reactions and thus making the audience complicit in the invective. Here is a complex, polymedial example: the two female English characters run a rehearsal of the play (-within-the-play): A bare stage. GINNY . ( Off .) Full company to the stage please! The company of actors breeze on. Other asylum seekers enter accompanied by Immigration Centre Officers. They are in costume, depicting the early history of Britain - Angles, Vikings, Saxons, Celts, etc. PHILIPPA . NOTES ! It’s almost … quite good. A mobile phone is heard. It’s YAYAH ’s. He’s dressed as a Roman centurion with short sword, skirt, etc. He gives the short sword to a fellow asylum seeker and answers his phone. YAYAH . ( On phone .) Of course it’s me woman! … Listen! I am not in Lagos so you will have to beat the girl yourself! Goodbye, I am in a meeting! (9) At the risk of labouring the obvious, let us compile a (probably incomplete) list of incongruities and stereotypes that serve two complementary mechanisms of generating comedy, the encounter of the unexpected and the confirmation of the fully expected. Here are some discrepancies of appearance and action that are potentially funny: • There is visual dissonance between the uniformed or otherwise modern-clad guards and the ‘old’ characters. • Yayah looks particularly odd in Roman uniform. (Please note that the suppositions are based on common pre-programmes, not on historical plausibility: there were plenty of African soldiers in the Roman army.) • The modern mobile phone jars with the Roman uniform. • It seemingly cannot be used as long as the sword is in the way. • The fact that it is switched on demonstrates a lack of acting professionalism. • Yayah answers it: another lapse of professional standards. Taken together with the dislocating metatheatrical beginning of the performance, this is more than enough to take the audience by surprise. The counterweight to that is the sequence of associations Yayah’s speech gives rise to: Immigration as Farce in Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 51 • No greeting formula from him: this seems to happen all the time. • He addresses his wife (? ) generically as “woman”. • Beating ‘the girl’ - daughter, servant? - is an everyday task. • It is usually performed by the male. • Unusual circumstances encourage female agency. • The girl, however, gets beaten either way. • Yayah does not enter a discussion. He commands. • He lies about the rehearsal, representing it as a more business-like ‘meeting’. • He does not care if all this is heard (and does not care or does not suspect that inferences are made) by the others. This list seems to indicate that visual signs are generally employed in the service of discrepancy: the asylum seekers are visibly out of place, and the performance breaks down when reality intrudes. You cannot wield a cell phone and a sword at the same time. Verbal signs, on the other hand, are used to recall a stereotype: Yayah comes across as impolite, arrogant, as#sertively male, violent and mendacious, assembling all the clichés associated with contemporary Lagos, Nigerian email scams and much older, but stable racial prejudices. These are the very first moments of the play. They set the tone for much of what is to come, until towards the end of the fourth act the time of the frame play and that of the asylum seekers’ performance converge and the farce disappears - unless we are to see their random deportation as the truly farcical event of the evening. This reading may be too charitable - one observation in support of it might be that the simultaneous presence of characters clad in quasi-mediaeval costume and British enforcement officers at the beginning of the play recalls the ending of Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975), the seminal film farce, whereas the last scene is un-anachronistic, with its action coldly pragmatic and (almost) free of jokes. A consummate comedian like Richard Bean does not rely on one comic technique only. Before the many-layered configurations discussed just now lie straightforward comic routines like this one, set - in spite of the contemporary language - in 17 th -century Spitalfields: IDA . Fucking frogs! My grandfather didn’t die in the English Civil War so’s half of France could come over here and live off the soup! LAURIE . Your grandfather didn’t die in the English Civil War. He was in here yesterday. IDA . That’s what I said. I said ‘my grandfather didn’t die in the English Civil War so’s half of France could come here and live off the soup. (17, emphasis in original) 52 Peter Paul Schnierer The appeal of such an exchange - beyond its absurd reasoning - lies in its use of the fast-talking and even-faster-thinking Cockney stereotype that together with the alliterative kenning “fucking frogs” recalls two distinct strands of British popular comic entertainment, the music hall and television sitcoms. ‘Allo ‘Allo! has already been mentioned; Blackadder (1983-89) is another pretext that springs to mind. These formats generate much of their comic force by distributing targets evenly: foreigners are invariably held up to ridicule, the more so if they are (or attempt to be) immigrants, struggling to adapt, but they are not contrasted by virtuous, ideal Englishmen. Bean’s modus operandi, particularly in this play, is that of excess. He doubles the layers of theatrical reality, quadruples the plot and multiplies both the techniques and targets of humour. The one constant is the subject of immigration, and much of the play’s coherence, such as it is, is due to the single-minded pursuit of it: displacement, voluntary emigration, flight, economic migration, assimilation, integration - hardly any dialogue lacks a reference to them: TAHER . Why did you have to leave Azerbaydzhan? ELMAR . My films, scripted by Aram Magomedli, ridiculed the government’s violent suppression of free speech. I felt safe, because there was never anyone in government intelligent enough to understand the metaphor. But last year, my script writer, my friend, Aram Magomedli - TAHER . - they killed him? ELMAR . No. He became Minister of Culture. (70) Beyond such passages of traditional (political) comedy and the full employment of the mechanisms of farce Bean uses a technique that serves both as a source of comedy and a practical example of assimilation and semi-successful integration by plotting social change onto linguistic developments. Here is a speech by de Gascoigne, the most prominent of the Huguenots, made shortly after their arrival: Like you, I am here in Brick Lane, in England this foul smelling swamp, only because I want to worship my God free from the constraints of Papal instruction, and the threat of death. Like lovers in exile, we must maintain French culture. The English are drunks, incapable of intellectual discourse, they make a god of common sense, they hate their children, and would always rather be ‘unting. We French, are superior in all things, watchmaking, textiles, armoury, and, of course, love. There is uncontrolled sighing in the congregation . Londoners fear our style, our sophistication, our romancing, They will not allow us through the gates into the city. So outside the walls, right here, let’s build French homes, in streets with French names, and through extraordinary and relentless love Immigration as Farce in Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 53 making, let us populate these streets with French children, and create a new Nîmes, a new Perpignan, a new Paris. (21) We are to assume that this peroration is given in French, since a few pages (and a few years) later he addresses his hearers again in the following fashion: Watcha! Turned out nice again! Cheer up love, it might never happen! Worse things happen at sea! Yes, I am speaking English! If you have difficulty understanding me I might ask you why. Some of you still have the fleurs de lis tattooed on your hearts. Your children, born here, cockaneeys, still speak French - why? France rejected you like a girl rejects a lover. A new page in history is writ today. England is at war with your sweetheart. I implore you not to give the English permission to question your loyalty! I am no longer Sidney de Gascoigne. From this day forth, I am brutal, short, pragmatic, Bert. Yes, Bert Gaskin, and my son Al-bert Gaskin. And I implore you all to similarly Anglicise your reputations. Murmurs of disapproval. I do this because she, France, broke my heart, but England, she offered me her bosoms! (29) He clearly has become different, not only in the outward signs referred to by himself, i. e. the change of language and of name, but also in his half-hearted acceptance of a future that is British. This half-heartedness is mirrored in the not-quite-English quality of his accent (“cockaneeys”) and his professions of a disappointed love as well as the macaronic lexicon he employs, moving incongruously from London street slang (“watcha! ” is a corruption of “what are you doing”) to fleurs-de-lis tattoos. He is not French any more, but not quite English yet: a perfect linguistic representation of the immigrant’s in-between state. At the same time, the audience is made aware of the contrast between the flowery and sophisticated French heritage of “Bert Gaskin” and the hard and sometimes unpleasant living conditions in the East End. One of the points Bean makes repeatedly and well is that assimilation and integration may not be a tempting prospect even if the immigrants do not cling stubbornly to their previous cultural framework, simply because the receiving culture is unappealing: ATTAR . […] Is your room to your liking? MUSHI . Oh yes. Very nice. But you said I had to share the bed? ATTAR . Don’t worry, he’s not English. (75) and even more explicitly: LAURIE . How’s a Muslim woman gonna integrate round here? IDA . Get your arse tattooed, a crack habit and seven kids by seven dads! (94) 54 Peter Paul Schnierer 6. Religion Bean emphasises the importance religion has in giving the respective waves of immigrants a sense of coherence and belonging. The symbol for this recurrent need is the house of worship that begins as a Huguenot church, becomes a synagogue and finally the Sylheti mosque (only the Irish did not manage to turn it into a Catholic church in between). The building actually exists, a celebrated Brick Lane landmark whose history Bean depicts accurately. Its changes of dedication are peaceful: it is sold on to the next group as soon as their predecessors have become affluent enough to move out of Spitalfields. Religious description is omnipresent in the play, both as self-profession and as heterostereotyping, but its function is exactly that: a neat label that in itself is harmless. It does not compel believers to fight, nor are the immigrants attacked on religious grounds. This is not to say that there is no violence, but it is due to economic displacement processes, whether they are actually experienced or merely feared. The playwright makes these points implicitly, but at least once allows one of the characters to state it more openly, albeit with a typical twist: HUGO . Stand and fight you fucking cabbage eating farting Frog Papist! DANNY . Papist? They’re not Catholics! HUGO . Frog lover now eh, Norfolk? DANNY . They’re Huguenots, Protestants, they follow John Calvin. BENNY . Not Godless then, like you. DANNY . Let’s smash their looms, that’s reasonable. But I’m not kicking a Protestant in the head for being Papist. (22) Religion only becomes a destructive force once the third generation of Muslims arrives on the scene. The Lascars and the Sylhetis, who actually immigrated to Britain, spend their lives trying to reconcile their origins with the ambiguous situation of every East End arrival: MUSHI . My daughters gone hijabi, and they bully my wife into niqab! One minute I’m living with four beautiful Indian women, next minute I’ve got a house full of bloody Arabs! (105) Basically, the play employs two complementary strategies of generating comedy, which are aligned to character and plot respectively: surprising one-liners and repetitive action, a blend of stand-up comedy and farce. Both elements, which were so strongly present in the first three acts, now recede and give way to an increasingly bleak representation of life in contemporary East End streets. If there is repetition at all, it becomes so monotonous as to defy even Bergson’s principle of mechanisation: Immigration as Farce in Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 55 During the next a lone skinhead, [sic! ] is knocked down, then hands over a street sign. Then he gets up, is knocked down again and hands over another street, knocked down again etc. Warden, Nelson, Sugar Loaf, Wellington Fournier, Rhoda, Old Nichol Street, Brady, Buxton, Russia, Hoxton, Hopetown, Hanbury, Jamaica Street Brick Lane BoyZ Brick Lane BoyZ Curtains hairstyles, cars like toys Brick Lane BoyZ Brick Lane BoyZ Get together and make some noise (99) This is not funny, nor is it meant to be. The farce has become empty and joyless, its repetitive principle a chain of murders. The solitary skinhead streetfighter gets up again, the victims of the 9 / 11 attacks (101) do not, nor do those of the sequence of four explosions in London (107). In The God Botherers (2003) Bean had already targeted Islamic fundamentalism; here he continues his critique, and again he leaves us in no doubt about the link between condemnation of Western culture, radical Islam, and violence: LABIBA . Sister, it ain’t never too late look to quit your kuffar Facebook, paradise waitin’ stop procrastinatin’ hate the disbelievers they tryna deceive us they will never believe us Sheik Osama lead us Shakespeare was a gay boy knowhatisayboy he get in the way boy promoting fornication to the Muslim nation is not a situation get my participation it’s improperganda (111) It is hard to say whether this collection of clichés is a representation of the rapper’s less than complex argument or rather Bean’s attempt to assemble buzzwords, but these, after all, do not amount to an argument either. 56 Peter Paul Schnierer 7. Conclusion In the present context, Richard Bean’s play is interesting for three reasons: its attempts to represent the diversity of responses to immigration today, its ambition to highlight continuities and differences of these responses, and the fact that it does so by harnessing an array of formal devices from the history of drama. First and foremost among these is the farce; to have shown the continuing appeal of the genre when it is combined with satire, without degenerating into agitprop, is a genuine achievement. The same goes for the synchronisation of farcical plot structures and social commentary: the four love stories, the repeated threats, the running gags and dreams of paradise all point to a ‘natural’ progression of immigration and assimilation that is predictable, harmless, and ultimately successful and beneficial to all concerned. The playwright’s technique of combining politically incorrect jokes with more traditional means of generating comedy, including slapstick and other visual forms of humour, underscores this. At this point, it is hard to agree with the critics who saw offence given to many ethnic groups. Where everybody, including the English, come under the same type of provocation, insult can indeed turn into entertainment. The problem with this type of blanket invective is therefore not so much its potential to hurt but the lack of debate that goes with it. Bean does not stop here, though. The last act, and therefore the second half of the play, introduces points not made before. The violence both onand offstage escalates - the individual fights and even lynchings of the previous acts have given way to terrorist attacks, gang warfare and divisive hate speech. This time, Bean seems to say, things are different. There is nothing funny about the young generation’s rhymed calls to resistance. The rivers of blood have become reality. Characteristically, this is not the ending of the play. One of the love stories endures: LAURIE . […] What is the greatest love story ever told? Romeo and Juliet? Elizabeth Bennet and Colin Firth. No. Harvey Kleinman and Ida Houlihan. Why? Cos theirs was an impossible love, a forbidden love. They didn’t even know it was wrong. RENNIE . They got competition now - Deborah and Mushi. At LAURIE . Debs is only following in her mother’s footsteps. Ida was the pioneer. The first. The Sherpa Tenzing of cross cultural romance. All these different faiths, why do they wanna live separate? They’re scared. They fear the power of love, because love laughs at the manufactured made up madness of religion and culture. (113) “All you need is love” - the same sentiment is regularly expressed by mourners in the aftermath of suicide bombings, and perhaps it is true. Bean’s frame play, Immigration as Farce in Richard Bean’s England People Very Nice (2009) 57 at any rate, ends with the deportation of some of the actors; at the end of the inset play the first Somalis arrive. The story of immigration will go on. Bibliography Primary Sources Bean, Richard. One Man, Two Guvnors . London: Oberon, 2011. —. England People Very Nice . London: Oberon, 2009. —. Plays Two: Toast, Smack Family Robinson, Mr. England, Honeymoon Suite . London: Oberon, 2007. —. Plays One: The Mentalists, Under the Whaleback, The God Botherers. London: Oberon, 2006. Brenton, Howard. The Romans in Britain . London: Methuen, 1980. The Clash. “Something about England.” Sandinista! London et al., 1980. Flannery, Peter. Singer . London: Nick Hern, 1989. Friel, Brian. Philadelphia, Here I Come! London: Faber, 1965. Gupta, Tanika. The Empress . London: Oberon Books, 2013. —. Political Plays: Gladiator Games, White Boy, Sanctuary, Sugar Mummies . London: Oberon, 2012. —. Fragile Land . London: Oberon, 2004. Kane, Sarah. Blasted [1995]. Complete Plays. London: Methuen Drama, 2001. 1-61. Keane, John B. Many Young Men of Twenty [1946]. Cork: Mercier Press, 2016. Secondary Sources Bull, John. “ England People Very Nice : Intercultural Confusions at the National Theatre, London.” Staging Interculturality . Eds. Werner Huber et al. Trier: WVT , 2010. 123-43. Clarke, Stephen. 1000 Years of Annoying the French . London: Black Swan, 2015. Griffin, Gabriele. “Tanika Gupta.” The Methuen Drama Guide to Contemporary British Playwrights . Eds. Martin Middeke, Peter Paul Schnierer and Aleks Sierz. London: Methuen Drama, 2011. 233-42. Ismail, Hussain. “Why the National Theatre’s New Play Is Racist and Offensive.” The Guardian. 13 February 2009. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ stage/ theatreblog/ 2009/ feb/ 13/ national-theatre-play-racist. Accessed on 8 February 2017. Ipsen, Eric. “How Britain’s Rabid Obsession Has Altered the Channel Tunnel.” The New York Times . 19 December 1993. http: / / www.nytimes.com/ 1993/ 12/ 10/ news/ 10iht-rabid.html. Accessed on 8 February 2017. de Jongh, Nicholas. “Cruel Cartoon not Very Nice.” Evening Standard . 12 February 2009. http: / / www.standard.co.uk/ goingout/ theatre/ cruel-cartoon-not-very-nice-7412614. html. Accessed on 8 February 2017. 58 Peter Paul Schnierer Nathan, John. “Interview: Richard Bean.” The Jewish Chronicle . 29 January 2009. http: / / www.thejc.com/ arts/ arts-interviews/ interview-richard-bean. Accessed on 8 February 2017. Sierz, Aleks. In-Yer-Face Theatre: British Drama Today . London: Faber, 2001. -. “theartsdesk Q&A: Playwright Richard Bean.” The Arts Desk Website . 20 September 2009. http: / / www.theartsdesk.com/ index.php? option=com_ k2&view=item&id=186: playwright-richard-bean-interview&Itemid=80. Accessed on 8 February 2017. Voigts-Virchow, Eckart. “Richard Bean.” The Methuen Drama Guide to Contemporary British Playwrights . Eds. Martin Middeke, Peter Paul Schnierer and Aleks Sierz. London: Methuen Drama, 2011. 1-21. Expel, Exploit, Exfoliate: Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007)5 9 Expel, Exploit, Exfoliate: Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) Ariane de Waal 1. Stages and Discourses of Terrorism It was not entirely without surprise that critics noted a surge of fact-based political plays on British stages after the turn of the millennium. In August 2004, Kate Kellaway wrote in The Observer of “a remarkable moment for political theatre”, elaborating that “[n]ot only have 9 / 11, the Iraq war and the Bush administration energised playwrights, the acoustic has never been so good. People want from political theatre a clarity they are not getting from politicians” (5). Her verdict was soon echoed in theatre and performance studies, with Chris Megson diagnosing “an upsurge of political theatre in Britain unparalleled since the Vietnam War” (369) and Stephen Bottoms contending that verbatim drama had become the theatrical weapon of choice in the so-called ‘war on terror’, for “[m]ere dramatic fiction has apparently been seen as an inadequate response to the current global situation” (57). Critically acclaimed post-9 / 11 plays that tap into the tradition of documentary theatre include David Hare’s semi-fictional reworking of the run-up to the Iraq war, Stuff Happens (2004), Victoria Brittain and Gillian Slovo’s testimonial piece about the Guantánamo Bay detention camp, Guantanamo: ‘Honor Bound to Defend Freedom’ (2004), and Richard Norton-Taylor’s tribunal plays for the Tricycle Theatre, especially Justifying War (2003), which restages the Hutton inquiry into the death of weapons inspector David Kelly, and Called to Account (2007), which reviews the evidence for indicting Blair for the crime of aggression against Iraq. Although verbatim drama is typically lauded as the most representative type of theatre after 9 / 11, these (semi )documentary responses are complemented - and, in fact, outnumbered - by pieces of new writing that are clearly issue-based, yet not documentary: prominent Iraq war dramas include Simon Stephens’s Motortown (2006), Colin Teevan’s How Many Miles to Basra? (2006), Roy Williams’s Days of Significance (2007), and Adam Brace’s Stovepipe (2009); Nirjay Mahindru offers a fictional take on the incarceration and interrogation of British suspects at Guantánamo Bay in The Hot Zone (2005); the invasion of Afghanistan is addressed in the Tricycle Theatre’s play cycle The Great Game: Afghanistan (2009), in DC Moore’s The Empire (2010), and Morgan Lloyd Malcolm’s Belongings (2011). 60 Ariane de Waal As this brief survey indicates, theatre provides a good starting point to trace the debates surrounding terrorism and counter-terrorism that have arisen in the UK in the first decade of the 21 st century. During this time, terrorism has become indelibly associated with the post-9 / 11 ‘war on terror’ and has continually dominated public and political discourse. British playwrights have not been hesitant to dramatise the most contentious aspects of this globalised conflict: the futile search for weapons of mass destruction (Hare), the dehumanising effects of indefinite detention (Brittain and Slovo; Mahindru), the illegality (Norton-Taylor) and economic implications (Brace) of the Iraq invasion, the practice of sending young, ill-equipped working-class soldiers to the blurry front lines in Iraq (Stephens; Teevan; Williams) and Afghanistan (Moore), and the prevalence of sexual harassment and rape in the army (Malcolm). Generally speaking, the corpus of post-9 / 11 plays has been assessed as a critique of and corrective to the military campaigns, public statements, legislative manoeuvres, and policies informed by counter-terrorist strategies. This is implied both in Kellaway’s comment about the clarity that political theatre is expected to deliver and in Megson’s acclaim for theatre’s response to “a perceived democratic deficit in the wider political culture” (370). While theatre scholarship has tended to endorse a somewhat one-sided view of British drama as oppositional to the ‘war on terror’, the overall thrust of plays that engage with the war(s) is certainly towards challenging official narratives. In order to delineate the social debates surrounding terror and terrorism in post-millennial Britain, I will briefly illustrate their ramifications by considering five historical moments: 9 / 11, the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, the 2005 London bombings, and the implementation of a series of Terrorism Acts and counter-terrorist campaigns from 2000 to the present day. The attacks in New York and Washington on 11 September 2001 inaugurated the construction of Islamic fundamentalists as the prime terrorist threat and strengthened restrictive definitions of national identity. Former US President George W. Bush’s well-known declaration, “[e]ither you’re with us, or you’re with the terrorists”, is indicative of the Manichean binaries of ‘us’ and ‘them’, or of good versus evil, that were - if somewhat more cautiously - adapted in British political discourse. In his first statement on the 9 / 11 attacks, then Prime Minister Tony Blair interpreted “[t]he murder of […] innocent people in America” as “an attack on our freedom, our way of life, an attack on civilised values the world over” (“Statement”, 219). These public pronouncements testify to the appeal of Samuel Huntington’s ‘clash of civilisations’ thesis; based on his vision of a world divided between competing cultural tribes, ‘civilised values’ are pitted against those who disregard the “sanctity […] of human life” (Blair, “Speech”, 215). The distance between ‘us’ and ‘the terrorists’ was discursively Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) 61 maintained in the public sphere through “an almost incessant discussion of values” (Hammond 16), while the exact content and reach of these values remained notoriously vague and ill-defined. Under New Labour, this discussion mainly took the shape of a “debate over ‘cohesive values’”, which, as Jonathan Burnett summarises, split “those […] judged to be in diametric opposition to national identity” from the cultural mainstream (11). 1 The invasion of Afghanistan that began in October 2001 was not only justified in retaliation to the terrorist attacks on US soil, but it was mainly brokered in the UK by invoking the language of humanitarian law. While humanitarian reasons were not part of the official authorisation, debates on the Afghan campaign became dominated by Blair’s logic of interventionism, as he persisted in making the case for “alleviat[ing] the appalling suffering of the Afghan people” (“Statement”, 218). The us / them dichotomy was thus tilted towards a construction that posited Western forces as the benevolent liberators of Afghans, and particularly Afghan women, who were represented as voiceless and oppressed subalterns under the Taliban regime. The salience of humanitarian arguments may be one of the reasons why the British public was, initially, generally in favour of the Afghan mission, whereas the Iraq war instantly sparked controversy. Over time, public distaste for the intervention in Afghanistan grew, not least due to feminists’ persistent contestation of bombing a war-torn country under the pretext of women’s rights. Even though the anti-war movement mobilised what is commonly seen as the biggest public protest in UK history, the British government pressed ahead with the invasion of Iraq in March 2003. Once more, ‘our’ values were officially launched against the threat of “extreme terrorist groups” that “hate our way of life, our freedom, our democracy” (Blair, “Britain”). By now, the collocation ‘freedom and democracy’ had become a familiar shorthand to designate those on ‘our’ side of the civilisational divide. The fact that the voices of the anti-war protesters were ignored, however, cast significant doubt on the integrity of British democracy, resulting in the above-mentioned perception of a democratic deficit. Moreover, the conduct of British troops in Iraq, whence allegations of prisoner abuse and war crimes soon reached the ‘home front’, led to a blurring of boundaries between the acts of terrorist extremists and the terror meted out by state armies abroad. The established image of the post-9 / 11 enemy, which had been elusive from the beginning of the military interventions, became further destabilised in the 1 In her contribution to this volume, Merle Tönnies discusses general changes in political rhetoric in Britain over the last decades and their representation in Mike Bartlett’s 13 (2011). 62 Ariane de Waal context of the London bombings on 7 July 2005. The fact that the attacks on public transport were carried out by British citizens, rather than foreign radicals, necessitated new discursive devices in order to salvage ‘our’ values from fundamentalist distortions. As the “discursive construction of the terrorist as (foreign) ethnic other” (Featherstone et al. 175) became less expedient, the focus of the debate shifted to the presence of the ‘enemy within’. Media reports and public statements about the suspected 7 / 7 bombers emphasised their links to international terror networks and the ‘foreignness’ of Islamic ideology, thereby excluding them from national identity (ibid. 175-7). The us / them dichotomy was preserved by calls to defend the British way of life: echoing the Blitz narrative of the Second World War, politicians and public speakers hailed the “resilient Londoners” as ‘True Brits’, “evoking unsullied and unified Britishness” (Morey / Yaqin 67). The attacks also reignited debates surrounding the ‘death of multiculturalism’. The predominant popular sentiment is aptly captured by Paul Gilroy’s phrase, “if we Britons are to be united and robust in the face of terror, […] we must become fundamentally and decisively the same” (435). In part as a result of the discursive shift to the ‘enemy within’, but also due to the impact of counter-terrorism measures implemented after 7 / 7, British citizens became increasingly involved in the project of surveillance and securitisation. Numerous public campaigns aimed at training citizens to detect “the ‘next terrorist’ in the midst of safety”, as Sara Upstone writes of the pervasive climate of suspicion (35). To point out just one pertinent example, a poster that was widely distributed by the Metropolitan Police at airports, train stations, and on housing estates as part of a domestic counter-terror campaign launched in 2010 details five areas of suspicious activity under the headline, “Terrorism: If You Suspect It, Report It”: “Terrorists need information”, “Terrorists need transport”, “Terrorists need to travel”, “Terrorists need communication”, and “Terrorists use computers”. Typically, these campaigns encourage citizens to report ‘suspicious’ behaviour directly to the police, via a confidential anti-terrorist hotline. Numerous incidents after 7 / 7 testify to British citizens’ successful enlistment in counter-terrorism culture: immediately after the attacks, commuters publicly admitted to leaving train and tube carriages when Asian-looking men carrying backpacks got on board; in 2016, several reports of passengers being escorted off airplanes after fellow travellers had voiced their poorly founded fears about ISIS links made the headlines. Imogen Tyler sees such developments as evidence of the creation of a “‘home front’, a battle line behind which the civilian populace is mobilised as a supporting arm of the military” (59). The militarisation of everyday life, she goes on to write, “presumes a popular consensus in favour of forgoing democratic freedoms” (ibid.). Doubtlessly, the UK ’s implementation of a series of Terrorism Acts from 2000 onwards has significantly curbed civil lib- Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) 63 erties by extending police powers to stop and search, arrest, and detain suspects without charge. Human rights organisations, legal experts, and activists have fiercely contested the resulting curtailment of civil rights, in particular the right to protest, and the wholesale suspicion of Muslim communities. 2. Terror / ism in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat If the British government and UK citizens - rather than those commonly labelled as ‘terrorists’ - have taken centre stage in this brief overview of (counter)terrorist discourses and incidents since 2001, this is entirely in accord with the perspective assumed in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat: An Epic Cycle of Short Plays (2007), which is analysed in this chapter. “Our elected representatives” are constantly invoked on stage (Ravenhill, Shoot 68), 2 yet conspicuously remain off stage throughout the play cycle. The dramatis personae is predominantly composed of Western citizens who have become implicated in (the wars against) terrorism as media consumers, soldiers, cultural imperialists, anxious neighbours, victims of violent attacks, or inhabitants of volatile cities and occupied war zones. Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat consists of sixteen short plays that premiered in the form of rehearsed readings as part of the Ravenhill for Breakfast series, produced by Paines Plough for the 2007 Edinburgh Festival Fringe. 3 After winning several awards, including a Fringe First, the collage of plays was staged in the form of double and triple bills at a number of venues in London in 2008, in a collaboration between the Gate Theatre, the National Theatre, Out of Joint, Paines Plough, and the Royal Court Theatre. The London production prompted Ravenhill’s first foray into site-specific theatre, as audiences became involved in their own “treasure hunt” (Laera 6), seeking out performance spaces at Victorian warehouses and Notting Hill gardens. With Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat , Mark Ravenhill (born 1966) entered new terrain in a playwriting career that has not been short on experimentation. Ravenhill landed on the British theatre scene with his provocative 1996 debut Shopping and Fucking , which almost instantly gained him critical acclaim as one of the defining names of the in-yer-face theatre of the 1990s. With its bold exploration of the links between sex, violence, and commodity culture, Shopping and Fucking epitomises the type of theatre that Aleks Sierz originally defined as sensational, shocking, and experiential, “jolt[ing] both actors and spectators out of conventional responses, touching nerves and provoking alarm” (4). 2 In the following, references to Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat: An Epic Cycle of Short Plays will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. 3 The sixteen original plays were published alongside one epilogue, Paradise Regained , which premiered at the Royal Court Theatre in 2008. 64 Ariane de Waal It is worth noting here that, while initially seen as provocative rather than political, in-yer-face theatre has in recent years been reassessed as acutely responsive to the political climate of its time. After the turn of the millennium, Ravenhill’s plays became, in the words of Caridad Svich, “more experimental in their structural design and more abstract in their conception” (404). Among his most important productions of the first decade of the 21 st century are Mother Clap’s Molly House , a comedy with musical elements (National Theatre, 2000), Ravenhill’s first acting appearance in the monologue Product (Paines Plough, 2005), a collaboration with physical theatre company Frantic Assembly on pool (no water) (Lyric Hammersmith, 2006), The Cut , a dystopian play starring Ian McKellen (Donmar Warehouse, 2006), and an adaptation of Voltaire’s Candide (Swan Theatre, 2013). Ravenhill’s extensive repertoire also includes plays for young people, translations, verbatim plays, television dramas, and screenplays. Thematically, his plays cover an equally wide range. Many of them probe the intersections of gender, class, consumerism, and sexuality in contemporary Britain. Considered to be one of the key representatives of queer playwriting - although he has professed skepticism of such labels (cf. Monforte 91) - Ravenhill’s work has substantially contributed to the visibility of “gay drama” (Pankratz 199), with plays that typically feature “young, queer, defiant characters” (Svich 404), gay subcultures and communities. Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat continues Ravenhill’s interrogation of terrorism and torture, themes that he had previously explored in Product and The Cut . Yet the play cycle is much broader and more ambitious in scope. Each of the sixteen plays has been designed to be performed in around 20 minutes, making it difficult to stage the entire cycle in one show. For its premiere during the 2007 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, actors would present a rehearsed reading of one short play from the cycle on every morning of the festival - hence the title Ravenhill for Breakfast . Ravenhill finished the final pieces while the Breakfast series was in full swing, endowing the whole endeavour with a hint of immediacy and improvisation. Although there have been attempts to combine all the playlets into an evening of theatre, Ravenhill has submitted that this approach may jar with the nonlinear structure of the cycle: “If you put them all together and play them as a linear thing, they actually become quite wearing because each one is written individually and is quite upsetting, quite powerful, so they are best if they’re sampled individually.” 4 Due to its mosaic structure, frequent reappearances of archetypal figures and motifs, and constant reiteration of a set of catchphrases and keywords drawn from the discourse of the ‘war on terror’, 4 This chapter draws on an unpublished interview that I conducted with Mark Ravenhill in Hamburg on 19 June 2014. Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) 65 the experience of reading or seeing the plays performed in one sitting tends to be somewhat overwhelming or, worse, leave audiences with “cultural indigestion”, as one reviewer remarked after using the opportunity of the London premiere to compile her own “Ravenhill marathon” (Szalwinska). The ‘epic’ scope of the cycle that the subtitle implies may hence be both its strength and its weakness. While the intertextual connections both between the plays and to the classic texts that have given each piece their title (such as War and Peace or Paradise Lost ) are richly evocative of the universality of war and terror, the numerous cross-references and overlaps may generate a sense of redundancy. The use of repetition is, however, also a crucial stylistic device that fuels the cycle’s critique of the structural alliances between perpetual warfare and the endless adaptability of Western consumer capitalism. Among the commonalities of the short plays is their use of generic settings and characters, many of which remain unnamed. Five pieces feature a chorus, rather than individualised speakers, and even in those cases where characters are named, there is little to distinguish them from the habits, articulations, and anxieties of the other figures that populate the cycle. On the whole, the characters remain, as Jenny Spencer has accurately observed, at the same time “strange and unnervingly familiar” (65). In terms of setting, Western cities and foreign war zones come to intersect and interact over the course of the cycle, which deliberately withholds concrete geographical information. Even in those plays that evoke the 2003 Iraq invasion with references to “insurgents” and the toppling of “the dictator’s statue” (158, 163), the ‘foreign’ characters are named Marion or Susan, speak perfect English, and share in the other characters’ tastes and preferences for “[f]airtrade” coffee and “handmade pasta” (95 f.). The majority of the characters and speaking figures are Western(ised) citizens whose lives have become caught up in terror and who express their dismay and surprise at having become targets of violence, as the opening lines spoken by the chorus of the eponymous Women of Troy exemplify: “[W]hy do you bomb us? […] You see. We are the good people. Just look at us.” (7) Next to the choral pieces, a number of playlets trace the permutations of terror through the lens of captor-captive or love relationships. This is reflected formally in the inclusion of seven duologues. These either draw out the subdued anger and aggressions of heteroand homosexual middle-class couples in the highly securitised Western metropolis or encode the positions of the invading force and the occupied population in the confrontation between generic soldier figures and war widows, employing the recurring scenarios of interrogation and torture. The cycle further contains one monologue and three plays written for three and four actors, all of which engage with the sense of a new urban vulnerability and generalised state of fear. By combining indistinctive voices with generic settings, the cycle carries 66 Ariane de Waal the common characterisation of the ‘war on terror’ as an infinite struggle to an extreme. In the dramatic cosmos that Ravenhill delineates, terror(ism) has permeated every sphere of the characters’ lives, regardless of their location in vaguely identifiable Western cities or foreign war zones. 3. Condensation and Displacement of Terror The overarching aim of the cycle could be seen to consist in blurring, refuting, and reversing the boundaries between ‘self ’ and ‘other’, ‘good’ and ‘evil’, ‘civilised’ and ‘uncivilised’, which have been shown to characterise debates on terrorism after 9 / 11. This is achieved primarily by two dramaturgical manoeuvres that can be defined by adapting the Freudian terminology of condensation and displacement, developed in relation to the dream-work (cf. Freud 295-326). With the first strategy, the highly complex fault lines of global conflict are condensed into a set of seemingly simple and straightforward catchphrases and character constellations, whereas the second mechanism works by displacing the parameters of terror into the neoliberal registers of self-care and consumerism. While condensation relies on the device of excessive repetition in order to tease out the hollow nature and absurdity of the paroles used to unify ‘us’ against the ‘other’, the tactics of displacement lay bare to what extent constructions of terror have been informed by and in turn serve to shape the Western idiom of neoliberal optimisation. If condensation tends towards the accumulation of such signifiers as ‘freedom and democracy’ so as to reflect how these terms have become emptied of their contents, displacement constantly shifts the signifiers of terror and threat onto new semantic fields, thus making their highly contingent relation to the ‘real’ referents of terror and threat apparent. Although some critics have associated Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat with social realism (cf. Kritzer 39), attending to the dramaturgy of condensation and displacement in the play cycle accentuates how much it is indebted to the Brechtian tradition, in particular with its use of montage and alienation effects, sudden interruptions, breaking of the fourth wall, deployment of archetypes, and refusal of emotional engagement with the characters’ inner lives. All of these elements can be discerned in the opening piece Women of Troy . Just as Euripides’s Trojan Women is set in the aftermath of the Trojan War, Ravenhill’s piece is set immediately after a bombing, and it likewise features a female chorus. Spectators are implicated in the direct address of the above-cited opening lines: “[W]hy do you bomb us? ” The split between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ that is evinced by the ‘clash of civilisations’ thesis is here redrawn along the divide between stage and auditorium. The political motivation or background of the terrorist attacks occurring both in the mimetic and the diegetic space of the Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) 67 stage remain obscure; the conflict can be interpreted by the characters only in Manichean terms: “Maybe we are the good people and you are the evil, wicked, terrible - maybe you are the bad people.” (15) This dualism is reiterated to such an exaggerated degree that these categories are entirely banalised: “Bad people. Can’t have good without bad. Bad without good.” (ibid.) Apart from condensing the conflict into such stark dichotomies, the chorus transposes the signifier ‘good’ onto a series of objects in contemporary consumer culture: • My husband likes to be out early washing the SUV […], it’s a good car. We live in a good place. It’s a good community. […] Here, behind the gates, we are good people. […] • I only eat good food. Ethical food. Because I believe that the good choices should be made when you’re shopping. (7 f.) Women of Troy conjures up a scenario that comes to characterise the cycle as a whole: terror attacks interrupt “the good, the right life” (9) of ‘ordinary’ Western citizens, prompting spectators to scrutinise what precisely is being threatened when ‘our’ way of life has ostensibly come under attack. It is especially noteworthy in this regard that, while the speakers are formally grouped as a chorus, there is technically no choral speaking (cf. de Waal 100 f.). The women develop no genuinely communal voice; instead, they can only come into enunciation as privatised citizen consumers: “Can I talk about me? I’d like to talk about me. Every morning […] I make smoothies for my family. My good family.” (7) Ravenhill can thus be seen to modify choral conventions in order to highlight precisely those properties of the chorus that seem incongruent with citizenship in times of terror, namely its unification of voices in a public, powerful collective. Crucially, these choral features cannot be realised, as the desire for separation and segregation splits ‘our’ group from within, scattering its members across the individualised vantage points of solitary citizen consumers who are only able to articulate their personal narratives of ‘goodness’. Even though Ravenhill’s speakers are virtually indistinguishable from one another, since all of them are orientated towards the same objects of consumption and commoditised family life - i. e., sharing in ‘good’, ethical food, trips to the garden centre, and watching DVD s together - they fail to mobilise their commonalities by speaking as one mass of bodies. This disjunction throws into sharp relief the fragmentation of ‘our’ position that is invoked in the “characteristic affirmation of a British community in unity” (Stephens 156). If the chorus traditionally “function[s] scenically as a mirror and partner of the audience” (Lehmann 130), Ravenhill interferes with this correspondence through Brechtian distancing strategies. Even though the women’s speech is ostensibly introspective, they fail to articulate their anxieties or vulnerabilities in a way 68 Ariane de Waal that would invite spectators to sympathise with them. Their positioning of the audience as inhuman ‘other’ - “You are not a person […]. You’re a bomb” (12) - might incite spectators to temporarily assume the perspective of those who are excluded from the speaking position that is mobilised against terror. There is an element of meta-theatrical reflexivity that potentially makes the direct audience address disturbing: “Look at me […]. I see nothing when I look at you. […] I see darkness.” (11) Due to the consistently patronising tone of such appeals as “we can liberate you and then you’ll understand, you’ll embrace, […] you’ll enjoy freedom and democracy” (13), spectators are likely to not only assume an oppositional position towards the chorus but also to question the rhetorical stance from which acts of terror can legitimately be denounced. This stance is here exposed as one that does not rely on argument but on vacant repetition. The speakers’ mindless reiteration of their ‘core values’ comes across as a mantra-like affirmation of an identity that takes shape in the process as its own cliché: the more ‘good’ things we can enumerate, the more we become ‘the good people’. While the condensation of conflict into a set of reiterable slogans adds a satirical element to the cycle, the discursive displacements of terror might achieve a more harrowing effect. The chorus of women systematically seeks to grasp and contain terror by translating it into the terms of free-market capitalism. They blatantly derive their own sense of essential innocence from making the right consumer choices. Fair-trade products, SUV s, and garden benches become the arbitrary signifiers of the ‘good life’ that needs to be shielded from violence. Through their translation of what is essentially ‘good’ into an inventory of essential ‘goods’, “the so-called ‘core value’ concepts […] undergo a transformation that […] reattaches them to something more slippery, strange, disturbing, and dangerous” (Spencer 70). This ties in with and is reinforced through the speakers’ positioning of the enemy - via the audience - as those who lack access to the same consumer items and, by extension, to ‘freedom and democracy’. While the characters’ continuous conflation of ‘freedom’ with the ‘free market’ and ‘free trade’ might make for an all too obvious critique of neoliberalism, their articulations are most gripping in those moments where attempts at containment fail. After an onstage report of a suicide bombing carried out on a hospital ward that - in what may be read as an allusion to the 7 / 7 bombings - leaves “seven patients and staff” dead (12), among them the recurrent archetypal figure of the ‘good’ nurse, the speakers fail to keep the signifiers of terror in check through the language of marketing: And shopping. I can give you as many […], you can have as many - flames nurse - you can have shops and I have travelled this world up and down […] and I have not discovered […] a man or a woman who does not - nurse nurse nurse - love to shop. (13) Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) 69 As the signifiers of the violent attack - “flames nurse” - elude the speakers’ grasp, it becomes apparent that terror resists commodification or appropriation. Rather than the chorus taking a position on terror, terror comes to speak through them, figuratively bursting through their polished speech, confounding their neatly drawn distinctions between ‘us’ and ‘them’. The choral segment thus works towards exposing the difference between terror and terrorism. There is a narrative available to the women that helps them understand and speak out against terrorism: terrorists are placed beyond the pale of civilisation, beyond the reach of ‘freedom and democracy’, yet can potentially be integrated into the global community of the ‘good’ people through their acceptance of the logics of free-market capitalism; terror, in contrast, remains an opaque, elusive, intangible force, which cannot be mastered through a neoliberal programme or idiom. Terrorists can, as the ending of the piece suggests, be identified unequivocally. After the chorus has demanded to know, “[w]hich of you is the suicide bomber? Identify yourself. Come forward”, a man “ steps from the crowd with a backpack on ” and publicly assumes the stereotyped identity: “I am the suicide bomber.” (15) All the choral pieces in Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat end in a type of expulsion or scapegoat ritual, whereby the chorus calls on deviant individuals to come forward and, through publicly shaming and / or killing them - or, in this case, being killed by them - seeks to attain redemption. Yet, as the tireless re-enactment of these rituals makes apparent, identifying and eliminating the ‘next terrorist’ in the midst of safety, or of the ‘good’ society, does nothing to eradicate the all-encompassing sense of terror. There is a nightmarish quality to the mythic images of violence that keep breaking through the characters’ speech, as a consequence of which their comfortable middle-class worlds become “inflected with images of monstrosity - headless soldiers, cancerous growths, rape, suicide bombings and torture”, as Jenny Hughes summarises (120). In spite of the concrete military and economic strategies undertaken to combat terrorism, these citizens cannot be salvaged from the terror that has thoroughly suffused their lives. What is more, one could even claim that the characters’ fuelling of the relentlessly grinding war machine, their constant evocation of “[t]he never-ending battle of good and evil” (16), maintains the conditions for violence and hostility. The cycle thus points out how, as Spencer has suggested, “the choices available to the free and democratic citizens of this new global order create the conditions for a state of emergency, which in turn produces the very terror it claims to be fighting” (Spencer 66). In this manner, Ravenhill offers a potent critique of the investment of neoliberal citizenship in globalised terrorism. 70 Ariane de Waal 4. Accumulating Fear and Empathy Another recurring theme that is introduced in Women of Troy is the uncertainty surrounding love relationships, which becomes both overlaid with and indicative of the pervasive insecurity caused by the permanent state of emergency. As one choral speaker speculates, “maybe your lover is ill and you reach out to him in the night, […] and you say ‘I love you’ and he says ‘I love you’ back and there’s a little ripple of fear through you - does he mean it? ” (11) The short play Fear and Misery similarly starts out from anxieties surrounding sexual performance and procreation. The dialogue between a middle-class couple who discuss the necessity of moving into a gated community over supper was fittingly staged at the café bar of the Royal Court Theatre during the 2008 London run, evoking uncomfortable associations between the Royal Court’s predominantly liberal, middle-class audience and the sensibilities dissected within the dramatic cosmos. The piece begins with Harry interrogating Olivia about the night in which their son “was conceived”: “Were you calm? That night.” (39) Since Olivia cannot pacify Harry’s concerns, admitting that “[s]ometimes […] it seems like - there’s a sort of … rape” (40), they are soon channelled into an obsession with securing the home: OLIVIA . You’re keeping us safe here. I know that. […] HARRY . It’s nothing. When was the last time the battery was checked on that smoke alarm? […] OLIVIA . The security. The extra locks. The child locks. […] You work so hard to keep us out of harm’s way and I thank you for that. HARRY . These things have to be done. […] To be on the safe side. (41) Harry is an emblematic character; he is the prototypical terrorised citizen who is completely controlled by, rather than in control of, the urge to eliminate all sources of danger. From concerns over the smoke alarm through the eviction of “gypsies” and “[c]rackheads” from the neighbourhood to fears of street crime and terrorism (45-8), he derives his subjectivity entirely from anxieties concerning the domestic and urban space he inhabits. In spite of Olivia’s steady praise for his investments into their safety, Harry repeatedly erupts into panic-ridden outbursts: “I WANT THESE GATES . I WANT TO FEEL SAFE BEHIND THESE GATES . THIS IS THE ONLY WAY I WILL FEEL SAFE . BEHIND THESE GATES .” (49) His constant displacement of anxiety onto new objects elucidates the post- 9 / 11 climate of fear. As Ravenhill has observed in that regard, “I definitely felt that […] anxiety itself had almost become a commodity, that you wanted to display your anxiety, and you wanted to buy products that displayed your anxiety, observed your anxiety” (unpublished interview). All the actions initiated by the Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) 71 characters in the play cycle, though ostensibly geared towards reducing anxiety, only perpetuate the sense of threat. Fear and Misery interrogates the process whereby “we seek substitute targets on which to unload the surplus existential fear” which, for Zygmunt Bauman, has become a constituent part of the present moment, of ‘liquid’ modernity (11, emphasis in original). Harry’s accumulation of fear-inspiring objects and the precautionary measures undertaken in order to assuage his anxiety illustrate what Bauman describes as the “vicious circle of fear and fear-inspired actions” (13). In this context, Bauman helpfully differentiates between ‘security’ as a genuine feeling of self-assurance, of being insured by the (social) state, and the surrogate character of ‘safety’, which he relates to the tenuous protection from threats to one’s person, family, and property (ibid.). This distinction can serve to make sense of the characters’ failure to contain the affects of anxiety and terror: just as an endless series of safety measures fails to provide them with an existential sense of security, the incommensurability of terror defies any attempt at stabilising their anxieties through a fixation on Islamic terrorism. Keeping up the terror alert is exposed as a crucial governmental tool in order to keep citizens preoccupied as managers of their personal safety, within the “ideological short circuit that occurs in order to screen out neo-liberalism and provide a direct link between anxiety and terror” (Featherstone et al. 172). So long as impending and accomplished attacks are ceaselessly announced or reported on stage, the characters remain caught within this loop. This disables them from scrutinising how their tenacious sense of insecurity may be generated by the very mechanisms they rely on in order to keep terror at bay and prevents them from searching for the systematic causes of their neoliberal malaise, the subdued “ache” (90) that is evoked in all of the short plays. In addition to rendering ‘our’ opposition to terrorism highly circumspect, the cycle equally refutes the liberal mantra of “celebrat[ing] difference” (10). The characters’ appropriation of the language of humanitarianism in order to pursue their private initiatives of “making [their] life / As near perfect as any life can be” (27) is especially pronounced in the choral segment of War of the Worlds , where “ the people of a city ” begin addressing the audience as victims of a bombing raid (119). The speakers detail their perceptions of the harrowing images that reach them from the war zone, but their expressions of sympathy are devoid of any ethical or moral depth. The language of empathy reinscribes the logics of condensation and accumulation, as one speaker after another professes the same shallow sentiment: • We’ve never seen such sickening things on our televisions. • These are the most sickening things ever to be seen on television. 72 Ariane de Waal • How can you feel anything but totally and utterly sickened? Do you feel sickened? • I do, I feel sickened […]. (120) As Julia Boll writes of this passage, it “brings the ridicule of the public ‘mourning sickness’, a term coined by Patrick West (2004), to new heights” (103). The ability to feel afflicted by the suffering of a distant population becomes yet another mark of the cultural refinement of the ‘civilised’ people, who proudly display their grief: “I cry like this … Watch me crying for you … ( Demonstrates .)” (121) On a meta-theatrical level, this calls the traditional tragic function of arousing pity into question. Ironically, the speakers stress how they “totally and utterly exfoliate” during their morning shower (119), yet the ‘purification’ of emotions remains beyond their reach, neither can it be expected to take place in the audience. Empathy and sympathy are reduced to commodities that obey the principle of capitalist accumulation: “I want to - please - I want to feel that feeling I had before. That sad feeling. […] So please - could you - thank you, run again the images of the bomb? […] Rerun and rerun and rerun and rerun […].” (127 f.) Again, the stylistic use of excessive repetition highlights the performative nature of the identity thus projected and renders the speaking position of the concerned liberal citizen highly circumspect. By transposing the registers of feeling into the circuits of commodity culture, War of the Worlds problematises humanitarian justifications for the ‘war on terror’. The most decisive rejection of the counter-terrorism agenda is enacted in those plays that are set in occupied countries, most of which implicitly or explicitly relate to the Iraq invasion. In Crime and Punishment , for instance, the generic figures of Western soldier and foreign war widow meet within the confines of the interrogation script. This script awards the soldier with the power to circumvent legislation and place himself above protocol according to his personal needs. Whenever the woman appeals to “the international agreements”, the soldier rejects her pleas: “[P]aper, talks - we’re people, we’re people […].” (88) While ‘we’ are constructed as ‘people’, endowed with a surplus of quantifiable rights (“so many human rights”, 165), ‘they’ are positioned solely as objects, the points of application of state violence. This brings to mind Talal Asad’s insightful note on how the military interventions authorised by Western states proceed by the “construction and encouragement of specific kinds of human subjects and the outlawing of all others” (36); in legitimising their own practices of terror by reference to the terrorist threat, powerful state armies systematically place themselves above and beyond (humanitarian) law. This lack of accountability is exemplified in Crime and Punishment by the soldier’s single-handed proceedings. No one intervenes in his increasingly violent treatment and eventual tor- Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) 73 ture of the woman. What the cycle thus lays open to scrutiny are the real-world effects of the debate about terrorism as it is conducted in the West: the systematic discursive degradation and dehumanisation of the terrorist enemy frames foreign populations for exploitation and expulsion. While attacks on the West are interpreted as irrational acts of terror, the violence meted out by state armies in Iraq and Afghanistan is justified as a measured ‘punishment’ for the original ‘crime’. Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat dismantles these socially accepted ways of distinguishing legitimate acts of violence from illegitimate acts of terror by variously collapsing the ideological distinctions between ‘us’ and ‘them’. 5. Conclusion Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat illuminates the dense network of relations between citizenship, neoliberalism, and (counter-)terrorism. The play cycle traces the various ways in which British citizens have become enlisted in the neoliberal political project of defending and maintaining ‘our’ way of life against putative incursions by fundamentalist terrorists. It adapts a variety of dramatic conventions in order to unveil the contradictions of a war declared on an abstract concept. Public speech acts that seek to constitute a resilient, united citizenry in the aftermath of terrorist attacks are rendered dysfunctional through the fragmentation of the collective choral voice into individualised consumer narratives. The tragic affects of pity and commiseration are invoked on the level of dramatic discourse only in order to highlight their untranslatability into a dramatic universe that has become thoroughly saturated by the logic of market relations. Dramatic speech is reduced to the repetition of keywords and catchphrases that fail to reflect the inner lives of the characters, rendering transparent their performative assumption of a civic identity as cliché. With its particular blend of realist and Brechtian elements, the cycle portrays contemporary life in the Western metropolis in terms of a hypernormality that appears both strange and familiar. The characters’ ceaseless reiteration of the routines and values of an ‘ordinary’, ‘normal’, ‘good’ life confounds the script of essential innocence that is typically invoked to portray the victims of terror attacks that erupt into the peaceful everyday life of Western societies. While one might find fault with the audacity of this position for banalising suffering and violence, the play cycle can also be read as exposing the linguistic and ideological tools by means of which terrorism has always already become banalised. Its critical potential consists in exposing what Cindi Katz has termed “banal terrorism”, that is, the “common (non)sense constructed and assumed around terrorism (and terrorists) […] [which] can be hailed at moments of crisis to authorize […] an open-ended and clearly never-ending ‘War on Terror- 74 Ariane de Waal ism’” (350 f.). These moments of crisis are repeatedly enacted and partly defused through the characters’ recurrence to the Manichean binaries and stark dichotomies that circulate in public discourse. It is the banal understanding of terrorism as a battle between ‘good’ and ‘evil’, ‘civilised’ and ‘uncivilised’ people that the cycle consecutively evokes only in order to refuse its central tenets. With the tactics of displacement and condensation, Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat queries the discursive regime that neoliberal societies rely on in order to manage and contain terror. Importantly, the characters’ loss of control over the signifiers of terror and their constantly shifting anxieties put into sharpest focus that terror is not reducible to the phenomenon or narrative of Islamic terrorism. Interrupting the equation of ‘terror’ with ‘terrorism’, the cycle discloses “the fact that there are multiple and interlocking forms of ‘terror’ that need to be combated”, as Jasmin Zine has expounded, including “the terror of neo-imperialism and global militarism, the terror of global corporate capitalism” (44). By critically dissecting the ossified terms in which the debate on terrorism has been framed, Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat offers a timely engagement with one of the most pressing political issues in 21 st -century Britain. Bibliography Primary Sources Ravenhill, Mark. Candide: Inspired by Voltaire . London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2013. —. Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat: An Epic Cycle of Short Plays . London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2009 [2008]. —. The Cut and Product . London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2006. —. pool (no water) and Citizenship . London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2006. —. Mother Clap’s Molly House . London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2001. —. Shopping and Fucking . London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 1996. Secondary Sources Asad, Talal. On Suicide Bombing . New York: Columbia UP , 2007. Bauman, Zygmunt. Liquid Times: Living in an Age of Uncertainty . Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007. Blair, Tony. “Statement on Military Action in Afghanistan.” Tony Blair in His Own Words . Ed. Paul Richards. London: Politico’s Publishing, 2004. 216-20. —. “Speech to the US Congress.” Tony Blair in His Own Words . Ed. Paul Richards. London: Politico’s Publishing, 2004. 247-57. Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007) 75 —. “‘Britain Has Never Been a Nation to Hide at the Back’.” The Guardian . 21 March 2003. http: / / www.theguardian.com/ politics/ 2003/ mar/ 21/ uk.iraq. Accessed on 21 March 2017. Boll, Julia. The New War Plays: From Kane to Harris . Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Bottoms, Stephen. “Putting the Document into Documentary: An Unwelcome Corrective? ” The Drama Review 50.3 (2006): 56-68. Burnett, Jonathan. “Community, Cohesion and the State.” Race and Class 45.3 (2004): 1-18. de Waal, Ariane. Theatre on Terror: Subject Positions in British Drama . Berlin: de Gruyter, 2017. Featherstone, Mark et al. “Discourses of the War on Terror: Constructions of the Islamic Other after 7 / 7.” International Journal of Media and Cultural Politics 6.2 (2010): 169-86. Freud, Sigmund. The Interpretation of Dreams: The Complete and Definitive Text. Ed./ Trans. James Strachey. Philadelphia: Basic Books, 2010 [1955]. Gilroy, Paul. “Multiculture, Double Consciousness and the ‘War on Terror’.” Patterns of Prejudice 39.4 (2005): 431-43. Hammond, Philip. “Introduction: Screening the War on Terror.” Screens of Terror: Representations of War and Terrorism in Film and Television Since 9 / 11 . Ed. Philip Hammond. Bury St Edmunds: Arima Publishing, 2011. 7-18. Hughes, Jenny. Performance in a Time of Terror: Critical Mimesis and the Age of Uncertainty . Manchester: Manchester UP , 2011. Katz, Cindi. “Banal Terrorism: Spatial Fetishism and Everyday Insecurity.” Violent Geographies: Fear, Terror, and Political Violence . Eds. Derek Gregory and Allan Pred. New York: Routledge, 2007. 349-61. Kellaway, Kate. “Theatre of War.” The Observer . 29 August 2004. 5. Kritzer, Amelia Howe. Political Theatre in Post-Thatcher Britain: New Writing 1995-2005 . Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008. Laera, Margherita. “Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat : A Treasure Hunt in London.” TheatreForum 35 (2009): 3-9. Lehmann, Hans-Thies. Postdramatic Theatre . Translated by Karen Jürs-Munby. Abingdon: Routledge, 2006 [1999]. Megson, Chris. “‘This Is All Theatre’: Iraq Centre Stage.” Contemporary Theatre Review , 15.3 (2005): 369-71. Monforte, Enric. “Mark Ravenhill.” British Theatre of the 1990s: Interviews with Directors, Playwrights, Critics and Academics . Eds. Mireia Aragay et al. Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. 91-104. Morey, Peter and Amina Yaqin. Framing Muslims: Stereotyping and Representation after 9 / 11 . Cambridge, MA : Harvard UP , 2011. Pankratz, Anette. “ Queer Drama : Mark Ravenhill.” Das englische Drama der Gegenwart: Kategorien - Entwicklungen - Modellinterpretationen . Ed. Merle Tönnies. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2010. 193-209. 76 Ariane de Waal Sierz, Aleks. In-Yer-Face Theatre: British Drama Today . London: Faber & Faber, 2001. Spencer, Jenny. “Terrorized by the War on Terror: Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat .” Political and Protest Theater after 9 / 11: Patriotic Dissent . Ed. Jenny Spencer. New York: Routledge, 2012. 63-78. Stephens, Angharad C. “‘Seven Million Londoners, One London’: National and Urban Ideas of Community in the Aftermath of the 7 July 2005 Bombings in London.” Alternatives 32 (2007): 155-76. Svich, Caridad. “Mark Ravenhill.” The Methuen Drama Guide to Contemporary British Playwrights . Eds. Martin Middeke, Peter Paul Schnierer and Aleks Sierz. London: Methuen Drama, 2011. 403-24. Szalwinska, Maxine. “My Ravenhill Marathon.” The Guardian . 12 April 2008. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ stage/ theatreblog/ 2008/ apr/ 21/ myravenhillmarathon. Accessed on 12 April 2017. Tyler, Imogen. Revolting Subjects: Social Abjection and Resistance in Neoliberal Britain. London: Zed Books, 2013. Upstone, Sara. “9 / 11, British Muslims, and Popular Literary Fiction.” Reframing 9 / 11: Film, Popular Culture and the ‘War on Terror’ . Eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell. New York: Continuum, 2010. 35-44. Zine, Jasmin. “Between Orientalism and Fundamentalism: Muslim Women and Feminist Engagement.” (En)Gendering the War on Terror: War Stories and Camouflaged Politics . Eds. Krista Hunt and Kim Rygiel. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006. 27-49. Taking on Terror in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat 77 II. Finance and Austerity Surviving Boom and Bust: Finance, Responsibility, and the State of the World in Nicholas Pierpan’s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) Caroline Lusin 1. Contemporary British Literature, Money, and the Financial Crisis Money has certainly been a constant concern in British literature, from the debate about usury in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice (1605) through the intricate patterns of economic exchange in Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy (1768) to the convoluted “tales of fiscal irresponsibility and financial temptations” (Shaw 4) in Victorian fiction. Money, as John Lanchester puts it in Whoops! Why Everyone Owes Everyone and No One Can Pay (2010), is quite simply “a fundamental fact of the world” (5), and indeed “one of the most familiar and intimate aspects of daily living” (Shaw 1). Yet money has arguably gained even more currency in British literature since the 1980s, what with the increasing expansion of the financial sector and the contested economic politics of Margaret Thatcher, whose repercussions still make themselves felt acutely today (cf. Sierz 101 ff.). Designed to boost economic activity, Thatcher’s ‘Big Bang’ reforms of 1986 set in motion a process of individualisation and deregulation seen as one of the major underlying causes of the financial crisis of 2007-08. Simultaneously, Thatcher’s politics of privatisation are largely responsible for the current housing crisis, an acute shortage in affordable living space (cf. Meek). John J. Su therefore considers “contemporary British literature […] defined in terms of responses to a set of political, economic, and cultural forces associated with Margaret Thatcher” (1083), a statement endorsed by singer and songwriter Billy Bragg shortly after the turn of the century in “Take Down the Union Jack” from England, Half English (2002). The disintegration of Britain, the speaker here argues, began “[s]ometime in the eighties/ When the great and the good gave way/ To the greedy and the mean”. What remains, Bragg’s speaker claims in his acerbic diagnosis of the condition of England, is merely “an economic union that’s passed its sell-by date”, a society lacking higher ideals. In the aftermath of the financial crisis of 2007-08, perceptions like these culminated in widespread awe of a financial system generally supposed to have long run out of control. 80 Caroline Lusin Contemporary approaches to the condition of England in British literature are crucially concerned with the downsides of a society in which money rules the roost, abetting inequality, irresponsibility and injustice. At the time of its inception in the 1830s, the new genre of Condition of England fiction characteristically focused on the so-called ‘factory question’, the appalling situation of industrial workers as well as the blatant social injustice which Thomas Carlyle criticised most acerbically in his essay “Signs of the Times” (1829). If Carlyle deplored the condition of the workers as a key effect of the ‘Age of Mechanisation’, contemporary Condition of England literature, drama as well as prose, derives its main impetus from the effects of a new ‘Age of Financialisation’. The notion of ‘financialisation’ according to Gerald Epstein refers to “the increasing role of financial motives, financial markets, financial actors and financial institutions in the operation of the domestic and international economies” (quoted in Thomson / Dutta 4). The sector of finance has long overtaken industry as the major economic force in Britain today, a fact exploited by Condition of England literature of the 1980s and 1990s. The infamous, completely asocial protagonist of Martin Amis’ Money (1984), John Self, functioned as a “poster-boy for the individualism and conspicuous consumption that define this era” (Shaw 24); ten years later, Jonathan Coe targeted the ruthless materialism and greed of the decade on a larger scale by charting the economic entanglements of the powerful fictitious Winshaw dynasty in What a Carve Up! (1994). 1 The conclusion of this novel leaves no doubt as to the ethics of accumulating wealth: “[T]here comes a point where greed and madness can no longer be told apart.” (Coe 493) Along with the fact that What a Carve Up! ends with an impending plane crash, this conclusion delivers a gloomy forecast for an economic system that seems doomed to fail. Towards the end of the first decade of the 2000s, the financial crisis boosted the preoccupation with money inherited from the 1980s and 1990s in various literary and non-literary genres. From a fictional point of view, Condition of England novels like Sebastian Faulks’ A Week in December (2009), Justin Cartwright’s Other People’s Money (2011) and John Lanchester’s Capital (2012) explore the pitfalls of the new banking practices leading to what has become known as the ‘credit crunch’, such as highly risky derivatives, credit default swaps, collateralized debt obligations, subprime mortgages and ever more complex financial entanglements comprehensible, if anything, but to a few. 2 Critics have construed the advent of texts like these into a new genre, the so-called 1 For a detailed reading of the significance of money and finance in Money and What a Carve Up! , see Marsh 44-52, 80-6. 2 For further examples of Condition of England novels dealing with the credit crunch, see Crostwaithe. Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 81 ‘crunch lit’, a term coined by Sathnam Sanghera as an analogy to ‘chick lit’ (cf. Shaw 7). Originally designed to denominate “the fad for semi-autobiographical works by young financial professionals describing City careers that have left them with feelings of self-loathing, not to mention huge pads in London” (Sanghera), crunch lit has come to be applied more broadly “to describe a body of writings that collectively function to represent the financial crisis of 2007-08” (Shaw 8). The fact that the term ‘crunch lit’ originally applied to a genre of autobiographical confession literature reveals the main focus of these texts. Besides trying to explore the intricacies of the financial system, ‘crunch lit’ is chiefly concerned with investigating into the moral foundation and side-effects of a system appearing profoundly immoral in many ways. As Katy Shaw maintains, the credit crunch has finally disrupted the “fairy tale narrative of responsibility, ethical mutuality and safety” (xi) long used to veil the dangers of the financial sector. Literature written after the crunch typically examines the failure of responsibility and the proliferation of risk at the core of the breakdown of the financial system. The fascination of authors and audiences with the topic of finance derives not only from the momentous impact which the collapse of key financial institutions had on people’s lives; the machinations of finance have by now become complex to the point of being almost inscrutable even to insiders, to say nothing of the general public. As John Lanchester argues, the gap between financial insiders and the public is far deeper today even than the gap between the notorious ‘two cultures’ of science and the arts (cf. Everyone Owes , 5 f.). If the ‘money economy’ is thus, as Nicky Marsh claims, “one of the most powerful and yet least understood political forces of the contemporary” (1), how can we explain this development? ‘Money’ functions in today’s economy as an abstract which more often than not has no tangible counterpart in reality. This is especially the case with financial tools like derivatives, an umbrella term for “securities with a price tied to an underlying asset”, such as “forwards, futures, options and swaps” (Colon). Particularly credit default swaps, that is, “bilateral insurance contracts between a protection buyer and a protection seller” (ibid.), which were arguably at the core of the financial crisis, potentially harbour high levels of risk if handled in a certain way. As Hector Colon illustrates, the amount of credit default swaps had risen by 2007 to a sum of “around $ 62 trillion, a figure that is more than four times the real U. S. gross domestic product for that year” (ibid.). Within a globalized financial system, buying and re-selling such products creates a web of complex financial entanglements whose separate threads are hard, if not impossible to trace. ‘Money’, in this context, turns into a “sanitized symbol of familiarity and control […] [which] masks financial practices, mobilizes mystifying terminology and disguises the power networks that characterize its 82 Caroline Lusin movement” (Shaw 1). To pinpoint the elusiveness of finance today, Lanchester establishes an analogy to a certain development in literary history: If the invention of derivatives was the financial world’s modernist dawn, the current crisis is unsettlingly like the birth of postmodernism. For anyone who studied literature in college, there is a weird familiarity about the current crisis: value, in the realm of finance capital, parallels the elusive nature of meaning in deconstructionism. (Lanchester, Everyone Owes , 78) Just as moral values and meaning became radically relative in postmodernism, financial values have lost their substance (and their real-world referent) in the crisis of 2007-08. Financial markets today, Nicky Marsh explains, “trade not on commodities but in possibilities and choices” (1). What makes this state of things even more disquieting is the fact that unless we store our money under our pillows, all of us are involved in this system in various ways. In his exploration of the financial crisis, John Lanchester poignantly demonstrates our implication in the system, elaborating on how the numbers of our bank statements remind us of “the terrible potency of those strings of digits, their ability to dictate everything from what you eat to where you live” ( Everyone Owes , 8). The consequences of these “abstract numerals” are, John Lanchester concludes, “the least abstract thing in the world” (ibid. 78), not least in connection with the financial crisis. The repercussions of the ensuing politics of austerity (see the article by Dorothee Birke in this volume), along with the crisis on the housing market, certainly impinged on many people’s lives very concretely. Apart from exploring the preconditions and repercussions of the crisis in Condition of England novels, British fiction writers and dramatists have used various means to approach this ‘abstract thing’ and trace its effects on our lives. In her introduction to Enron (2012), Lucy Prebble’s award-winning play about finance and corporate culture, Rachel Clements draws attention to how “right from the emergence of forms of agrarian and merchant capitalism in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, playwrights and theatres have responded to the changing economic contexts of their time” (Clements 5). 3 After the rise of the financial sector in the 1980s and the financial crisis in particular, literature has provided both a medium to discuss the vagaries of finance and a set of structural devices to lend shape to and understand the intricacies of the system and its crisis. Caryl Churchill’s satire Serious Money (1987), a response to the deregulation of the London Stock Exchange in 1986 (Clements 7), provides an early example of how drama can be used to capture the complexities and idiosyncrasies of the financial market. In terms of structure, Serious Money builds 3 See also Clements (4-12) for an extensive survey on “Plays and Capitalism”. Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 83 up to “a cacophonous play of overlapping narratives, scenes, and events” (ibid.), which mirrors the disorienting character of the international financial market; in terms of style, it is written in verse “to create an aural equivalent for the rush and buzz of city trading in the late 1980s” (ibid.). In terms of experimenting with structure, form, and language, Serious Money recommends itself as a direct predecessor of Lucy Prebble’s Enron (cf. Clements 9), which charts the post-millennial financial market and corporate culture depicting the downfall of the American energy and services company in 2001. Albeit adopting a more moderately experimental mode of writing than Churchill, Prebble, too, attempts to capture her subject by using a multi-medial form of presentation. In the words of Mark O’Thomas, Enron represents “a multi-mediatized, singing and dancing extravaganza which charts the ‘how’ of the crisis in ways that thrill and engage in equal terms” (134). Where dramatic technique is concerned, The Power of Yes (2009) by David Hare, for decades “an issue-oriented playwright” (Redling 159), occupies the opposite end of the scale. It is based on interviews Hare conducted with a variety of influential specialists and actors on the financial market, such as Sir Howard Davies, the first chairman of the British Financial Services Authority, or the Canadian-American economist Myron Scholes. The purpose of this verbatim play commissioned by the National Theatre is clear from its subtitle: A Dramatist Seeks to Understand the Financial Crisis . Accordingly, Hare painstakingly traces the origins and the story of the crisis to make them intelligible to a general audience. These plays, along with a range of others, such as Steven Thompson’s Roaring Trade (2009), a satire on investment bankers, and Clare Duffy’s Money: The Game Show (2013), which features two hedge-fund managers, obviously use a variety of different styles to investigate into money and finance. They do, however, share a range of topics integral to the state of finance, such as competitiveness, ambition, power, and responsibility. On a more general note, they also illuminate from a critical perspective the increasing financialisation of the world we live in today. The following sections will trace the significance of these topics in Nicholas Pierpan’s play You Can Still Make a Killing (2012). Albeit more conventional in style than Enron or The Power of Yes , You Can Still Make a Killing explores the idiosyncrasies and vagaries of the financial sector to show how they are indicative of the condition of England today. 2. Nicholas Pierpan’s Plays and the Financial System Playwright and poet Nicholas Pierpan is certainly qualified for writing on the financial crisis: before completing his PhD on William Wordsworth at the University of Oxford, he studied for a major in economics at a college in Maine. 84 Caroline Lusin Even though he was born and grew up in the US, he was socialised as a playgoer and playwright in Britain, after he found himself unexpectedly hooked by a play for the first time in a British theatre in a performance of Eugène Ionesco’s Rhinoceros ( Les Rhinocéros , 1959). Besides writing for film and television, Pierpan has authored short plays and radio plays as well as a number of full-length plays for the stage. His plays won him several awards, including the Cameron Mackintosh Award for New Writing for The Problem with the Seventh Year (2003) and Too Much the Sun (2003) and the 2013 Off West End Award for Most Promising New Playwright for You Can Still Make a Killing (2012). What these award-winning plays share is a strong focus on men who find themselves in a period of transition or crisis. In The Problem with the Seventh Year , a boxer has to realise after seven years that he can no longer reconcile his training routine with this studies; in Too Much the Sun , a thief has to face a difficult return from prison to his native village; and in You Can Still Make a Killing , two bankers must deal with their lives up turned in the breakdown of the financial market. Indeed, finance should be considered within Pierpan’s oeuvre, and in contemporary drama as a whole, not merely as a topic in its own right, but as a sounding board for discussing anthropological constants as well as central features of human existence in the 21 st century. Taking stock of his academic formation in a semi-autobiographical essay on his latest play to date, a dramatic meditation on William Wordsworth, which premiered at Theatre by the Lake in 2017, Nicholas Pierpan compares the respective benefits of economy and literature as two means of comprehending the world: The economic models I learned as an undergraduate were admirably designed and very clean, but also rested on some unrealistic premises (such as ‘rational’ market participants). The subject’s overarching goal was clear, to perfect such models and so create a kind of omniscient theory, but the mystery and chaos of life - including those overpowering emotional forces still driving ‘rational’ people - had been largely left out. […] The dramatic form included such insane elements, was built on them. (Pierpan, “William Wordsworth”) Defining literature in contrast to the apparent regularity of economic models, Pierpan emphasises its special suitability to represent and explore the complexities of life. Simultaneously, however, he also questions the rationality of economics as premised on the unrealistic assumption of thoroughly rational people controlling it - a problem he tackles in detail in his plays on the financial system. A concern with finance already looms large in The Maddening Rain , which was first performed at the Old Red Lion Theatre, London, in 2010, and then Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 85 went on to New York City’s 2011 Brits Off-Broadway festival. The Maddening Rain consists of the monologue of a single character whose conception is clearly indebted to Fyodor Dostoevsky’s infamous monologue Notes from Underground (1864). Like Dostoevsky’s highly cynical protagonist, Pierpan’s narrator flaunts a profound inability to build up a meaningful life and to truly engage with other people. In his monologue, he tells the story of his accidental rise from a lonely no-one with two A-levels employed in a variety of odd jobs to a trader in securities finance in the City. The fact that the narrator remains nameless - the secondary text identifies him as ‘Man’ - points to the utter anonymity of his existence. His world is one where “people always asked you two questions: what you did, and where you were from” (Pierpan, Maddening Rain , 1). Accordingly, the audience finds him characterised at once by his appearance as a man “about 24” wearing “a suit from TM Levin: the typical London uniform for someone in their 20s or early 30s” (ibid. n. p.). This stylish tailoring by the Jermyn Street shirtmaker marks him out as a member of a faceless collective which he subjects to close scrutiny in his narration. The City traders depicted in The Maddening Rain form an exclusionist group in which a spirit of fierce competition combines with ruthlessness, obscenity, and merely shallow social intercourse; the individual counts for nothing. 4 Yet the City functions in the play as a pars pro toto for the world at large, since its features recur in other social spheres. As the narrator remarks concerning his social life spent in pubs with the mates of his girlfriend: “And […] what I realized was … they didn’t actually like each other very much. There was no connection, really. But still, they were always together like a herd.” (ibid. 16) The narrator, though, remains strangely disjointed from all social groups. More a distanced observer than an actual participant in his own life, he embodies a society profoundly out of touch with humanistic values. As Corinne Salisbury put it, Pierpan’s protagonist represents “a potent distillation of the times we’re in: it’s about the disconnection between the soul and the world” (Salisbury). Nicholas Pierpan’s meditations on the sector of finance in The Maddening Rain paved the way for his much more extensive reflections on the financial crisis in You Can Still Make a Killing , where he enlarges his focus from individual protagonists to their families. You Can Still Make a Killing , which premiered in October 2012 in the Southwark Playhouse in London, focuses on the varying fortunes of two friends, Edward Knowles and Jack Tilly, shortly before and in the aftermath of the bankruptcy of the global investment bank Lehman Brothers 4 After the most successful of the traders is dismissed for losing tens of millions in secret trades, he is “like the living dead” to the others: “No one asked about Andy. […]. No one cared” (Pierpan, Maddening Rain , 36). 86 Caroline Lusin in 2008. Edward, an employee of Lehman Brothers, is made redundant after the crash and loses his entire fortune invested in Lehman shares; Jack, by contrast, manages through sheer audacity and impertinence to hold on to his own job at a major hedge fund, even though he has just botched a project. Finally, however, their fortunes are reversed, as Edward, now employed in the government’s Financial Regulations Authority, plays a pivotal role in bringing about the downfall of Jack; Edward ends up as the manager of Jack’s former hedge fund, while Jack himself is sentenced to prison. A key event in the financial crisis, Lehman’s filing for bankruptcy thus provides the cause and backdrop for an equally disruptive personal crisis in the lives of Edward and Jack, whose friendship proves brittle at best. Closely entwined, both their professional and their private existence collapse, as their families, too, are affected by the choices and actions of the two breadwinners. Former friendship turns into outright rivalry for both husbands and wives in a fight for the survival of the fittest. By thus exploring the interplay of private and professional sphere, You Can Still Make a Killing inquires into complexities very similar to those which Pierpan investigates in his subsequent play, William Wordsworth (2017). Where William Wordsworth seeks to reveal “the man behind the myth who is torn between his poetic ambitions and family duties” (Pierpan, “William Wordsworth”), You Can Still Make a Killing addresses the highly competitive ethics of finance, which extend from the professional sphere far into the private sphere of the characters’ families. However, it is by no means only “the fall-out - emotional, familial, institutional - of the financial collapse of 2008” (Taylor n. p.) which Pierpan targets with this play. In the best tradition of Condition of England writing, the sector of finance functions in You Can Still Make a Killing as a microcosm for society in general to reveal a world in which recklessness, greed, and a strong zest for power go hand in hand with a striking lack of responsibility and commitment. The critical impetus of the play goes far beyond the narrow bounds of finance to indict the condition of England as a whole. 3. Competition and Power Play In the very first scene of You Can Still Make a Killing , the members of the audience are cast into the role of observers faced with an experience of the utterly unfamiliar. In his observations on the financial crisis, John Lanchester emphasises the inscrutability of the financial system, which he finds encapsulated in London’s City: “The City is, in terms of its basic functioning, a far-off country of which we know little.” ( Everyone Owes , 23) In the first lines of the play, Pierpan highlights precisely this enigmatic character of the system through a terminology that remains deliberately opaque: Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 87 JACK . Throws some documents on the table. JACK . This is MBS fodder. EDWARD . That’s why the haircut’s so deep - JACK . ‘Deep’? With re-hypothecation / it’s EDWARD . Through an SPV - nice, investment grade, paying a fantastic coupon. JACK . Yeah SOP . EDWARD . Keep that haircut at forty per cent - free money for you. Why’s / that? EDWARD . Look at it. People will be drooling. […] Just to make things clear - in terms of bottom line: our firms have all the GMRA and ISDA docs. (Pierpan, Killing , 5) 5 This scene sees the two protagonists involved in a financial deal in which Edward knowingly sells Jack, as he later admits, “a pile of shit, an absolute bag of shit” (21). Pierpan’s technique here starkly contrasts with a play like David Hare’s The Power of Yes , which is designed to make the sector of finance, and the financial crisis in particular, more accessible to the audience. Using a number of finance abbreviations which are most likely unfamiliar to the majority of the audience, such as ‘ MBS ’ (‘mortgage-backed security’), ‘ SPV ’ (‘special purpose vehicle’) or ‘SOP’ (‘standard operating procedure’), Pierpan deliberately increases the knowledge gap between the audience and the world of the characters to emphasise the inscrutability of finance to the point of absurdity. In its use as a financial technical term, 6 the everyday practice of the ‘haircut’ creates an effect of defamiliarisation supposed to determine the audience’s entire perception of the world depicted in this play. The slashes in the dialogue above indicate sections of overlapping speech that indicate the undercurrent of competition and power play marking all dealings between the interlocutors. If the concepts of “prestige, power and hierarchy” (Clements 5) are already staples of restoration comedies like Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s The Rivals (1775) and The School for Scandal (1777), which are set against the backdrop of 18 th -century merchant capitalism (cf. ibid.), the world depicted in You Can Still Make a Killing is steeped in manifestations of this trinity. Power takes centre stage in the motto of the play, which describes business as “the art of extracting money from another man’s pocket without resorting to violence” (n. p.). Frequently employed as a motto in diverse manuals of finance, too, this saying attributed to Max Amsterdam starkly contrasts with the actually excessively violent imagery employed in the text and paratext of Pierpan’s play. 5 In the following, references to You Can Still Make a Killing will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. 6 In finance, a ‘haircut’ refers to “the difference between prices at which a market maker can buy and sell a security” (www.investopedia.com). 88 Caroline Lusin The fact that the expression ‘to make a killing’ used in the title is an idiom for making a quick profit does not belie its origins as a truly violent action. Indeed the phrase recurs several times within the play (e. g. 112, 123); it is, however, only the most striking instant of a more pervasive use of violent language that underscores the highly competitive interaction of the characters. To stress the pervasive nature of the characters’ struggle for power, You Can Still Make a Killing flaunts a whole range of expressions and metaphors from the semantic field of hunting. In the initial dialogue, for instance, Edward taunts Jack: “Go on, throw me a bone […]. […] This is a really good thing - someone else is going to make a kill.” (6) Similarly, when Sir Roger, CEO of the fictitious First Brook Capital hedge fund, tries to dismiss Jack for making the disastrous deal with Edward, he also uses a metaphor associated with notions of bare survival: “You’re going into the wilderness and you’re not coming back … capisce ? ” (25) In fact, after having been made redundant, Edward, in turn, talks about “go[ing] into some kind of survival mode” (59). Expressions like these conjure up a ruthless world premised on the survival of the fittest. Indeed Sir Roger, talking to his assistant about the rules of the business, explicitly draws a comparison to a Darwinian competition between the species in their struggle for survival: 7 If you don’t have a competitive advantage, don’t compete. The second oldest law of the jungle after ‘anything goes’. The lions don’t have to worry about either rule, they’re too busy fucking between buffet dinners. The second oldest law is for zebras, anteaters, iguanas, rats . Let them worry, spend their time freaking out, getting desperate, taking crazy risks to survive - I’m able to focus calmly on the future. (45) This passage offers a revealing insight into the moral framework of the financial world depicted in You Can Still Make a Killing . Sir Roger’s obscene focus on primeval drives in this analogy stresses his freedom from any ethical considerations. In his philosophy of ‘anything goes’, those in power are free from any ethical and behavioural restrictions simply because they have the power to indulge their own will; all others are faced with a struggle for existence, ‘risk’ also being one of the central keywords in finance. In finance, according to this play, the strong exploit the weaknesses of those who display less recklessness and guts, as the young, ambitious and successful business woman Kim emphasises. In giving advice to the now unemployed Edward, Kim depicts the crisis in the light of the perfect business opportunity: 7 In David Hare’s The Power of Yes , government adviser and banker David Freud also makes a connection to Darwin: “There was a seventeen-year boom, and during that boom anyone who wanted to stay conservative didn’t do well. It was Darwinian. The more money you make, the longer you survive” (Hare, Power , 31). Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 89 It’s about real business now - the ones about to go under, thousands of them. You can get them cheap if you have some money. Everyone else is too scared to take them on, it’s perfect. […] Everyone’s panicking. Everyone’s scared. In a climate like this, you can still make a killing. (41) Fittingly dressed “ in a power suit ” (37), Kim firmly advocates a business attitude based on ruthlessly taking advantage of those who are weaker. The fact that she carries a name which is both male and female illustrates the extent to which qualities traditionally considered as ‘male’ form part of being successful in this. In the upshot, the outlook associated with finance in You Can Still Make a Killing thus closely resembles the Hobbesian state of ‘ homo homini lupus ’ depicted as characteristic of corporate culture in April De Angelis’ play Wild East (2005; see the article by Annika Gonnermann in this volume). 8 The pronounced machismo displayed by Sir Roger is part of a general fashion for obscenity closely connected to demonstrations of power. Jack’s dialogues at the beginning in particular, then still friendly, are laced with obscene expressions like “motherfucker” or “fucking freak” (11). Talking about a female PR -assistant, Jack states, “I hear she fucks like a fat girl” (9), and when Jack wonders what kind of shopping Edward has to do, he taunts him: “Maxi-pads for your weak vagina? ” (ibid.) At this point, Jack is still clearly the one in control, as his sexual swagger shows. Indeed sexual bravado is clearly associated in this play with demonstrations of power, as Pierpan, like Steve Thompson in Roaring Trade , focuses on a “predominantly male world in which profit-making is a form of willy-waving” (Billington). The stage directions describe Sir Roger as “ peacocking, fully ready for battle ” (50), and Jack also employs a very obscene image to depict Sir Roger, the most powerful and ruthless character in the entire play: “Walks around with a hard-on eighteen hours a day thinking about himself.” (8) Besides pinpointing Sir Roger’s profoundly narcissistic self-concept, Jack here tacitly acknowledges obscenity and machismo as a marker of power. Therefore, when Edward adopts Jack’s habit of using obscene language towards the end of the play, this indicates that power relations between the friends have shifted. As an employee of the Financial Regulations Authority, Edward is now involved in Jack’s downfall for making deals with hedge fund manager John Woolrich. In breaking this news to Jack, who tries to appeal to Edward as a friend, Edward now uses exactly the same kind of obscene, misogynist language previously characteristic of Jack’s style of speaking: 8 In fact, Pierpan’s characters ironically comment on this perpetual state of conflict, when Chris, an employee of the Financial Regulations Authority, hails a colleague returning from an interview with the words “Jesus … say hello to a war hero coming from the Eastern Front” (94). 90 Caroline Lusin EDWARD . […] There’s nothing I could do. JACK . ‘Nothing you could do’? EDWARD . I’m not the one who got into bed with John Woolrich. Don’t bitch to me now you’re pregnant. (104) In You Can Still Make a Killing , Pierpan thus uses these mostly misogynist obscenities to signpost the shifting power relations between his characters. The strength of You Can Still Make a Killing as a critique of contemporary society chiefly derives from the fact that it shows how these structures of behaviour have permeated life even beyond the professional sphere. It is not just the effects of the financial crisis in terms of debt and social decline that naturally also affect the sphere of the family; in You Can Still Make a Killing , finance also influences family life in so far as Edward’s and Jack’s children and wives display similar tendencies towards power play and competition as their breadwinners. Perhaps most strikingly, Edward’s son Harry mirrors the competitive ethics linked to finance in the play already as a schoolboy, including an aggressive striving for power. Besides being reprimanded for “bullying girls” (54), he is accused of sticking a pencil through another one’s tongue (53) and generally tends to be involved in fights at school (30). Significantly, he is also associated - if in a more practical way - with the leitmotif included into the play’s title. Watching the son of her friends on the rugby pitch, Jack’s wife Linda comments on his aggressive self-assertion: “He’s probably going to kill someone in the second half.” (72) Clearly reminiscent of the phrase ‘to make a killing’, this remark distinctly identifies the behavioural mechanisms connected to finance in this play as deeply ingrained in social structures today. According to the coach, Harry is “captain material” (78), which illustrates that these mechanisms generally connote leadership in contemporary society. Indeed You Can Still Make a Killing suggests that competition, along with other aspects of finance, equally affects the sphere of the family. The introduction of Fen and Linda, Edward’s and Jack’s wives, subtly uncovers how competition forms an undercurrent even of apparently uncompetitive social interaction. The first appearance of these characters in act one, scene two shows them involved in yoga exercise, an activity usually associated with shared recreation and relaxation. However, the secondary text from the first reveals a muted undercurrent of competition at work beyond that surface: Both women lift themselves into the side-plank pose. Then they bring their knee and top elbow together five times. Linda is moving more quickly than Fen, who starts to struggle. Linda shifts into the ‘single-kneeling balance position’. She’s effortless, while Fen now drags. Linda is able to wrap around and grab her ankle with her hand. Fen sticks to a more basic pose. Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 91 […] LINDA hops up, full of energy, and checks the pram. FEN . I can’t believe you’re the one who’s just had a baby. (13) By emphasising how Linda is always ahead of Fen, who can barely follow suit, the stage directions establish a certain hierarchy based on the women’s performance; the fact that Linda has delivered a baby shortly before adds to her superiority. In fact, the baby as such proves a token of competition, as Fen acknowledges talking to Linda: “You’re the first to have three.” (14) 9 The fact that the women should talk about having children in the manner of a sporting achievement - being the first to reach a certain goal - shows the extent to which they share their banker husbands’ thinking in terms of competition. Even the project of acquiring a horse for Jack and Linda’s daughter is framed in terms of a complex financial transaction, as Linda says to Edward: “Violet will need a horse. We’ll need to buy at the right time. You’re daughter’s horse is still so little, sweet - girls like to buy a little horse and plan , don’t they? So they can see a future together.” (35) The phrase ‘to buy at the right time’ suggests the considerations involved in buying risky financial products such as stocks and shares. 10 Both scenes thus demonstrate how the profoundly competitive outlook on life associated with finance has spread from public to private lives. 4. The Process of Financialisation Beyond the characters directly linked to finance in You Can Still Make a Killing , the process of financialisation also affects other areas of society in this play, such as education. Edward’s most pressing concern after having lost his fortune is to safeguard his children’s places at a good public school. Considering his own profession as a banker who made a fortune gambling on risk, it is highly ironic that the school’s headmistress should now consider the unemployed Edward a risk too high to take: “[Y]ou represent a risk, a significant risk, we’re not sure we can carry you any longer -” (115). As Edward complains about the fees going up every year, the headmistress leaves no doubt that she manages her school along the lines of a financial institution: “[T]he school provides a tremendous service to families, a very important, private service in education. And naturally there 9 A dialogue between Edward and Jack confirms this, as Edward asks Jack, “Does it really matter which one of us has three/ first? ”, and Jack answers: “Certainly seems to for the missus” (12). 10 Linda’s choice of words here is particularly ironic, since making concrete plans for the future is exactly the opposite of how finance works. In The Power of Yes , David Hare identifies financial operations like options and futures as “gambling on the future” (Hare, Power , 9). 92 Caroline Lusin is a very high premium placed on all that. We don’t control that premium, but we won’t apologise for it either. It’s just the function of a larger market.” (118) Like other financial institutions, the school is subject to the law of supply and demand. Similarly, financialisation also shapes the sphere of art in You Can Still Make a Killing . As the wife of an employee of First Brook Capital, Linda is involved in regular meetings with what she calls “the hedge fund wives” (15), a group of very well-off women keen to flaunt their social power, good taste and education by organising high-profile art exhibitions. Despite being part of that group herself, Linda repeatedly comments most derisively on their ulterior motives for setting up these exhibitions: “It’s brutal - I meet these women, they’re all pushing to do the next big Picasso exhibition before anyone else, or the next Monet - they all want to sponsor some super-famous painter just so they can look good and … they’ve got the power.” (15) Art has clearly been commodified here and degraded to a mere status symbol, a means to demonstrate power, and Linda time and again sets herself apart from the other ‘hedge fund wives’ to showcase her own preference for other, less fashionable and less well-known artists. In the end, however, she concurs with the others to set up a Monet exhibition: FEN . But I thought you didn’t like Monet. EDWARD . I thought you fucking hated Monet. LINDA . We all met and I tried and I tried but it is a lot of money and there is responsibility to … succeed with it. Bratby or Frampton who knows what would have … At the end of the day it’s a real risk, a lot of money - (81) Like the vocabulary and reasoning of the headmistress, Linda’s is here strongly indebted to the frame of mind of finance, as she weighs the risk of staging a less well known artist against her responsibility to be successful. In displaying the pervasive spread of financial considerations, concepts and modes of thinking, You Can Still Make a Killing sheds a very critical light on 21 st -century capitalism as well as British society, as the play’s critique of this mindset ultimately goes beyond finance itself. Both examples cited above - the school and the exhibition - are good cases in point for a development which Katy Shaw has identified as characteristic of post-millennial capitalism: Transforming everything into an ‘asset’ and all exchanges into competitive encounters, alongside globalization and neoliberalism financialization marked a new stage for capitalism in the twenty-first century and came to define the first decade of this era. (Shaw 2) In this context, Nicholas Pierpan also censures an aspect of finance which many critics hold partly responsible for the financial crisis. When Fen criticizes Ed- Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 93 ward for buying their expensive London home on a mortgage rather than cashing their shares in Lehman Brothers, he defends himself by referring to the pressure of collective action and opinion: FEN . We could have bought the house with them - EDWARD . We did , okay? My shares were the collateral on the fucking mortgage. FEN . We didn’t need one! How could you - EDWARD . Because then you get the shares and the house, the value of both going up and … there’s not a choice anyway: selling your stock options is a massive sign of weakness. People would have known. A personal choice like that to hurt the bank and … it’s all over for you. (21) 11 Edward’s financial strategy in buying the house on borrowed money rather than his own is one that was very popular in finance before the crisis: to maximise one’s profit by increasing one’s leverage through loans. As John Lanchester explains, “[d]ebt is […] a fundamental fact of how capital works, and it’s important to understand that a lot of the time, in the corporate world, debt is a good thing” ( Everyone Owes , 59), with mortgages being “[t]he commonest form of large-scale leverage in most people’s lives” (ibid. 60). Just like the credit bubble, where “levels of this sort of leverage reached astonishing proportions” (ibid.), burst during the financial crisis, and companies found themselves in huge amounts of debt, the effect of Lehman’s default on the financial situation of Edward and his wife is devastating: “About three million in debt and no assets […].” (21) Edward, in other words, embodies the absurdities and collective pressures of a system whose greed and obsession with power and competitiveness brought about its own collapse. 5. Ethics and Responsibility In the world of finance depicted in You Can Still Make a Killing , competitiveness, greed, and the characters’ struggle for power go hand in hand with a striking lack of ethics and responsibility which Pierpan also identifies as indicative of the condition of England as a whole. After acknowledging that he has trapped Jack in a bad deal, Edward is quick to reject any responsibility: “But it wasn’t my fault.” (21) Likewise, when he later talks to Jack in prison, he again palms off responsibility for Jack’s arrest, in this case to an institution, the Financial Regulation Authority: 11 In David Hare’s The Power of Yes , private equity investor David Rudmann also confirms this immense pressure of the collective on individual traders (cf. Hare, Power , 30). 94 Caroline Lusin EDWARD . […] It’s not my fault. JACK . Whose fault is it? EDWARD . The FRA , the government I told you. (136 f.) In this case, his shirking of responsibility is even more striking, as Edward is employed in this very institution and crucially involved in running a case in which he knew Jack to be implicated. At Edward’s own job interview at the FRA , finally, he is quick to blame yet someone else for the entire crisis, arguing that “the whole crash was clearly … Pause . America’s fault” (66). The pause in this statement indicates that he is not too sure about this himself. His blatant determination “to make someone pay for what’s happened” (96), which he repeatedly expresses in quite radical terms, only adds to the impression that Edward is fatally unable to own up to his own responsibility and involvement in the crisis. As he explains the benefits of his new position at the FRA to Fen: “Why wouldn’t I enjoy having a go at the people who screwed it up for everyone else? I can still make someone pay, for those fuckers who burst my dream. I’M IN CONTROL .” (76) Since Edward is by no means the only one to constantly blame others, 12 his attitude encapsulates the notorious failure of individual participants in the system to admit their own mistakes. In the shape of Sir Roger, You Can Still Make a Killing instead pinpoints the crooked rhetoric used to gloss over the extent of the crisis: ‘While we’ve lost a third of our value, the future looks promising as we …’ Beat. Bright (He corrects his speech.) ‘The future looks bright as we dump the dogs and keep the racehorses. Things may be expensive but they’re still cheap. Our liquidity will put First Brook Capital in perfect position to grasp green shoots of recovery as the crisis recedes.’ (22) The fact that the audience witnesses him devising and correcting this conference speech illustrates how his rhetoric is only a ruse to deflate potential criticism. The failure of the agents of finance in You Can Still Make a Killing to accept responsibility for their own contribution to the crisis is the most obvious case in point for a more general and profound failure to be concerned with the repercussions of one’s actions and to display ethical awareness. If risk is an integral part of finance, critics of the financial sector argue that risk had become coupled to a hitherto unknown extent with irresponsibility. As John Lanchester states: “The banks treated financial irresponsibility as a valuable commodity, almost as a natural resource, to be lovingly groomed and cultivated.” ( Everyone Owes , 11) In Pierpan’s play, a business proposal which Kim offers to Sir Roger 12 Sir Roger, for instance, complains in terms that are equally harsh: “It’s not fair, I’m not fucking responsible let someone else bleed their bullshit why -” (24). Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 95 epitomises the profoundly irresponsible and unethical character of the way in which certain financial instruments are used. Her idea is to sell credit default swaps - a form of insurance policy - to people owning bonds from the RNBS (the thinly disguised equivalent to the RBS , the Royal Bank of Scotland), then still in danger of going bankrupt despite the first governmental bailout of the banks in the UK . The fiendish part of the deal is that Kim then intends to sell on these credit default swaps (i. e. the obligation to pay out the money to the holders of the insurance in the case of the bank going bankrupt) to the endangered bank itself. Edward sums up the gist of this plan and simultaneously pinpoints the absurdity of the system: “If RNBS defaults, it can’t pay out the guarantee because it’s already broke . And the reason it’s broke is of instruments just like this! ” (112) This proposal is obviously profoundly unethical and irresponsible, as it amounts to making a profit by cheating private investors of their money. However, Pierpan implicitly clarifies that this lack of empathy and ethical awareness is not necessarily causally related to finance. Before he even thought of becoming a banker, Jack, then a student of medicine, carried out profoundly unethical experiments with dogs. While practicing heart transplants on dogs, he transplanted the head of one dog that had been left onto the body of another dog (52). When Sir Roger inquires why, Jack simply answers: “See if it worked.” (52) Obviously, this experiment served no higher purpose than to gratify his personal curiosity, which illustrates Jack’s profoundly unethical outlook. Besides being extremely unethical, Kim’s business proposal involving the RNBS serves to showcase the thin line between legality and illegality on which financial projects like these operate, along with the ultimate failure of accountability. Immediately grasping the outrageous character of her proposal in moral terms, Sir Roger’s assistant Emma is justified to ask: “Is that legal? ” (93) Kim’s answer reveals the grey area in which her financial transactions take place: “It isn’t illegal yet.” (ibid., emphasis in original) Equally, her discussion with Henry, a representative of the FRA , displays the company’s bending of the law in the same twisted rhetoric characteristic of Sir Roger’s conference speech. As she assures Edward’s colleague: “I wouldn’t say we’re clean but we’re clean in principle.” (100) Language here turns into a means of whitewashing the deeply immoral reality. 13 However, it turns out that financial profit is ultimately more important even for the FRA than enforcing the law, as Edward finds out discussing the future of First Brook Capital with Henry: EDWARD. I just want us , this place, to be able to … compete, take a decent look at what they’re doing, hold them legally account / able - 13 For a similar use of language in political discourse see the article by Merle Tönnies in this volume. 96 Caroline Lusin HENRY . It is legal! EDWARD . I want to investigate - HENRY . It looks legal. So drop it. Sir Roger’s at the top, transnational. Press on him too hard and he’s gone. Do you really want First Brook Capital and its £ 20 billion to disappear to the Caymans? […] HENRY . […] We need the finance game. We want Sir Roger here. There’s nothing else. (113 f., emphasis in original) Just like Sir Roger in his speech and Kim in her justification of her firm, Henry places considerably greater emphasis on appearance than reality. Since Henry, however, represents the institution of the FRA , his complicity with the machinations of finance shows its failures to be deeply ingrained in governmental structures, too. Indeed You Can Still Make a Killing finally identifies the failure of ethics and responsibility as universal, as Pierpan implies how all financial agents in the play are essentially the same. When Fen talks to Edward about Jack’s arrest, he argues: “What did he do? What he was trying was to compete with everyone else.” (119) Using the pressure of the collective to justify individual wrongdoing, Edward ultimately subscribes to the same philosophy of ‘anything goes’ as Sir Roger and Jack, despite sometimes professing the contrary. Fen’s own more optimistic idea of her husband - “You’re not like Jack” (120) - proves erroneous, since the play demonstrates that Edward finally turns into the likes of Jack and even Sir Roger. When Edward visits Jack in prison, the secondary text decrees that “ Edward’s posh shirt mirrors the colour of Jack’s uniform ” (135) - a use of costume design that highlights their essential sameness. In fact, the play ends with Edward using the same words Jack used considerably earlier, and in the absence of Edward. Talking to his wife, Jack explains Edward’s failure to her as follows: I mean the City … takes a certain kind of person, a competitive person - and the system works because a small fraction of the population wants to compete, and they succeed. They’re the world’s engines. They’re the ones who make things work. They provide quality. And … I’m just not sure Edward is a quality person. (69) Exactly these words recur at the end of the play, when Edward has taken over from the now deceased Sir Robert as manager of First Brook Capital. His former FRA colleague Chris turns to him for a job after the dissolution of the FRA , but Edward rejects him just like Jack had earlier denigrated Edward himself: But let me … let me tell you something I learned in my Lehman days, something you should keep in mind: it takes a certain kind of person to work in the City. A compet- Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 97 itive person, and the system works because a small fraction wants to compete, and they succeed. They’re the world’s engines. They’re the ones who make things work. They provide the quality. Beat. And you’re not a quality person. (149) This recurrence pointedly illustrates that despite a shift in personnel, the system is essentially the same as before. Edward’s failure to remember his own plight after having been made redundant and looking for work is as striking as his lack of sympathy with Chris. Previously, Edward himself had been appalled by Jack’s inability to remember his earlier life at the inception of his career, and his concomitant insistence to “play life forward” (10). This failure of memory, a feature which plays a very prominent role in David Hare’s analysis of the crisis (cf. Hare 12, 25, 68), amounts to a harsh indictment of a system apparently unable to learn from previous mistakes. It is revealing that Edward now takes a seat at Sir Roger’s former desk, “ like a new king getting on the throne for the first time ”, sitting there “ powerfully for a few seconds ” (149). His rise from intermittent rags to riches personifies the recovery of the financial system after the crisis, still fuelled by the same craving for power - and obviously none the wiser. 6. Conclusion In her novel Autumn (2016), according to critics “the first post-Brexit novel” (Kavenna), Ali Smith depicts the effects of the process of financialisation in radical terms. Her vision is one of a profoundly divided country in which the difference between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’ is paramount: “All across the country, money money money money. All across the country, no money no money no money no money. […] All across the country, the country was divided, a fence here, a wall there, a line drawn here […].” (Smith 61) In Smith’s post-Brexit Britain, social contrast has, if anything, become more acute, and the power of money even more divisive since the turn of the century, suggesting that the social structures and financial mechanisms Nicholas Pierpan depicted in You Can Still Make a Killing have endured beyond the first decade of the millennium. In taking stock of the financial crisis, You Can Still Make a Killing provides a nuanced picture that avoids any easy attributions of blame, nor does it exclusively target the sector of finance. According to Pierpan’s play, the agents of finance, naturally highly competitive, are marked by an insatiable drive to power, which goes hand in hand with a striking failure of responsibility. Ultimately, however, Pierpan does not subscribe to the opposition between an individualist and a systemic interpretation of the crisis, nor does he ascribe to the system a 98 Caroline Lusin power as exclusive as Martin Amis’ Money , a “dystopian reading of a ‘global money conspiracy’ that destroys individual and national agency” (Marsh 46). Edward and Jack are not wholly responsible for what happens, nor is the system entirely to blame; the individuals, blighted by their zest for power, perpetuate the system. However, although the financial system looms large in Pierpan’s play, it should not be read as an indictment of finance only. What is at stake here is the spread of competitiveness, selfishness, commodification, a strong fixation on money as well as a lack of empathy and responsibility across all spheres of life, including sport and recreation, art, and education. These negative features which You Can Still Make a Killing ascribes to post-millennial British society may be originally connected to the process of financialisation, but Pierpan’s play identifies them as part of a more generally prevalent mind-set. You Can Still Make a Killing thus ultimately displays the same merit which Mark O’Thomas ascribes to Lucy Prebble’s Enron and David Hare’s The Power of Yes : all three plays “attest to theatre’s engagement with contemporary politics and its desire to facilitate a more sophisticated debate within the public realm around the complex workings of macro-economic policy and the market practices of the corporate world” (O’Thomas 135). Pierpan’s critical take on the overall lack of responsibility, in this context, may well be considered part of a more general public interest “in questioning the responsibilities of politicians, church officials, company owners and other ‘global players’ through debate rather than mere protest” (Redling 161 f.). With this comparatively balanced dramatic representation of the crisis, which reconciles an individualistic approach with a systemic one, Nicholas Pierpan avoids the critique of moralising which Paul Crosthwaite metes out to Condition of England novels dealing with finance. According to Crosthwaite, the novels in question have so far proved wholly inadequate to their subject matter, attempting to impose the venerable fictional traditions of realism, personalisation, and moralisation onto a crisis that was in many ways unreal, impersonal, and amoral. (Crosthwaite 38) Novels about financial crises, in other words, tend to gloss over the actual complexities and elusiveness of these crises by confining them within the narrative bounds of realist fiction. In his own approach to drama, by contrast, Pierpan foregrounds the capacity of the dramatic form to go “deep into the chaotic and inscrutable side of life” (“William Wordsworth”). You Can Still Make a Killing clearly does criticise certain aspects of finance, along with the corresponding moral outlook. However, Pierpan’s characters ultimately remain more elusive than the characters in most novels, as his audience does not get any more intimate insights into their minds. The characteristic showing rather than Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 99 telling mode of drama enables Pierpan to provide a convincing and effective representation of the financial crisis precisely because the psychological motivation of the characters remains comparatively oblique. This obliquity leaves enough room for reflections about individual motivations for people to act as accessories in the hubbub of finance - reflections which might form the basis for a more honest critical debate about our own implication in the issues which Pierpan addresses in this play. Bibliography Primary Sources Amis, Martin. Money . London: Jonathan Cape, 1984. Bragg, Billy. 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Billington, Michael. “Roaring Trade.” The Guardian . 20 January 2009. https: / / www. theguardian.com/ stage/ 2009/ jan/ 14/ review-roaring-trade-soho-theatre. Accessed on 20 June 2017. Carlyle, Thomas. “Signs of the Times.” The Spirit of the Age: Victorian Essays . Ed. Gertrud Himmelfarb. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2007. 1-49. Clements, Rachel. “Introduction.” In: Lucy Prebble, Enron . Ed. Rachel Clements. London, New York: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2016 [2012]. Colon, Hector. “The Role of Derivatives in the Financial Crisis.” National Center for Policy Analysis Issue Brief 187 (2016). http: / / www.ncpa.org/ pdfs/ ib187.pdf. 100 Caroline Lusin Crosthwaite, Paul. “‘Soon the Economic System will Crumble’: Financial Crisis and Contemporary British Avant-Garde Writing.” Review of Contemporary Fiction 32.2 (2012): 38-48. Kavenna, Joanna. “Autumn by Ali Smith review - a beautiful, transient symphony.” The Guardian . 12 October 2016. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ books/ 2016/ oct/ 12/ autumn-ali-smith-review. Accessed on 22 January 2017. Lanchester, John. I. O. U.: Why Everyone Owes Everyone and No One Can Pay . New York: Simon & Schuster, 2010 [= American edition of Whoops! Why Everyone Owes Everyone and No One Can Pay , 2010]. Marsh, Nicky. Money , Speculation and Finance in Contemporary British Fiction . London, New York: Continuum, 2007. Meek, James. “Where Will We Live? ” London Review of Books 36.1 (2014). http: / / www. lrb.co.uk/ v36/ n01/ james-meek/ where-will-we-live. Accessed on 22 January 2017. O’Thomas, Mark. “Translating Austerity: Theatrical Responses to the Financial Crisis.” Twenty-First Century Drama: What Happens Now . Eds. Siân Adiseshiah and Louise LePage. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. 129-48. Pierpan, Nicholas. “Why I wrote a play about William Wordsworth: ‘Coming to theatre so late, and then trying to write for it, is a fairly mad idea’.” The Independent . 29 March 2017. http: / / www.independent.co.uk/ arts-entertainment/ theatre-dance/ features/ william-wordsworth-nicholas-pierpan-john-sackville-joseph-mydell-emmapallant-a7656921.html. Accessed on 31 May 2017. Redling, Ellen. “New Plays and an Aesthetics of Reflection and Debate in Contemporary British Political Drama .” Journal of Contemporary Drama in English 2.1 (2014): 159-69. Salisbury, Corinne. “The Maddening Rain: Review.” http: / / www.britishtheatreguide. info/ reviews/ maddeningrain-rev. Accessed on 11 June 2017. Sanghera, Sathnam. “Confessions of the Man who Caused the Credit Crunch.” The Sunday Times . 20 April 2009. https: / / www.thetimes.co.uk/ article/ confessions-of-theman-who-caused-the-credit-crunch-36zd8v7g56l. Accessed on 22 April 2017. Shaw, Katy. Crunch Lit . London, New Delhi et al.: Bloomsbury, 2015. Sierz, Aleks. Rewriting the Nation: British Theatre Today . London: Methuen, 2011. Su, John J. “Beauty and the Beastly Prime Minister.” ELH : English Literary History 81.3 (2014): 1083-110. Taylor, Paul. “You Can Still Make A Killing, Southwark Playhouse, London.” The Independent . 23 October 2012. http: / / www.independent.co.uk/ arts-entertainment/ theatre-dance/ reviews/ you-can-still-make-a-killing-southwark-playhouse-london-8222547.html. Accessed on 21 April 2017. Thomson, Frances and Sahil Dutta. “Financialisation: A Primer.” TNI transnationalinstitute . 6 January 2016. https: / / www.tni.org/ files/ publication-downloads/ primer_financialisation-01-16.pdf. Accessed on 17 June 2017. Finance in Nicholas Pierpan‘s You Can Still Make a Killing (2012) 101 Homo Homini Rhino Est: April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and the Deconstruction of Responsibility in Corporate Culture Annika Gonnermann 1. Contemporary Theatre, Corporate Responsibility, and the Question of Ethical Reflection The entire economic system depends on the fact that people are willing to do unpleasant things in return for money. Scott Adams (quoted in McDowell 59) What does theatre have to say about contemporary issues? Moreover, what does theatre have to say about contemporary issues that have been reported on TV , debated on the internet, and talked about in public? Or as theatre critic Michael Billington phrased it: “You start to wonder how theatre can compete with documentary reality. The short answer is it can’t.” (quoted in Willcocks 11) Theatre is due to its very nature not able to respond quickly to international or national events of contemporary interest. In a time when printed media can barely keep up with the steady flow of current news, how can a medium that demands months and months of preparation - eternities in today’s fast world - hope to contribute valuable insights to current public debates? And yet Billington argues that while “[t]heatre cannot compete with history […] what it can do is illuminate specific moments in time and the burden of decision” (ibid.). It functions as a “vehicle for reporting and reconstructing domestic and global current affairs” (Lane 188), shedding light on moral issues that need more time to be thought through than an internet discussion or a TV coverage can offer. But apart from documentation and deconstruction, theatre has yet another function, as Lucy Holdsworth writes in her introduction to Contemporary British and Irish Drama : “British and Irish playwrights and theatre-makers have an important role to play as ethical witnesses and cultural commentators […].” (2) Theatre’s “potential, that is, to awaken the spectator’s capacity for ethical reflection” (Aragay 6), thus offers a unique platform for debate and discussion, first and foremost for ethical and moral issues. Especially theatre, writes Peggy Phelan, “might speak to philosophy with renewed vigour” (in ibid. 5) when it comes to ethically relevant questions. This double function and self-conception 102 Annika Gonnermann as philosophical witness and critical commentator has genealogical and historical roots. Historically speaking, “British playwriting has [always] had a close affinity […] with the structures of British society, and especially with a more general discussion of economic, social and political issues.” (Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz vii) One of these “general discussions” revolves around the topic of economics in general and the area of corporate culture and responsibility in particular. The implications of the economy for private and social life have of course long been of general interest for not only literature, but also for political and social theory as well as philosophy. Marx, Weber, Hegel, and others have occupied themselves with economic power relations and the way they shape social, cultural and political interactions. However, the topic is maybe even more urgent today than it used to be. Three factors (among many) demonstrate its impact on daily life in the 21 st century. Firstly, it is important to address a development that has been termed the ‘economisation of politics’, describing a process that has turned economics into the prime concern of politics these days. Neo-liberal discourse has effectively prioritised economic questions. The Guardian describes this process in a video titled Our Obsession with the Economy is Destroying Democracy : Did you know that the economy wasn’t mentioned once in a winning British general election manifesto before 1950? […] Fast forward to 2015, in the general election the economy was the most discussed issue in the media, aside from the election itself. It was mentioned 59 times in the winning manifesto. Think about how much we justify the things we think are good in life by emphasizing their positive effect on the economy. (Watson / Green / Rinvolucri) The changes in attitudes towards the economy as described by the journalists originate in developments like Thatcherism and Reagonomics, which were aimed at privatising many of the corporations and companies owned by the state in order to “reduc[e] the role of government in the country’s economic life” ( Encyclopaedia Britannica ) and to spur the economy - the effect being a transfer of social responsibility from politics to economics as political institutions limit their regulations on corporations and companies. A couple of years later, the Democrat Bill Clinton won his electoral campaign with the slogan “It’s the economy, stupid”, and in January 2017 Donald Trump was elected into the White House - a businessman and political outsider, who promised to regain economic influence by treating politics like business (cf. Parker / Rucker). Secondly, this economisation of political life finds its counterpart in private life. In What Money Can’t Buy (2012), Harvard professor Michael J. Sandel describes an increasing influence of capitalist thinking sloshing into other areas of April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 103 human life that had been previously untouched. He states that “[t]here are some things money can’t buy, but these days not many [since] almost everything is up for sale” (3). As examples he mentions doctors reserving their working time to a certain amount of wealthy patients willing to pay extra money (cf. ibid. 25 f.) or schoolchildren being paid for reading books (cf. ibid. 53). According to him “the last few decades have witnessed the remaking of social relations in the image of market relations” (ibid. 51). Here again, the economy and its relation to everyday life and its make-up is of general interest. Thirdly and despite critics claiming otherwise, capitalism is still not in decline. On the contrary, it seems rejuvenated by a process labelled as ‘hyper-’ or ‘turbo-capitalism’. This form of highly unsocial capitalism comes in the disguise of the sharing economy, an umbrella term for companies like Airbnb or Uber, which like to masquerade themselves as “communities which foster sharing”. 1 Critics, however, accuse these companies of introducing a ‘hyper-capitalism’ without a social and political safety net by “evading regulations and breaking the law”, as journalist Dean Baker sums it up rather populistically. On first glance, these firms seem to pursue altruist goals by employing under-utilized goods such as empty seats in cars and uninhabited rooms in inner cities. Upon closer inspection, however, they are maximising their profits since they are not required to pay their ‘employees’ regularly or provide social safety structures. Taken together, the decline of political responsibility and the rise of discourses shaped by economic thinking and reasoning show how the influence and thus the responsibility increases which contemporary companies and businesses have to shoulder. This is in line with the observations Paul A. Argenti makes in Corporate Responsibility . He claims that as a consequence of the reduction of government, i. e. privatisation processes, “people [nowadays] expect business and the free enterprise system to answer questions that were once the exclusive purview of government” (xivf.). In this context, many companies discover the topic of social and corporate responsibility ( CR ), which Paul Argenti defines as “the manifestation of a corporation’s social […] obligations to its constituencies and greater society” (ibid. 2). According to Argenti, corporate responsibility “describes an organization’s respect for society’s interest, as demonstrated by its taking ownership of the effect its activities have on key constituencies, [such as] employees” (ibid. 4). While some claim that the companies’ interest in CR is based on economic reasons only - CR sells well with customers (cf. ibid. xv) -, the recognition of the necessity to establish some kind of corporate ethics has come a long way. In 1970, economist Milton Friedman claimed that “[o]nly 1 Eine Community, bei der das Teilen im Mittelpunkt steht (https: / / www.airbnb.de/ help/ getting-started/ how-it-works). 104 Annika Gonnermann people can have responsibilities. A corporation is an artificial person and in this sense may have artificial responsibilities, but ‘business’ as a whole cannot be said to have responsibilities, even in this vague sense” (quoted in ibid. 2). Customers nowadays, however, do request from companies to act responsibly. Nevertheless, in his 2016 book Argenti claims that only ten percent of people “trust business to act responsibly” (ibid.), thus highlighting the deep held mistrust and suspicion the general public displays. All these considerations (economisation of politics, redistribution of social responsibility, etc.) find their way into public discourse as articles by The Guardian or The Washington Post show. It was only a matter of time then, that writers and theatre addressed these issues. 2. Introducing April De Angelis April De Angelis’ play Wild East (Royal Court Theatre, 2005) is greatly influenced by topics like politics, capitalism and responsibility - although this interest of hers is of rather recent nature. Considered as a representative playwright of contemporary British drama (cf. Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz vii), April De Angelis (born in 1960) has established her reputation as a writer based on her plays addressing primarily gender issues (cf. D’Monté 134). Playhouse Creatures (1993), 2 for example, has been critically appreciated because of the “large number of female roles she has created” (ibid. 136), thus counterbalancing the male-dominated environment of contemporary British theatre (cf. ibid.). De Angelis herself stated that much of her writing - on a superficial level - covers the struggles of women in past and present (cf. in Devine 93). However, De Angelis is not to be ‘reduced’ to a writer solely interested in gender issues. As D’Monté argues, “[s]he has become increasingly involved in wider political issues” (135). De Angelis has demonstrated that with plays such as Amongst Friends (2009), which deals with the invasion of Iraq (cf. Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz xvi), or Catch (2007), which is interested in alternative identities 3 and the topic of surveillance. Since De Angelis’ engagement with capitalism in Ironmistress dates back as far as to 1989, one can fairly claim that the “failure[s] of capitalism and globalization” (D’Monté 135) are a typical theme of hers. In this play, she discusses “the debasement of society through capitalism and the search for a more em- 2 Set in the middle of the 17 th century, Playhouse Creatures “explores the experiences of women on Restoration stages” (Gardner) by concentrating on a variety of gender issues connected to that (cf. Farfan / Ferris 216 f. for further details). 3 For a discussion of the topic of identity in the information age see the article by Christine Schwanecke and for a discussion of the topic of identity in the context of cloning see the article by Maurus Roller in this volume. April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 105 powering form of femininity” (ibid. 126). Moreover, in an interview, De Angelis declares that she had always been fascinated by the power struggles inherent in all human relations. She is interested in power relationships and the implication for the parties involved, especially within a larger social context. The dichotomy she builds up can be summarised by “authority versus the young person, or the powerless versus the powerful. Essentially, what’s done to the person who’s innocent” (De Angelis quoted in Devine 95). In this respect, Wild East is not De Angelis’ first excursion to the topic of ‘powerless versus the powerful’. It is, as Rebecca D’Monté puts it, yet another approach to “interrogate[…] the relationship between people’s lives and how this relates to the wider social and political forces around them” (D’Monté 138). 4 The social issue at stake in Wild East is a similar one as in Ironmisstress , namely capitalism and its ethical implications, but this time within the specific context of corporate culture and responsibility. The story that unfolds in 80 minutes of stage time “starts off simply enough” (Fisher): The audience is introduced to the socially awkward college graduate Frank, who is about to enter an important job interview led by the two female characters Dr Gray and Dr Pitt. The subsequent minutes portray a nightmare-version of a job interview that starts innocently enough, but soon becomes an almost allegorical critique of contemporary corporate society, loaded with a variety of questions circling around moral topics: Wild East strips away the thin veil of civilisation people take for granted in the 21 st century by equating the corporate environment with a life-threatening pre-civilised world. It demonstrates that - without a functioning concept of corporate responsibility - behind the seemingly sophisticated mask of civilisation and globalisation there is nothing more than a 21 st -century version of Thomas Hobbes’ natural state, in which people perpetually fight for the means of survival. As a result, one can say that the play advocates the need for corporate responsibility by fleshing out the consequences of corporate power that is not tamed by (self-)imposed guidelines and restrictions. 4 That this play is not so much about gender power struggles but about power struggles in general can be seen by the fact that Frank’s two interviewers, two academically trained women called Dr Gray and Dr Pitt, do not need to fight for emancipation. Female emancipation has already been established in Wild East (cf. Hanisch), or as Dr Gray phrases it: “Women grew up in the eighties” (De Angelis 28). They have had a successful business career, have received academic honours and they no longer have to conform to certain gender roles, i. e. “be the heart and the soul of this world any more” (ibid.). 106 Annika Gonnermann 3. Thomas Hobbes’ “Perpetual State of War” as a template for Wild East In his most famous work Leviathan (1651), Thomas Hobbes describes a society in which no one could be sure of their physical well-being (cf. Tuck ix). With Leviathan , Hobbes has fathered social contract theories that base states on a universal agreement by all their members, which would end what he considers the “natural condition of mankind” (Hobbes 86). This state is defined as “a warre, as if of every man, against every man” (ibid. 88). However, Hobbes does not draw the picture of perpetual bloodshed or actual war (ibid.). He rather describes a situation which “consisteth not in actuall fighting; but in the known disposition, during all the time there is no assurance to the contrary” (ibid. 88 f.), meaning that “there is no reasonable expectation that hostilities will not erupt” (Newey 76). The life of man is therefore characterised mostly by its scarcity and insecurity, by the constant fear of losing life and property. In this natural state “the life of man [is] solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short” (Hobbes 89). According to Hobbes, the only possible escape from this nightmare life is to install some sort of authoritative power or insurance of the physical wellbeing, since only this centre of power can guarantee safety and general well-being and coerce mankind into a peaceful society (cf. ibid. 120). If not, mankind will continue to attack and murder in order to survive in this ravenous world. Hobbes lists three factors common to mankind that prohibit universal peace: “First Competition; Secondly, Diffidence; Thirdly, Glory. The first, maketh men invade for Gain; the second, for Safety; and the third, for Reputation” (ibid. 88), meaning that mankind is triggered by three motivations to extend the natural state of war. He describes competition and scarcity (“desire for what another has or wants”, Hoekstra 116), safety (“fear of attack”, ibid.) and “pride in conquest “ (ibid.), i. e. having a certain reputation. Only if mankind will be able to master these inclinations by institutionalising a universal power monopoly in order to secure peace (cf. Hobbes 88), can there be safety. Having lived through the horrors of the English Civil War, Hobbes displays a negative conception of mankind based on brutality and self-interest. He is averse to ascribing men any self-restraining potential or ability for moderation. For him, institutionalising power is the sole possibility of ending a state of war that “precludes the security and stability necessary to develop arts, letters, engineering [etc.]” (Hoekstra 110), i. e. the flourishing of all kinds of fine art. While man is busy securing his physical well-being as well as his property, the fine arts will wither. Art, generally considered to be a sign of mankind’s superior intellectual abilities and eternal aspirations, is reduced at best to a superfluous waste of time or to a mortal distraction at worst since the natural state precludes the existence of art. April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 107 4. Wild East- - Criticising Contemporary Corporate Culture De Angelis’ Wild East shows parallels between contemporary corporate life and the world described in Leviathan, in which “Man to Man is an arrant Wolfe” (“homo homini lupus est”), as Hobbes writes in the introduction to his De Cive (1642). Although Hobbes was describing a political and social construct, his theory is indeed applicable to the economic setting of De Angelis’ “capitalist satire”, as theatre critic Michael Billington calls it, since Hobbes’ state and the reasons that generate it are always present in human life up to this day (cf. Newey 81). This state is thus to be found in ‘civilised’ times as well, lurking behind the thin veil of civilisation. Thinking about the economisation of politics, one could even argue that the company - clearly the most powerful ‘character’ in the play - could be seen as this centre of power. However, the company is not interested in institutionalising a balance of power or terminating the natural state. De Angelis’ anonymous company is involved in fostering and enlarging this existential fighting for reasons of economic gain and profit. The company thus becomes a perversion of Hobbes’ original proposition since without any corporate responsibility the characters are thrown back to a lawless natural state where they are forced to attack others because of competition, diffidence and glory. As will be argued, throughout the play the three characters demonstrate a considerable “readiness to engage in acts of aggression” (ibid. 76). The very title of the play already evokes Hobbes’ wild natural lawless state (cf. Thiele 30); the term ‘Wild East’ expresses two interesting points. Firstly, it sets the scene of the play by highlighting the world region on which the anonymous company wants to concentrate its business: Russia and its untapped markets promise lucrative profits (cf. De Angelis, Wild East , 68). 5 Of course, in geographical terms, Russia can only be described as ‘East’ when looked upon from the West. It therefore becomes quite clear that the play is about Western market capitalism and its implications for the world. Secondly, the title alludes to a lawless state in which the law of the strongest is what counts. Linguistically echoing the notorious “western part of the U. S. during its lawless frontier period” ( OED ), the so-called “Wild West”, the play establishes a climate of lawlessness, murder, and killing. Although clearly pointing to Russia, the only stage descriptions available make sure not to reduce the global relevance of Wild East by evoking an anonymous atmosphere that is based on the non-identifiability of the setting, thus claiming universal applicability all over the globe: 5 In the following, references to Wild East will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. 108 Annika Gonnermann An anonymous, corporate room. Some papers on a round, low table surrounded by three chairs. The table has a coffee pot and three cups and also a sculptured centrepiece. There is a camera in the room operated by an on / off switch which is hand-held. (7) Neither the setting nor the props indicate traces of individuality. The fact that not even a company logo is detectable strengthens once more the universal, almost allegorical approach Wild East applies. The play invites the audience to not criticise one organisation in particular but a universal mode of conduct in corporate culture detectable anywhere in the world. This evocation of an anonymous atmosphere is reminiscent of the writing of Harold Pinter, David Greig and Martin Crimp, who famously refused to give details about the specific settings of their plays (cf. Rebellato 258). Sarah Kane’s setting of her play Blasted (1995) also comes to mind: “ A very expensive hotel room in Leeds - the kind that is so expensive it could be anywhere in the world. ” (Kane 3) The refusal to specify any location has a similar effect in Wild East as it does in the other (earlier) plays. It expresses “a refusal to let ethical judgement stop at national boundaries: even when these writers are addressing contemporary issues they want to get at the fundamental ethical issues beneath” (Rebellato 258). The “fundamental ethical issues beneath” in De Angelis’ Wild East concern questions of power, loyalty, responsibility and humanity: How can humans survive in a corporate structure and a global capitalist system that has been stripped of all humanity (cf. Hanisch)? De Angelis’ play is therefore not just an “extremely funny” (Fisher) and “highly watchable” (Billington) job thriller, but also a sharp comment on the ruthlessness of contemporary economy (cf. Hanisch). The audience finds itself in this Wild West scenario right from the start. The play begins with Frank rushing into the room where the interview is scheduled. When he expresses his relief about not being too late, he justifies his anxiety by stating that “[t]here was a defective train at Mile End or someone had been pushed onto the tracks [but he] couldn’t quite make it out” (7). The fact that Pitt replies with a simple, not agitated “[m]aybe it was both” (ibid.) reveals several things at once: Obviously neither of them is shocked by a (possible) murder of a train passenger. Moreover, the linguistic construction “had been pushed” hides the offender while it focuses on the victim of the deed, directing attention to the system allowing for such cruelty. Additionally, Pitt equals murder with a technical defect, hence ignoring the moral and ethical consequences of killing another human being. Just lines into the play the audience is thus confronted with a world of questionable moral and safety standards. Like Leviathan , Wild East is set in a ruthless world “where nobody feels safe” (Newey 77) and which requires constant vigilance in every aspects of private and public life - like suspecting your future employer toying with you: Frank, for example, seems to have ex- April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 109 pected the company to challenge him in unfair ways. Since his interview has been scheduled for 6 p. m. he suspects some kind of test, “possibly […] a bodyclock thing, to push [the candidate]” (7). Thus, with his first two statements (violent death at train station and charges of unfair behaviour), Frank has set the tone of the play: introducing a violent, lawless, possibly sly and unfair world. Having set the scene dominated by the ideas of death, fighting and cheating, the play moves on by developing the first of the three Hobbesian “principall [sic! ] causes of quarrel” (Hobbes 88), namely competition. This notion describes the idea that “things which people need to live at all, or to make life bearable or pleasant - are in relatively short supply in the state of nature” (Newey 76). It is important to note that everyone may prioritise different needs in order to ensure security (cf. Tuck xvi). While Hobbes may have envisioned food for example (cf. Newey 76), Wild East portrays being employed as one of the essential goods of the 21 st century. The factor ‘competition’ is introduced by Dr Pitt, one of the interviewers at this moment still waiting for her colleague. Before the interview even starts, she wants to know if Frank “would undercut somebody’s job at reduced salary intake[? ]” Moreover, she warns him that she “will not be trying to get [him] through this” (both 9) if that is the case. What seems to be a protective move by Pitt aimed at upholding a certain social standard for her fellow employees turns out to be driven by an impulse of self-defence. It becomes clear in the course of the play that Pitt and Gray are not interviewing for a vacant position in the company - they are possibly interviewing for their own jobs. Pitt is especially afraid to lose her employment. Having spent the last couple of weeks in hospital because she was beaten up while doing her field work for the company, she fears that she might be replaced soon - just like her colleague Marco, a married father of three, who has been fired for no apparent reason, as Gray describes: I came back from lunch. The desk next to me was empty. Marco didn’t even get to clear it himself. […] For a while he was outside. We couldn’t hear what he was saying but he was waving his arms. […] What could we do? Sign a petition? Continuous restructuring is the future. It happened . (56, my emphasis) The grammatical structure employed in this statement (passive voice ‘it happened’) is reminiscent of the structure used to describe the ‘incident’ at the train station. Both cloud an offender-victim relationship to the benefit of the former. As a consequence, the question of responsibility does not arise since the grammatical focus lies on the passive form, which does not require a clear identification of responsibility. Moreover, this passage evokes Hobbes’ natural state, where “everybody is both a potential killer and a potential victim” (Newey 77). This notion of con- 110 Annika Gonnermann stant fear and potential danger creates a certain desperation for survival in profit-oriented times. The characters fear for their economic safety despite having a job, since “restructuring is the future” as Gray states rather euphemistically (56). This is yet another linguistic structure that covers up responsibilities, since ‘restructuring’ actually translates to people losing their employment and thus the basis for an autonomous and dignified life. The characters’ fear becomes comprehensible when looking at the back-story of Wild East . As the audience learns from Gray, the company has been bought by new investors, who seek to “improve […] [the] total organizational performance and marketability” (41) (another euphemism clouding mass dismissal and wage cuts, etc.) in order to re-sell profitably after they have “trim[med] the fat off” (ibid.), as Gray phrases it. The euphemism ‘to trim the fat off’ underscores the inhumanity of the system. Their new ‘owner’ seems to consider people as ‘fat’, a negatively connoted, redundant, superfluous mass of no particular use whatsoever. Moreover, the idea of losing fat, i. e. losing jobs, i. e. reducing goods necessary for making a living, is directly related to the state of scarcity that rules the Hobbesian state of nature, which “lacks the goods needed for what Hobbes calls ‘commodious [i. e. pleasant] living’” (Newey 78). The euphemism ‘losing fat’ is then insofar problematic since the rhetoric clouds a situation of scarcity, i. e. ever fewer jobs for ever more highly qualified people. The play toys around with complex linguistic structures that impede the deconstruction of the civilised mask of contemporary corporate culture. Interestingly enough, however, neither Pitt nor Gray are talking about the company in this context. They include themselves in the process and utter statements like “[w]e’ve been bought” (40) or “[t]hey bought us and soon they’re going to sell us” (41). They themselves proceed to talk of employees in general and about themselves in particular as if they were items of daily commodity. This process of dehumanisation has already seeped down from the company leaders to their employees, indicating that their sole value (as humans) is calculated in terms of economic usability. Having internalised this idea, Gray and Pitt express this mind-set by stating things like the following: “This is all I have. My Job.” (56) It becomes clear that both ground their value as human beings entirely in their occupation. Alongside this focus on being in employment comes a transfer of loyalty, away from commitments made to family or friends towards the company. When Gray describes her relationship to Pitt - a former lover of hers - she claims that they “were good friends […] [b]ut that does not mean that [she] is prepared to fail [her] organization [and that she is] strong enough to see what [she] has to do” (46). This means: to fight for her job with all the means available, since in Hobbes’ natural state “each person has to treat every other person as an enemy, April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 111 that is, as a prospective assailant” (Newey 77). This way the play introduces the second Hobbesian cause of quarrel: diffidence / safety. Former emotional bindings or family ties are not taken into account since “every person is disposed to fight every other” (Hoekstra 110) in order to secure one’s own survival. One of the most convenient means to successfully prioritise personal survival is to control others, goods or property by forming opportunistic, non-durable alliances within this constellation of three characters. As Hobbes says: [T]he making of union consisteth in this, that every man by covenant oblige himself to some one and the same man or to some one and the same council, by them all named and determind, to do those actions, which the said man or council shall command them to do […]. (Hobbes quoted in Martinich 108) Wild East slightly alters that motive by keeping the contract-forming nature of the relationship, but foreclosing the possibility to unite the power onto one ruler. The characters form alliances, following some kind of instinct of tribalism: When Frank enters the interview room he makes a futile attempt to bond with Pitt (not knowing that she will be his interviewer) by asking her “[w]hy do you think they did [schedule the interview for 6 p. m.]? ” (7) ‘They’ are obviously in stark contrast to the ‘we’ between Frank and Pitt he tries to establish. Pitt does not accept his offer of bonding but immediately establishes a professional interviewer-interviewee-relationship and corrects his assumption that she is a potential ally: “Hello. I’m Dr Pitt. I shall be interviewing you in approximately two minutes.” (8) Pitt is obviously eager to cement her status above Frank. What unfolds from then on is a carousel ride of shifting alliances, where everyone tries to secure his or her position by gaining the upper hand and where everyone is afraid of losing his or her status within the company. The tactics employed by the characters are manifold: special use of language in order to forge and break the opportunistic alliances they find themselves in. This construction of alliances is prominent throughout the text. In the beginning, while Pitt is sure of her secure social status within the company, Gray shatters this self-understanding seconds into the play. Addressing Frank, Gray’s first lines of the play are: “God [sic! ] you’re [=Pitt] here. […] We weren’t sure that Dr Pitt would make it today. We’re very glad to [sic! ] she did.” (9) These words have two effects: They show that Gray considers herself a valuable employee of the company. Even more, the company and she form a ‘we’ that encourages her to speak on behalf of the company. But these words simultaneously destroy her colleague’s self-conception. Pitt is not included in this ‘we’ Gray is talking of. “Dr Pitt” has been linguistically branded a member of an out-group which is by definition not part of the company. What is more, she is not even addressed directly. Pitt has been reduced to ‘she’, and is being talked about as 112 Annika Gonnermann if not present in the room. After a couple of lines into the play, the audience is thus left with four parties that have already shown competing interests: Frank, Pitt, Gray and the Company. Frank, not sure about his position yet, loses his nerves and gives silly responses to simple questions. He is not able to provide sufficient and convincing answers to typical job interview questions such as “Can you tell us about a situation where you were presented with a problem and you had no idea how to solve it and how you eventually solved it? ” (17) After a couple of ridiculous (but funny) answers, 6 he asks for a pause to gather himself and leaves the stage (16). As soon as he has left the room, Pitt addresses her colleague: PITT . Fuck my aunt. […] I’m back. My six weeks are up. I’m in here with a hopeless loser. Failure is contagious. It rubs off. Maybe they never wanted me back? […] GRAY . That is paranoid. PITT . Would they put anybody with me that they weren’t thinking of rationalizing too? Or are you in on it? (ibid.) Two things become clear from this exchange: One, Pitt considers failure as something like a contagious disease you can contract after having spent too much time in a contaminated environment. 7 She is afraid that she has been “contaminated” on purpose by “the[m]” (29), i. e. she is afraid of sabotage by the company and fears for her safety in this Hobbesian ‘bellum omnium contra omnes’ (quoted in Thiele 29 f.). Again, the company officials are only referred to as ‘they’, as a sort of anonymous, invisible authority out of reach. By definition personal pronouns such as ‘we’ and ‘they' have an inherent deictic quality, meaning that they denote different entities based on who is using them in the first place. In terms of the structuralist approach to linguistics, one might argue that deictic expressions such as personal pronouns constitute a breakdown between the fixed relationship of signifier and signified. In Wild East this is taken to the extreme, signalled by the shifting alliances. ‘We’ and ‘they’ change meaning all the time, based on who is momentarily part of the inor the outgroup. Throughout the play, the audience watches the characters change sides multiple times. Frank is seen as the ally each of the two women needs in order 6 “GRAY. What kind of yoghurt might you expect [the Russians] to buy? FRANK. Alcoholic yoghurt? ” (14). 7 Ironically, Pitt is wearing her sign of failure on her skin. Having had to spent time in the hospital after the violent incident in Russia, she returns to work covered in bandages. Gray is obviously bothered by them when she says: “I’m sorry. You come back. In bandages. They project an image. I’m supposed to do what? Ignore them? I’m doing a job here. They are signalling to me.” (28) What they signal is one thing in particular: failure. April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 113 to win the fight. It is therefore a contest between the two constellations Frank and Pitt vs. Gray (29) vs. Frank and Gray vs. Pitt. Moreover, Pitt is not sure of her ex-lover’s loyalty: With her remark “[o]r are you in on it? ” (16) she implies that there is a conspiracy going on between Gray and the company in order to get rid of her. She becomes more explicit when Frank has returned and confronts him directly with her suspicion. PITT . […] It’s not as if you’ve been instructed to give inappropriate replies? FRANK . No. […] PITT . Because I am wondering what I am doing on my first day back and I am presented with you. I am even beginning to think this is all a sinister plot to make me look bad. (21) Pitt’s constant suspicion is based on the fear of losing her job, which would leave her vulnerable. Gray, in contrast, thinks this behaviour is inappropriate and challenges her colleague by heading for a direct confrontation: Her rebuke (“Don’t approach the candidate in a threatening manner.”, 22) finally destroys the relationship built on their shared past as lovers between Gray and Pitt and it stresses the competitive nature of the situation. Fisher has summarised the unfolding action of Wild East as follows: “Soon power alliances shift in every combination between the three protagonists, in a microcosm of the primitive lives in which their education has been grounded”, which leads to ever-changing confrontations between the parties. The victorious constellation seems to be Frank and Dr Gray vs. Dr Pitt as shown by the following dialogue in absentia of Pitt. FRANK . Poor Dr Pitt. It was pretty nasty seeing her writhing on the ground like that. GRAY . It was a very convenient fit […]. You know what just happened there, Frank. She saved herself. […] She has continually sabotaged your interview. Why has she done that? Because she fears you, fears for her job, and so she is jeopardizing yours. FRANK . I feel a little sorry for her. GRAY . Crush that instinct. Do you want her to make you look ineffectual? Lose the career you have a right to? This is important to you, isn’t it, Frank? FRANK . This is my chance. […] GRAY . Next time Dr Pitt responds in an inappropriate manner, challenge her. (44) Hiding elegantly that it is not only Pitt who is afraid of losing her job, Gray tries to get Frank back on her side again. In order to do so, she has to do exactly what she has been accused of by Pitt: trying to sabotage her. 114 Annika Gonnermann This changing of alliances in the play is a text-book example for the so-called ‘prisoner’s dilemma’ that can be found in game theory (cf. Hoekstra 114): Two members of a criminal gang have been caught by the police. Being in solitary confinement, they have no opportunity to communicate with each other. When interrogated by the police they have three options: One, both stay silent and will receive one year in prison each. Two, one betrays the other and will conversely be set free while the other will spend three years in prison. Three, both of them talk, resulting in two years prison each. The best option for both of them would be to stay silent. However, this option requires mutual trust and reliability. As Hoekstra puts it: “[E]veryone would be better off if they were all to refrain from attacking one another; but because the risks for each individual of not attacking outweigh those of attacking, they all end up attacking […].” (Hoekstra 114 f.) Trust and reliability, then, remain rare virtues in a world were “man is a wolf to another man” and where everyone has to live with the “fear of attack”, as Hoekstra paraphrases Hobbes’ term ‘diffidence’ (ibid. 116). It is not surprising then that the “generally accepted form of behaviour in this play” (Hanisch) is to pursue self-interest and to accept that attacking seems to be the only option even though it only makes things worse by causing a self-generated downward spiral, which cannot be stopped once it has been set in motion. The situation is an example of the Hobbesian “vicious spiral, whereby depleted resources provoke aggressive competition, which further depletes resources, which provoke aggressive competition and soon [sic! ]” (Newey 80). The characters are not able to breach this vicious circle. As mentioned above, this has to do with the fact that the company does not embrace its social responsibility. On the contrary, they encourage the characters’ downfall into primitive times. This building of alliances and rivalries can be summed up by the expectation Gray had about the interview. She claims that she “knew it would be war” (55), thus echoing Thomas Hobbes. According to him, war and open conflict are the consequence of two people desiring the same resource. Ultimately, the two rivals will end up making an attempt on each other’s life in order to secure advantages (cf. Hobbes 87). This is exactly what happens, or as Frank sums it up: “[…] I want this job and maybe you don’t want me to have it.” (50) Frank’s words echo Hoekstra’s paraphrase of Hobbes: “Because [the people] often desire the same thing, while not recognizing anyone’s exclusive claim to it, they try to subdue or destroy each other if their desire or perceived need for it is great enough.” (Hoekstra 110) That the desire for employment is great enough can be seen by the usage of animal metaphors stated by Gray. In her continued attempt to discredit her partner and save her own skin she uses them in order to deconstruct the humanity and deny her opponent human qualities. April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 115 GRAY . Do not imagine that people are weak and need help, Frank. That is a disabling fantasy. That makes us feel better. It makes us less afraid. When you are guilty, Frank, you are not an effective action taker. You have to imagine that Dr Pitt is a rhino. FRANK . I think I’ll find that a little difficult. GRAY . All that ‘will’ and power focused on the main chance and with a hide of rocky leather. That is much more what people are like and you have to start imagining them all as rhinos. FRANK . That’s quite a lot of work. For example, babies. GRAY . Whatever. The point is that if you don’t brace yourself for a fight with a rhino, what will happen? (45 f.) What Gray describes here is precisely Hobbes’ natural state of mankind, which outlines the reality of perpetual war and that people have constantly be ‘braced’ to fight for what they hold dear. This state in which man is a wolf to another man (or in this case a rhino) is deadly and short. The rhino metaphor proves an interesting variation of Hobbes’ choice: Whether a rhino is as dangerous as a wolf is for zoologists to judge. However, in contrast to wolves, which hunt and live in packs, rhinos are considered to be solitary. This highlights yet again the lonely status human ‘rhinos’ occupy in this omnipresent state of war Gray alludes to. Moreover, these animals literally have ‘rocky leather’ skin, i. e. thick skin - a metaphorical characteristic needed to survive in this context fostered by the company. Frank of course satirises this slightly with his inclusion of babies, but what Gray advocates is a world in which this is a general truth. The audience witnesses the slow but steady dismantling of a seemingly civilised world where “each is prepared to attempt to conquer each other” (Hoekstra 110) for safety reasons. When Gray accuses her colleague of behaving inappropriately Pitt’s only response is: “I’m not displaying my genitals […].” (26) 8 The longer the play lasts, the more parallels between the ‘civilised world’ and a pre-civilised society emerge - or, as Pitt observes towards the end of the play, the world is wild, full of hate, and without compassion (cf. 54). But Gray, too, deconstructs this civilised world with the following words. She describes the job hunting (in itself an archaic metaphor of killing that has immigrated into the semantic field of economy and jobs) 9 as a matter of life and death, combining two of the three Hobbesian causes of quarrel, namely ‘competition’ and ‘diffidence’: 8 In the beginning, the characters at least attempt to behave in a civilised manner: “ it’s good if we can civilised about this” (31) is what Gray states. But this attempt fails throughout the play. 9 For a further analysis of metaphors from the semantic field of hunting and survival in the context of economics see the article by Caroline Lusin in this volume. 116 Annika Gonnermann FRANK . So it’s me or Dr Pitt. GRAY . Your job or hers. FRANK . That’s kind of primitive. You’d have thought things would have advanced a little in the third millennium. GRAY . Don’t give me any anthropological shit. This is a fight to the death. (47) What strikes one as remarkable is the fact that Frank’s reply is not even phrased as a question. His response “[s]o it’s me or Dr Pitt” is merely a statement, a last reassurance that he has grasped the underlying concept of corporate politics. As Pitt tells him: “Executive remunerations are paid to survivors , Frank. Some people have to die first. People like me who have been working their cunts dry and don’t deserve the knife slipping in but they get it.” (52, my emphasis) This vulgar and graphic means of expression highlights Pitt’s tension. She evokes a semantic field of killing, fighting and surviving in which sophisticated concepts do not have a place. Everyone is responsible for himor herself. The assigning of responsibility is yet another prominent topic in Wild East . The play “tackles the big issue of corporate responsibility”, as Billington writes. It can be seen as an advocate for corporate culture since it demonstrates what happens if companies and businesses do not realise their ethical obligations and corporate responsibilities. The real actors that are responsible for certain deeds and actions do not have to answer to their victims. Blame and responsibility are shifted around until suddenly the victims have to account for their actions. When Pitt is beaten up by a Russian pimp during her field work, her colleague Gray describes who she thinks is to blame - not the company. With the words, “So what? A pimp beat you up. It happens . The company has clean hands.” (58, my emphasis), Gray echoes the view Friedman has voiced: companies cannot have responsibilities (cf. quoted in Argenti 2) and thus serves as a mouthpiece for an understanding of corporate responsibility that was popular in the 1970s (cf. ibid.). It is the people, and in this context Pitt, who must shoulder the responsibility: GRAY . […] What I want to know is, what kind of woman leaves her hotel door open? […] PITT . What? GRAY . A woman looks over her shoulder her whole life. It’s like inviting something in to destroy you. Like some part of your psyche was faulty, porous, and it let in something destructive. PITT . What are you saying, it was my fault? GRAY . Well, what were you thinking? (58) April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 117 In accordance with Friedman, the company is never the object of criticism or responsibility. This has already become clear by the dismissal of Gray’s and Pitt’s colleague: After having been sacked, Marco tried to get his revenge by publishing his story in a newspaper. But although “[h]e had some dirt on the company[, n]o paper would touch it. Nobody cares” (ibid.). The company will always be victorious in the direct confrontation with its employees. Of course this is the point of attack of Wild East. The play fundamentally disagrees with the assumption that corporate structures are absolved of any ethical responsibility. By featuring exaggerated characters, which fight each other mercilessly, Wild East criticizes the inhumanity of the system that has lost all sense of decency and human interaction. Gray serves as a prime example since she introduces a particularly unethical perversion of the topic of responsibility. After Pitt has left the room for a moment, she talks to Frank about her colleague’s mental state, implying that Pitt has a “burn-out” (44). In order to get her point across she opens up an extremely interesting comparison: GRAY . There are some circumstances where you can’t help people, Frank. I’m a woman, I should know. Some women stay with their men their whole lives trying to ‘help’ them; […] But you know what I’d tell those women - get the hell out. Isn’t that right? FRANK . Well, yeah. GRAY . I mean stay, if you want the lifeblood sucked out of you, if you want your teeth smashed to bits. You know what I’d say to a woman who was loyal to a man like that? FRANK . What? GRAY . You deserved it . (45, my emphasis) The relationship to a company seems to be similar to the one between a wife and her abusive husband. Interestingly enough she again transfers responsibility from the offender to the victim by implying that it is the woman’s fault when she is abused. Her husband, i. e. the company in both examples, is discharged of any responsibility. This comparison introduces the question of gender into this play, thus linking Wild East to De Angelis’ earlier work. What is striking in the context of Wild East is the transferal of violence and abuse from a system based level to a more personal one, namely marriage and family. Here the state of war is reproduced with a slight variation: While the other comparisons (murder on the train station, Marco’s dismissal) carefully hide responsibilities, the wife-husband parallel offers ascriptions of blame - just not like the audience would expect. While a contemporary audience would surely attribute the question of responsibility for marital abuse to the abusive husband, Gray challenges the readers’ expectations by stating a different opinion. According to her, people ‘voluntarily’ entering this system risk being treated like that. Moreover, they 118 Annika Gonnermann are denied a right to protest or accusation since they agreed to accept the terms and conditions of this relationship: In this wild world, or natural state, everyone has to be vigilant since everyone else has a right to self-preservation, whatever the costs (cf. Thiele 29). Or as Gray phrases it: “[Pitt] had an accident. So what? That does not give her moral superiority. We could step out into the traffic any time we chose. Everybody plays to win. ” (52, my emphasis) Entering this system then is a sort of play, even more a gamble: You either win or you lose - but everything lies within your own responsibility. Having introduced the question of responsibility, Wild East then goes on to explore it in greater detail. As has already been demonstrated, the relation between responsibility and the company is often clouded by linguistic structures that hide the connection. Additionally, the characters concern themselves with this topic, too, thus combining the question of responsibility with the third cause of quarrel introduced by Hobbes: ‘glory’. Making mistakes, being not productive seriously impairs “the [human] desire for honour”, i. e. their “reputation” (Newey 78) in this capitalist world. When Gray asks Frank to describe a situation “where [he] was presented with a problem [he] had no idea how to solve” (17), Frank recalls two incidents that are seemingly totally inappropriate answers. Upon closer inspection, however, one discovers that they are both about taking responsibility - to be more precise, about evading responsibility, a character trait fostered by the capitalist system of Wild East . Having gotten lost in the woods, a drunken Frank realised that his drinking companions “had had [his] interests at heart when they tried to stop [him]” from leaving early (ibid.). Frank, however, decided to take his chances and to ‘gamble with his life’ without any obvious necessity. He decides to “make an effort” (ibid.) and manages to get back to civilisation - having triumphed over nature this time. Without knowing it at the time of telling the story, Frank describes himself as a ‘glorious’ person perfectly fitted for this company since he demonstrates capacity to survive in a hostile environment, thus increasing his ‘glory’ in the eyes of the company. Moreover, he demonstrates that he is not prepared to take responsibility for others. Frank describes how he quit a college friendship since Frank’s “coursework began to suffer” (19). Faced with his parents’ threat to stop funding him, he decides to cut off all the bonds with his friend Brian although he noticed that “[Brian’s] room was more chaotic than normal” and that his “T-shirt was practically crackling with dirt” (both 20). Despite clear signs that Brian suffers from mental health problems, Frank decides not to intervene. “It was like [Brian] was getting more and more lost till he finally disappeared altogether” (ibid.), is how Frank describes the situation. Frank’s responsibility is yet again hidden by the grammatical structure employed - a device the audience is already familiar with at this time of the play. April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 119 Frank’s two anecdotes help to illustrate the exemplary make-up of the characters in the play. They are placeholders for extreme positions fostered by the economic setting in Wild East and serve a highlighting purpose. Just like the “anonymous, corporate room” (7) one could argue that Frank, Gray and Pitt are constructed as types rather than characters. They do not engage in concrete accusations but are modern ‘everymen’ that incorporate questionable moral positions and thus trigger a general discussion about ethical implications of contemporary corporate culture. Pitt and Gray are both representatives of the career woman. However, the play soon distinguishes between the ruthless Gray and the more restrained (in direct comparison to her) Pitt, who shows signs of scruples. In contrast to that, Frank is a prime example of someone evading any responsibility as he demonstrates with the story he chooses to tell: Both stories add to Frank’s ‘reputation’ of being a self-reliant and rather detached person - perfect for living in an environment like Hobbes’ natural state. Additionally, in the following lines he discloses even more of his ‘glory’: Contrary to what he said in the beginning of the interview, Frank had actually stolen a precious piece of prehistoric art he and his colleague had unearthed during an anthropological dig. 10 It is a precious little “water bird […] carved by hand from a mammoth ivory and […] thirty thousand years old” (24). Threatened with the prospect of not getting the job, 11 Frank suddenly “ takes out the bird ” and announces to destroy it. This is the moment in which Pitt breaks: Being confronted with the destruction of the bird, she admits that “[t]here are some things [she] can’t face being responsible for” (73). This statement equals a confession of not being tough enough for this lawless state. The inevitable takes place: “ Frank lifts the centrepiece and smashes the bird.” (ibid.) But the natural state - by definition a situation in which there is no place for art - has displayed its full power by destroying a precious object of historical importance and great artistic quality. Pitt is literally heartbroken (she has “ a physical reaction, like a small fit ”, 74) and can neither mentally nor physically endure the loss of a “world destroyed” (ibid.). In contrast to that, Gray is jubilant and fascinated by Frank’s energy after having encouraged him (“Fucking go for it, Frank”, ibid.) to destroy this “piece of rock” (ibid.). His final demonstration of ruthlessness, this “[stealing] 10 Frank narrates the story of what happened after the bird had been found: “One day they walked into the tent and the bird had gone. Nothing. Just a dent in its cloth. Everyone was searched. Nothing was found. […] Then rumours started. Some people deduced that because I had been, well, distracted, they figured maybe it was me and these things get around and a cloud hangs over a person, if you see what I mean. […] I’m not a thief. I swear I’m not” (25 f.). 11 Gray and Pitt had momentarily established an alliance (emphasised by the anaphoric sentence structure “ We could say that [he is seriously socially challenged]. We could do it together. We could win” (59, my emphases). 120 Annika Gonnermann from every single person on this planet and every single human being to come” (62), has secured his reputation as being “the kind of person they want” (74), i. e. suitable for this company. Moreover, he has demonstrated to be more suited to this world by triumphing over Pitt, who has lost not only her glory / reputation, but ultimately also her position and her safety. It is thus art, generally considered to be the epitome of human achievements and one of the few aspects that separates humans from animals, which exemplifies the long fall of mankind back to a state that does neither cherish nor value these kinds of objects. With competition, diffidence, glory, variations of responsibility and the impossibility of the creation of art, the circle linking Wild East and Leviathan is closed. 5. Conclusion Wild East investigates critically what it means to be part of economic life in today’s world by contrasting and comparing a contemporary corporate setting with the centuries-old nightmare of Hobbes’ natural state. 12 It is not only the setting that offers striking parallels but also the characters, who behave exactly as described by Hobbes: they display all “three principall [sic! ] causes of quarrel [sic! ]” (Hobbes 88), namely competition, diffidence and glory. De Angelis integrates these thoughts into her play and thus manages to “expos[e] capitalist mores” (Billington) that are anything but civilised. There is, however, one major difference between the play and Hobbes’ deliberations. Since the Hobbesian natural state is without laws, it is a state that does not allow for questions concerning morality or the right or wrong of certain deeds. It exists “beyond good and evil” (Hoekstra 120) and shows that sometimes “there is no reasonable alternative to behaving like a beast” (Newey 81). In contrast to that, Wild East is in fact a moral inquisition into the current state of affairs in the economic world, questioning some deeply held beliefs about morality, decency and responsibility. Since being a playwright always equals being a moralist, as Allen Lewis has claimed (3), one can say that April De Angelis maps out the moral consequences of capitalist culture within a 21 st -century corporate setting. The play deconstructs the seemingly sophisticated, civilised 12 Of course Wild East has a lot more topics of interest. As much as it is about responsibility in corporate culture, it is about the relationship between now and the past, symbolized by the ancient bird that is destroyed by Western culture. Moreover, it is about the relationship between East and West and the stereotypes that are connected to this bipolar thinking (cf. Fisher). Lastly, one could argue that it is a faint echo of Orwell’s dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four and its Big Brother (cf. Orwell) (symbolized by the every-watching camera, cf. Hanisch) in the face of corporate culture. For a more detailed discussion of explicitly dystopian drama see the article by Merle Tönnies in this volume. April De Angelis’ Wild East (2005) and Corporate Culture 121 world by showing its inhuman qualities of survival in these capitalist times and advocates the introduction of a corporate culture that is aware of its responsibilities and accountable for its actions. Wild East can therefore be categorised as one play among many which “successfully resist the most totalitarian, violent aspects of the late capitalist order” (10), as Clara Escoda Agustí describes the plays by Martin Crimp. Being the most tangible, visible and direct mode of communication between art and society, theatre in general and Wild East in particular manage to call “for the audience’s participation in identifying the system’s most damaging, oppressive contradictions” (ibid.). Escoda Agustí goes on to claim that these plays are “particularly relevant to the contemporary context because [they] […] resist complicity with the present, unequal world order” (ibid. 11). De Angelis and other writers accomplish this effect by extrapolating and overdrawing contemporary tendencies in corporate culture (assuming responsibility, staying human, behaving morally adequate) and asking the audience as well as the readers to scrutinize said tendencies critically. Wild East and other plays therefore not only demonstrate what contemporary theatre has to offer in terms of commentary and insight to current issues; they also provide a platform for analysis, reflection and ultimately even change, since theatre always “has power to influence men’s minds, hopes and action” (Lewis 7). By constructing characters that abandon human relationships in favour of economic and financial gain, De Angelis asks her audience to identify alternative modes of behaviour, thus underlining the critical potential contemporary theatre harbours (cf. Escoda Agustí) - or as De Angelis herself phrased it: “People sometimes say that, in this era of technology, we don’t need the theatre. 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The ‘Underclass’ Talks Back: Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 125 The ‘Underclass’ Talks Back: Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) Dorothee Birke 1. Contemporary Controversies about Poverty and Welfare Poverty and inequality take centre stage in 21 st -century debates of life in Europe. Whereas poverty for a long time used to be a “phenomenon discussed primarily in relation to the Global South”, it now has “gained a new public presence” (Korte / Zipp 2) due to the upheavals brought about by worldwide recession of the early 2000s, culminating in the financial crisis of 2007 / 08. These developments unsettled a sense of social stability in the United Kingdom as well as in many other Western countries. The question of whether and to what extent there actually has been an overall increase of poverty and social inequality in the UK since the turn of the millennium is a subject of debate. 1 However, many commentators register a pervasive sense of precarity (cf. e. g. Zipp), both reflected in and fuelled by the immense medial attention paid to events and developments such as the 2011 London riots and the ‘European migrant crisis’ in 2015 / 16, which were seen as fundamental threats to prosperity and security (cf. Kellner). Political and social controversies about issues like welfare, urban safety, citizenship, unemployment, housing and homelessness are informed by conflicting ways of perceiving poverty. The poor, simply put, are sometimes represented as the victims of social problems, entitled to support and sympathy, sometimes as the source of these problems and a threat to social stability. These views have long histories and are tied to larger sets of diverging notions about the causes of poverty, as well as the characterisation of those identified as ‘the poor’ and the measures that should be taken to alleviate or prevent poverty. Critics like the socialist commentator Owen Jones see a clear tendency towards holding the impoverished individual responsible for his or her circumstances: Social problems like poverty and unemployment were once understood as injustices that sprung from flaws within capitalism which, at the very least, had to be addressed. 1 One reason for this is that there is no single measure to determine poverty. For yearly reports on different indicators of the development of poverty in the UK, such as Minimum Income Standard, pensioner income, income distribution and homelessness figures, cf. the website of the Joseph Rowntree Foundation. For a survey of the consequences different ways of defining poverty have on statistics as well as policies in Britain, cf. Niemitz. 126 Dorothee Birke Yet today they have become understood as the consequences of personal behaviour, individual defects and even choice. ( Jones 10) Jones speaks of a “demonization of the working class”, epitomised in the derogatory word “chav”, which “encompasses any negative traits associated with working-class people - violence, laziness, teenage pregnancies, racism, drunkenness, and the rest” (ibid. 8). Such conceptualisations are of course by no means new. They are reminiscent of older discussions about the ‘undeserving poor’ in 19 th -century Britain, revolving around the question whether welfare reinforced low ambition and bad habits in the lower classes (cf. Kleeberg). They also resonate with individualist views of success and failure like the ‘American Dream’, which links its ideal of America as a land of equal opportunity to “the idea that men who were failures simply lacked ability, or ambition, or both” (Sandage 18). In contrast to this behavioural view of poverty, the second conceptualisation posits that poverty is a consequence of social inequality and thus systemic. This view is not concerned with deficits on the part of the poor, but focuses on the external factors that bring about and perpetuate their disadvantages and marginalisation. Measures that align with this view centre on the redistribution of wealth and equal access to services such as health care and education. This view of poverty informs both radical political programmes such as communism with its demand for revolution and the dispossession of the rich, and the more moderate ideal of a strong welfare state. In the UK, the last few decades have overall seen a roll-back in welfare spending, which was inaugurated under Margaret Thatcher in the 1970s and further developed in the austerity programme implemented by David Cameron’s Conservative administration from 2010 onwards, in the wake of the financial crisis. 2 One of the flagship policies of the Thatcher administration, the 1980 Housing Act with its ‘right to buy’ scheme, exemplifies the Conservative approach to poverty and welfare. By giving tenants of social housing the opportunity to buy the house or flat in which they lived at a discount price, the state shifted part of the responsibility in supplying and maintaining affordable housing back to the individual - a move that appears as laudable or problematic, depending on one’s larger views on welfare. Critics of the policy argue that while those able and willing to invest were offered the opportunity to become a part of 2 See e. g. the EU report on social protection expenditure in 2014, which shows that the United Kingdom decreased the proportion of national income spent on welfare by 1.7 % between 2011 and 2014, placing the UK slightly below EU average, while most other Northern and Western European countries increased it (cf. Eurostat). Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 127 the “property-owning democracy”, 3 the others were left dependent on much diminished public resources and with the stigma of being “increasingly disparaged through a moralistic language which labelled them as an unproductive, financially draining and socially corrosive underclass” (Biressi / Nunn 10). The policy thus reinforced a “geographical and social polarisation of the haves and have-nots” (ibid. 9 f.). In the new millennium, the controversy continues in the debates surrounding David Cameron’s idea of the ‘Big Society’, which rests on a critique of government welfare as “the driver for social and moral decline in society through the creation of a dependency culture” (McKee 2) and instead seeks to strengthen local institutions and citizen initiatives. A paper by the Centre for Social Justice (a think tank that has exerted a big influence on Conservative policy) makes very clear what this means for the concept of social housing, which “must be used to build aspiration, not stifle it. This can mean that, wherever appropriate, social housing is a step on the property ladder, used for shorter periods of time, to help people in a crisis or to overcome homelessness” (quoted in McKee 3). Accordingly, the 2011 Localism Act allows landlords more leeway in making tenancies fixed term rather than permanent, and gives public authorities the option of discharging their duty towards the homeless by offering them accommodation in the private sector instead of public housing. Commentators like the director of the Centre for Housing Research at the University of St Andrews, Kim McKee, argue that these policies “challenge the whole ethos of social housing and question the act of being a social housing tenant”: “Social housing is now akin to an ‘ambulance service’, which provides assistance during an emergency or time of crisis, as opposed to being a fundamental right of citizenship and key component of the welfare state.” (3) The sociologist Daniel Edmiston more generally warns that “welfare austerity is undermining a common sense of citizen belonging, identity and entitlement for many, particularly low-income households” (266). Charges of eroding the welfare state and of representing the poor as parasites or threats are not only levelled against the Conservatives, but also against the Labour administration that took over in the 1990s. While many supporters expected a dramatic shift in the approach to welfare, a wide-spread assessment today is that policy under Tony Blair’s New Labour government was in many ways continuous with Conservative policy (cf. e. g. Jessop). With its neoliberal emphasis on furthering privatisation and deregulation, New Labour was “far keener to export lessons of US enterprise culture and welfare-to-work to the 3 For an exploration of the close relationship between home ownership and citizenship in the British cultural imaginary, see e. g. McElroy’s study on the ideology of property TV. 128 Dorothee Birke European Union than […] to export modernized European social democracy and the European Social Model to the USA ” ( Jessop 286 f.). This wary stance towards a strong welfare state was, as e. g. Owen Jones as well as Anita Biressi and Heather Nunn argue, again welded to a stigmatisation of the working class. A predilection for the concept of ‘social exclusion’ in New Labour rhetoric can be regarded as a case in point, as in a 2006 speech by Tony Blair with its references to the “deeply excluded”: Their poverty is not just about poverty of income, but poverty of aspiration, of opportunity, of prospects of advancement […]. In social exclusion we are also talking about people who either may not want to engage with services or do not know how to. (quoted in Biressi / Nunn 61 f. f. ) While ostensibly the concept of ‘social exclusion’ reflects the systemic view of poverty as the result of social inequality, the prominent focus on ambition in Blair’s speech signals a shift towards the idea that poverty is a consequence of deficient behaviour: “‘Exclusion’ did not have to mean being excluded by society - but rather being excluded by your own actions.” ( Jones 99) Two catchphrases that have in the last few years conspicuously served to promote the behavioural view of poverty are ‘Broken Britain’ and the ‘underclass’. The rhetoric of ‘Broken Britain’, prominently used by David Cameron and the Conservative party in the campaign for the 2010 election, evokes a “familiar litany of social pathologies (family breakdown, worklessness, antisocial behaviour, personal responsibility, out-of-wedlock childbirth, dependency)” (Slater 948) to characterise the UK as a country in social decay. The term ‘underclass’, in turn, which was particularly prominent in the discussion about the London riots, has been criticized as a derogatory label for the working-class poor (cf. Biressi / Nunn 44-68). Politicians and journalists who use it tend to position the poor themselves as both the root cause and the expression of the break-down, as well as irredeemably ‘other’: “Characterised by a stamp of difference and division from the rest of us - middle class and respectable working class - this group was cast as a national aberration but also a warning sign of national decline.” (Haylett 358) Medial representations - fictional and nonfictional, from the reporting on the London Riots to the TV documentary Skint (2013-15) to novels like Zadie Smith’s NW (2012) or the play discussed in this chapter - contribute to “(re-) configur[ing] how we think, feel and behave in relation to poverty and the poor” (Korte / Zipp 3). Scholars of media and cultural studies as well as social psychologists have described cases of media evoking ‘demonizing’ ( Jones) or distancing stereotypes. For example, Apurv Chauhan and Juliet Foster find that British newspapers tend to characterise poverty as “a problem of the other” Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 129 (390), while Sarah Heinz shows how the Channel 4 documentary Benefits Street (2014-15) highlights “the inability of the benefits claimants to create a proper, comfortable, and safe home environment” (82). At the same time, there has also been an increasing interest in representations that - more or less successfully - seek to question or complicate such stereotypes, for example John Berger’s novel King: A Street Story (1999, discussed in Zipp), and the TV series Shameless (2004-13, discussed in Creeber) and Misfits (2009-13, discussed in Heinz). While much of the research on representations of poverty centres on the news media, television and narrative fiction, issues surrounding poverty have also been explored on the British contemporary stage - a tendency that fits with a general resurgence of political theatre in Britain from the mid-1990s onwards (cf. e. g. Kritzer). One particularly prominent theme is the change of living conditions in communities dependent on forms of employment which are becoming obsolete (cf. ibid. 96-109), as in Abi Morgan’s Skinned (1998), set in a slaughterhouse, Michael Wynne’s The People Are Friendly (2002) and Richard Bean’s Under the Whaleback (2003), set in the shipyards and the fishing industry in Northern England, and Lee Hall’s depiction of the demise of the mining industry in the musical Billy Elliot (2005; based on the 2000 film). The council estate play, in turn, engages with social housing and the receding welfare state, as in Bola Agbaje’s Off the Endz (2010) and Rachel De-lahay’s The Westbridge (2011), which also focus on the connection between ethnic background and poverty (cf. Bell / Beswick). 4 Dispossession and homelessness have been tackled, for example, in Alan Bennett’s The Lady in the Van (1999; adaptation as a feature film in 2015) and Jez Butterworth’s Jerusalem (2009). In the following case study, I am going to discuss an example that brings together the themes of extreme precarity, housing, welfare and social responsibility: Nadia Fall’s Home from 2013. In its adherence to the verbatim tradition - a form that came to prominence in the early 21 st century - Home is part of a movement that sought to represent an ethical stance not just in a play’s content, but also in the modes of its production and reception. Its ways of handling voice, body and space make it a particularly interesting text case for the specific potential of theatre to intervene in public debates on poverty. 4 Kerstin Frank’s essay in this volume discusses council estate plays and the clichés attached to them in more detail. 130 Dorothee Birke 2. Nadia Fall’s Home and the Verbatim Tradition Home is the first play written by Nadia Fall, who made a name for herself mainly as a theatre practitioner at the National Theatre (NT) in London. 5 With an MA in directing from Goldsmith’s University, Fall trained in the director’s programme at the NT , where she was afterwards responsible for a number of major plays. She has been described as part of a younger generation of “hotshot theatre directors” (Mountford). Home , which she wrote and directed (at the National Theatre in 2013 and again in 2014), is based on a corpus of over 30 hours of interviews that Fall conducted in 2012 / 13 at a shelter for homeless young people in East London. Fall is explicit about her belief in the political power of the theatre: “I want to make work which says something about the world, and, in however small a way, tries to change it. I do have opinions and I want to share them” (Tripney). In an introduction to the published script of Home , she explicitly takes a stance against the behavioural view of poverty, describing the play as a reaction to the ‘Broken Britain’ and ‘underclass’ rhetoric in the aftermath of the 2011 riots: The media and politicians were quick to portray these young people as feral creatures, wild and almost sub-human. […] We both [Fall and her friend and collaborator Esta Orchard] felt more and more eager to create a piece of theatre that gave young people a voice. (Fall 6) By focussing on young people threatened by homelessness, Home confronts an extreme manifestation of deprivation and precarity. Nonetheless, the title cannot be read merely as an ironic comment on the lack of home. Rather, ‘home’ becomes a leitmotif through which poverty as a private experience and as a political problem are explored and set into relation with each other. The beginning of the play stages explicit discussions about home as an ideal, as the residents give different answers to a question that is not explicitly asked on stage, but that can easily be inferred: YOUNG MUM . Umm … I know it’s a bit cliché but everyone says you know, ‘home is where the heart is’ and that’s kinda what I think as well, wherever you’re comfortable, you feel like you know that you can relax and you don’t have to worry or anything […]. […] SINGING BOY . My mum’s house really … I don’t feel this is my home yet. […] 5 I am grateful to the National Theatre for granting me access to their video recording of a performance, as well as the stage manager’s book, including rehearsal notes, props list, stage plan and costume bible. The following analyses are based on the published drama script and these materials. Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 131 ASIAN YOUNG MUM . To me home is a place where you’re feeling safe, feeling happy …. Or it just becomes a house if you not happy where you are … it’s just … a house. (14) Clearly, home stands for having a spatial anchor point and a central component of material security, but also for a sense of having stable relationships and civic status (see Birke / Butter on the different dimensions of ‘home’). In the play, the focus on ‘home’ becomes an analytical tool to explore the relation between material and social wellbeing, and the different facets of precarity the poor are exposed to. By exploring the emotional and relational as well as the spatial and material aspects of home in the interview format, the play prompts its audience to reflect on their own answers to the question: “What does home mean to you? ” It thus appeals to a sense of shared humanity. In making real-life interviews the basis of her script, Fall turns to the genre of verbatim theatre and thus aligns herself with a larger tendency towards documentary forms in European and Anglophone theatre from the 1990s onwards. Verbatim theatre can be defined as “a theatre whose practitioners, if called to account, could provide interviewed sources for its dialogue, in the manner that a journalist must, according to the code of ethics, have sources for a story” (Luckhurst 201). 6 From its early days, verbatim theatre has been perceived as having the potential to “make important socio-political interventions by projecting voices and opinions which otherwise go unheard into a public arena” (ibid.) - a focus that makes the form an obvious choice for Fall’s project. In her discussion of the development of British verbatim theatre since the turn of the millennium, Cyrielle Garson distinguishes two tendencies with opposing “aesthetic strategies” (178). ‘Engaged theatre’, such as Richard Norton-Taylor’s tribunal play Justifying War: Scenes from the Hutton Inquiry (2004), foregrounds its documentary claims by paring down elements that could be regarded as aestheticisation, and by exhibiting its documentary credentials. It also puts forward an identifiable cause for which the audience is enlisted (cf. Garson 180 f.). By contrast, Garson also posits (but does not explicitly label) a more aestheticised type of verbatim theatre - exemplified by plays like Alecky Blythe’s London Road - that combine documentarism with features that highlight dramatisation and stylisation (cf. Garson 187). These plays are more self-conscious about their 6 The term ‘verbatim theatre’ was introduced by Paget in 1987 and is mainly used in the UK. In the US, where this type of play was popularized by Anna Deavere Smith in the early 1990s, it is usually referred to more broadly as ‘documentary theatre’. Prominent examples in Britain include Alecky Blythe’s London Road (2011), Richard Norton-Taylor’s The Colour of Justice (1999), Tanika Gupta’s Gladiator Games (2005), David Hare’s The Permanent Way (2003), and Robin Soans’ A State Affair (2000). 132 Dorothee Birke own status as artifice and less clearly committed to a specific political or social cause. Home , I would argue, falls somewhere in the middle of this spectrum between the “self-imposed austerity” (Paola Botham, quoted in Garson 180) of engaged theatre and the more playful, aestheticised variant of the verbatim tradition. There is certainly, as Fall’s introduction already signals, an earnest and straightforward commitment to the idea of giving a voice to the marginalised. The voices recorded and re-staged in Fall’s play belong to twelve residents and three employees of the East London homeless shelter, whose real name is changed to “Target” in the play (just as the names of the interviewees are withheld to protect their identities). The bulk of the play is dedicated to the opinions and stories of the residents, who talk about their backgrounds and their daily life at the centre. These are mainly sympathetic portraits which feature many details about the hardships the interviewees faced in the past, the help but also the challenges they encounter at the centre, and their hopes and aspirations for the future. From the points of view of a large cast of characters - such as “Asian Young Mum, a British-Bengali teenager”, “Singing Boy, a slight mixedrace teenager”, “Garden Boy, a young white man, born and bred in East London” and “Eritrean Girl, a petite recent refugee from Eritrea” - the play addresses many of the issues at the centre of ‘Broken Britain’ debates, such as teenage pregnancy, unemployment, multiculturalism and racism, immigration, broken families and violence against women. By putting strong emphasis on ethnic and gender diversity, Home explores some of the relations between class / economic status, race / ethnic background and gender as possible factors in the characters’ experiences of marginalisation. The play’s performance aesthetics also largely accord with ‘engaged theatre’. The script does not call for many special effects in terms of lighting or stage setting - the whole play is set in the common rooms of the shelter, which in the original production is sparsely indicated by a few chairs, a table and a backdrop. The original performance space at the National Theatre, the temporary studio venue ‘The Shed’, lent the production a more informal character, with the audience seated close to the performers on three sides of the thrust stage. 7 This contributes to the sense that Home is a rough and ready reflection of a ‘slice of life’ - an impression that is also reinforced by the play’s episodic character, the fact that it draws its dramatic effect from the evocation of different points of view in the interviews rather than an action-oriented plot. 7 This is illustrated by the description in The Guardian : “Basic scaffolding balustrades and cord netting, simple bulkhead lamps and festooned builder’s lights add to the provisional construction-site aesthetic - in line with the more experimental productions the space will be hosting” (Wainwright). Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 133 However, the play also has dimensions that bring it closer to the experimental artifice Garson describes in her London Road case study. Probably the most conspicuous of these elements is the use of music. Like Blythe, whose play was a big success at the NT just two years previously, Fall combines the form of verbatim with that of the musical. For example, in the second scene, Bullet, “a young black man” (10), alternates between spoken dialogue and song to express what ‘home’ means to him, and is eventually joined in a chorus by the other residents in the number “I’m longing for those keys”. While the scene starts out as a quasi-documentary reproduction of an interview, staging a conversation that may have taken place in a very similar manner in the London homeless shelter, it now shifts gears, emphasising the performative dimensions of the acting. The songs add an emotional layer to the characterisation and give the actors a range of expression beyond the more restrained surface of the interviews, amplifying different moods - for example, in Eritrean Girl’s “O Lord, are you walking with me? ” or Garden Boy’s “Waiting for a Change”. At the same time, a big difference between Home and London Road as amalgamations of verbatim and musical is that the music in Home appears as more ‘naturally’ integrated into the story. London Road resembles a classical musical insofar as the music is part of the mode of presentation or form rather than the world of the story that is being told: there is no attempt to explain why the characters at certain points in the play break into song. Moreover, Blythe and her collaborator, the composer Adam Cork, went to great lengths to find a new way of translating patterns of natural speech into rhythm and harmony in the songs, in which “speech rhythms would be captured and contained, frozen and fossilized” (Cork ix). An emphasis on the transformation of the ‘natural’ to ‘artifice’ is thus central to the aesthetics of London Road . By contrast, the distancing effect of the transition from spoken dialogue to song is less pronounced in Home , where the musical performance is to some extent integrated into the action. Right at the beginning of the play, the first interview is with the character Singing Boy, who talks about the significance singing has for his life and then performs Beyonce’s “Halo”. Even though most of the songs in the rest of the play are not motivated in the same way and thus do generate a greater sense of artificiality, Singing Boy’s view of music lays a baseline for an interpretation of the music performances: “[E]very song I sing has to have meaning behind it and I feel that with every song I sing I’m here for a purpose […] to show the world … I was born.” (13) Music in the play, then, is for one thing a means to explore the characters’ emotions - but the musical performances can also be seen as assertions of a dignity, creativity and skill that are often missing from the medial representations of the ‘feral underclass’ or teenage ‘chavs’. 134 Dorothee Birke This point is strengthened by the fact that music in Home is clearly inspired by popular and youth culture. In part, it was produced by the R&B musician and composer Shakka, who also participated as an actor for the part of Bullet. The British beatboxing champion Grace Savage, in turn, played Jade, a character who does not talk but expresses her sentiments through sound - as Fall explains in an interview, an amalgamation of the impressions of those residents at the centre who did not want to be interviewed (Geoghegan). These tributes to youth culture and street aesthetics forge a link between the middle-class ideals of high culture the NT traditionally stands for on the one hand and less canonised and officially sanctioned areas of culture on the other, and thereby can be seen as another way of mediating between different age groups as well as strata of society. 3. Beyond ‘Poverty Porn’ Not least because of its documentary claims, verbatim theatre opens itself up to ethical criticism concerning its modes of production and reception. First of all, there is the question whether and how the playwright as an interviewer can transcend her or his subjective position and avoid a biased presentation of the material. Secondly, there is the concern that there could be an aspect of exploitation in using the experiences of others for one’s own artistic project, especially if it has a commercial dimension. A parallel concern, thirdly, can be raised about the reception a show invites: are there elements that seem designed to encourage superior, self-congratulatory or prurient stances towards the people who are represented? The last two issues, in particular, are exacerbated by a disparity of the economic and social status of the interviewed and the interviewer (and also the audience). Both questions are also central to those debates about representations of poverty that revolve around the catchphrase ‘poverty porn’ - a term used to criticise representations of the poor that are seen as “pandering to prurience by stressing the viewer’s distance from the scenes represented and by facilitating an unethical passivity before representations which are framed and marketed as entertainment” (Hester 208). The accusation of ‘poverty porn’ has most prominently been levelled against documentary TV programmes such as the already-mentioned Benefits Street (2014) and Skint (2013-15) on Channel 4, both focussing on the daily lives of people who receive unemployment benefits. To characterise Home as ‘poverty porn’ would be a stretch - clearly, its aesthetics are designed to work against the “objectifying gaze” that Heinz (86 f.) describes as the defining feature of programmes like Benefits Street , making it “possible for the viewer to lean back” and be fascinated as well as scandalised by the glimpses of “‘these people’s’ improper homes and lives”. Nonetheless, there is a disparity between the eco- Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 135 nomic and social status of the middle-class playwright and the presumably fairly well-to-do NT audience on the one hand, and that of the interviewees who are depicted in the play on the other. 8 This disparity is not fundamentally analysed or attacked in the play, but neither is it glossed over or, as in poverty porn, emphasised in order to make the audience feel superior. Instead, I would argue, the play to some extent self-reflexively explores the relationship between those who are represented, the interviewer / playwright, and the audience. This self-reflexive exploration or probing of real-world relations primarily hinges on the theme of distance versus proximity, which is introduced mainly through the play’s setting and through the way in which the interview situation is incorporated into its structure. In the script, the introduction of the play’s mise-en-scene addresses both these aspects: An anonymous inner-city high rise, London. A YOUNG WOMAN has her mobile phone to her ear and is pushing a baby in a buggy back and forth at the foot of the tower block. An OLDER WOMAN is having a cigarette, shivering. Two YOUNG MEN are milling about on the concrete. At pressing a metal button you are buzzed in through the main-entrance door. You notice the glass in the door is cracked and that an argument has kicked off between the boys outside. A poker-faced SECURITY GUARD asks you who you are here to see. (11, my emphasis) The unusual reference to ‘you’ in the script can be compared to the use of the second person in experimental narrative fiction, in which the pronoun refers to a protagonist in the fiction (cf. Fludernik): ‘you’ is the interviewer entering the centre. In performance, this interviewer is not presented on stage, but implied by the other characters’ behaviour: they show her around, answer her questions etc. In this way, the function of the playwright as an ethnographer, an outsider whose presence has an impact on the interviewees’ behaviour, is highlighted. Moreover, as explained in a “Note on the Text”, the “interviewer […] becomes the audience throughout” (10), so that ‘you’ is also related to the viewers. The actors connect with the theatre audience through body language and eye contact - in the NT performance, this was facilitated through the comparable intimacy of the space at ‘The Shed’, which allowed actors to sometimes address the audience in general and sometimes especially focus on individual audience 8 The production bible documents that Fall and the company and team were aware of the potentially exclusionary character of the theatre as a media space: they discussed staging an extra performance for the residents and staff of the shelter, in a relaxed atmosphere that would allow the young mothers to bring their children, and they also talked about the possibility of covering travel costs for the interviewees to make it possible for them to come. The special performance took place on 5 September 2013 (whether the travel costs were in fact reimbursed is not documented). 136 Dorothee Birke members. This mode of audience address not only suggests similarities between the playwright’s and the recipient’s positions and thus arguably invites reflections on privilege. It also creates the impression of a direct, personal appeal from human (resident interviewee) to human (interviewer / audience). At the same time the incorporation of this appeal into the fictionalised interviewer-interviewee plot cushions its potentially confrontational and uncomfortable effect. The themes of distance and proximity are also evoked by the way in which the introduction of the mise-en-scene in the script highlights the unhomely aspects of the Target centre as an environment that is strange to the viewer. In the NT production, the function of this stage direction was fulfilled by pre-show activities: the lobby was set up as a transitional space, decorated with details like “mugshots of people who are not allowed to enter Target” (rehearsal notes 22 July 2013) and populated by some company members in character, two of whom were instructed to stage a “brief altercation”: “Not violent movement, but will be disconcerting for anybody around them, and will include swearing” (rehearsal notes 29 July 2013). These elements accord with the postdramatic trend of situating theatre beyond the clearly marked space of the stage (cf. Garde 178) and thus encourage reflections on the relation between the audience’s daily lives and the lives of those represented in the play. In conjunction with the play’s documentary aspects, the way in which it stages space highlights, on the one hand, that the living conditions and experiences represented on stage are reality only a few kilometres away in the same city. On the other hand, it simultaneously underscores the alienating character of this ‘disconcerting’ environment. The centre is presented as defined by disarray (the broken glass), violence (the arguments), idleness (the people who are loitering in the entrance) and lack of communal spirit (the ‘anonymous’ high rise). It may be argued that these are precisely the qualities that dominate the problematic contemporary imagery of the council estate as a cosmos removed from ‘proper’ society, which, as Jones points out, has come to epitomise “prejudices about poverty and unemployment” (206). It is also true that Home - like other representations that overall seem to be designed to complicate or counter the ‘feral underclass’ cliché - does feature many other elements that have become part of the ‘poverty porn’ imaginary, from teenage pregnancy to violence to racism. 9 However, this evocation of well-rehearsed stereotypes is only the point of departure for the play. In its staging of an encounter between the Target residents and the audience, Home questions the notion of separate life-worlds or spheres of experience that is evoked by more voyeuristic kinds 9 See e. g. the discussions of the handling of such stereotypes in Shameless (Creeber) and Off the Endz (Beswick). Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 137 of representation. Another important point is that through its emphasis on personal portraits of the residents as individuals, the play foregrounds individual differences rather than positing a distinct ‘underclass’ experience. Thirdly, and maybe most importantly, the centre is not represented as a ‘home’ for its residents in the sense that it reflects character flaws or choices on their part. It is made clear time and again that the characters have only very limited control over their surroundings. The centre offers them a place to sleep and keep their things as well as help in getting back on their feet. It also provides some degree of security, but at the same time the institutional setting imposes restrictions, for example rules on visiting hours and procedures. 10 There is a certain sense of commonality, which is accentuated especially by the weekly “breakfast club” (14), where all residents meet. However, the play does not give a sense of a close-knit community or family-like structures. Instead, it suggests that because of their precarious positions and their transitional status, the residents are lone fighters, each with his or her own set of problems. Rather than representing a community that is falling apart, the play stages a temporary grouping of people who have not had the opportunity to integrate into a community in the first place, but who are trying to make the best of their situations. Moreover, even though some of the residents are shown as having a hard time in handling their own affairs, none of them come across as scroungers who are out to take advantage of the system. While it is not a comfortable or inviting space, the Target hostel itself is represented as a last stronghold of the welfare state: a place that can provide some relief to those who are most vulnerable, while at the same time being itself in a precarious position. Explicit criticism of cuts in welfare funding and the long-term policy of reducing public housing support is voiced by the social worker Sharon: [T]here’s been rumours that they’re gonna close Target down … but, you know, from my point of view there isn’t anywhere else really, this building is full all the time […]. [C]ouncil accommodation is just a myth, for me personally you know, I see it. It just doesn’t exist any more. (71) Despite such comments, what Home does not put forward is a more sustained criticism of policy, or a call to rebel against an unfair distribution of wealth and opportunities. The clearest appeal to action directed to the individual audience member is not about challenging the system, but giving money to charity - the 10 “YOUNG MUM. The front desk yeah, when you come here um, you need to have a resident sign you in, you need a photo ID with your name and a clear picture, or else our lovely security guard’s not gonna sign you in, it’s fact, that’s the rules um” (32). 138 Dorothee Birke programme for the original NT production featured a profile on the organisation “Kid’s Company”, including the charity number and the website. While on the one hand, this prompts the viewer to translate the play’s message about poverty into action, on the other hand it is striking that this action is actually in line with David Cameron’s evocation of the ‘Big Society’ with its privatisation of welfare. The focus on the characters’ individual quests for different ideals of home, in fact, in some ways limits the play’s political potential. While Home does not romanticise these efforts by suggesting brilliant success rates, it does foreground one trajectory with a happy ending of sorts: Singing Boy at the end of the play manages to secure a contract and move out of the centre. On the one hand, this contributes to celebrating the agency and resilience of many of the characters, who are on the whole represented as motivated and willing to make big efforts in order to achieve their dreams. On the other hand, the theme of the home as an individual dream for which the characters need to work could be seen as uncomfortably close to the ‘rugged individualism’ view of social success that is the corollary of the behavioural view of poverty the play otherwise criticises. 4. Conclusion In her introductory article to the verbatim tradition, Mary Luckhurst takes an optimistic view of the genre: “What verbatim theatre seems to represent is the importance of alternative stories, which symbolize the way that it is still possible for the mechanisms of democracy to function.” (216) Home is clearly invested in presenting a sympathetic and differentiated image of the current situation of the young Londoners living in extreme precarity by giving a stage to their “alternative stories”. The inclusion of musical elements adds an emotional dimension and serves to foreground the creativity and dignity of the characters. The focus on the theme of ‘home’ to evoke the kinship between audience and those portrayed on the stage can itself be described as ‘political’ insofar as it contributes to countering the tendency towards the “demonization” ( Jones) of the poor as “feral creatures” (Fall). However, in some ways the emphasis on the search for home as a universal human experience overshadows a more specific exploration of the systemic factors, the social mechanisms and policies that shape the dire situation of the characters. At the same time, the play’s take on audience address and setting is a self-reflexive move. It acknowledges the distance between the interviewees, the ethnographical playwright and the audience, and thus serves to explore the limits and problems with theatrical representation as a social equality project. But it also reflects a belief in verbatim theatre’s ability to overcome distance, to forge special connections between theatre and community, in its production as well as in its reception. Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 139 Home , then, is particularly illustrative of contemporary drama’s special potential to contribute to the controversial debates about poverty. The play both harnesses and critically explores the promise of the verbatim genre to give a public forum to experiences that are marginalised or disparaged in mainstream media. In the medium of theatre, this ‘talking back’ entails more than just voices, or points of view. The presence of the actors on stage, channelling real-life encounters, puts the focus on the body, making tangible the effect of economic and social exclusion on the fundamental modes of existence and evoking shared humanity. In its exploration of spatial relations, Home is a good illustration of theatre’s special capacity to explode the wide-spread tendency to distance poverty. By making the negotiation of the space of the represented, the space of the performance, and the space of the audience a central issue, the play arranges a bodily encounter with the other - not as an extraordinary event, but as a process in which we are already implicated every day. Bibliography Primary Sources Blythe, Alecky. London Road . 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Abject Whites, Neoliberal Modernisation, and Middle-Class Multiculturalism.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 19 (2001): 351-70. Heinz, Sarah. “Unhomely Spaces and Improper Houses: Representations of Whiteness and Class on British Television.” Anglistentag 2015 Paderborn: Proceedings . Eds. Christoph Ehland et al. Trier: WVT , 2016. 77-88. Hester, Helen. “Weaponizing Prurience.” Narrating Poverty and Precarity in Britain . Eds. Barbara Korte and Frédéric Regard. Berlin, Boston: de Gruyter, 2014. 205-24. Jessop, Bob. “New Labour or the Normalization of Neo-Liberalism.” British Politics 2.3 (2007): 282-8. Jones, Owen. Chavs: The Demonization of the Working Class . London: Verso, 2011. Kellner, Douglas. Media Spectacle and Insurrection 2011: From the Arab Uprisings to Occupy Everywhere . New York, London: Bloomsbury, 2012. Kleeberg, Bernhard. “Animalische Gewohnheit und soziale Frage: Kommentar zu James Phillips Kay.” Schlechte Angewohnheiten: Eine Anthologie, 1750-1900 . 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Mountford, Fiona. “The National’s Treasures: Nadia Fall and Polly Findlay Interview.” The Independent. 3 January 2015. http: / / www.independent.co.uk/ arts-entertainment/ theatre-dance/ features/ the-nationals-treasures-nadia-fall-and-polly-findlay-interview-9955074.html. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Niemitz, Kristian. “Poverty in Britain, Past and Present.” Economic Affairs 29.4 (2009): 48-54. Paget, Derek. “‘Verbatim Theatre’: Oral History and Documentary Techniques.” New Theatre Quarterly 3.12 (1987): 317-36. Sandage, Scott A. Born Losers: A History of Failure in America . Cambridge, MA : Harvard UP , 2006. Slater, Tom. “The Myth of ‘Broken Britain’: Welfare Reform and the Production of Ignorance.” Antipode 46.4 (2012): 948-69. Tripney, Natasha. “Nadia Fall: ‘I want to make work that has an opinion”.” The Stage . 22 August 2015. https: / / www.thestage.co.uk/ features/ interviews/ 2015/ nadia-fall-iwant-to-make-work-that-has-an-opinion/ . Accessed on 29 March 2017. Wainwright, Oliver. “The National Theatre’s Pop-Up Shed is a Model for the South Bank’s Future.” The Guardian . 16 April 2013. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ artanddesign/ architecture-design-blog/ 2013/ apr/ 16/ national-theatre-shed-south-bank. Accessed on 29 March 2017. Zipp, Georg. “Life on the Streets: Parallactic Ways of Seeing Homelessness in John Berger’s King: A Street Story (1999).” Narrating Poverty and Precarity in Britain . Eds. Barbara Korte and Frédéric Regard. Berlin, Boston: de Gruyter, 2014. 167-85. The ‘Underclass’ Talks Back: Poverty and Homelessness in Nadia Fall’s Home (2013) 143 III. Science and Technology Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 145 Data Streams, Post-Human Lives, and (Virtual) Realities: Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) Christine Schwanecke “Back and forth, words and words and words tumbling like dust in a desert. Making a shape. Building a picture. Pulling us this way, that way.” (Horne, Gorgeous Avatar , 53) 1. The Information Age in British Drama and Theatre “Words and words and words” - just like Hamlet, Rafi, a character in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006), muses on an excess of words. In contrast to Hamlet’s “words, words, words”, Rafi’s soliloquy has to be placed in the context of the information age. This age is characterised by an even greater abundance of data than was imaginable 400 years ago, in Renaissance times. Clad in words, numbers, and codes, today’s data are conglomerated by digital means; they are stored in clouds and flow in whole data streams, the abundance of which is hard to process and grasp for an individual human being. Even more than Hamlet, contemporary humans are likely to feel the meaninglessness of collected, ungraspable information and its squaring in data streams (data move ‘back and forth’, leaving their recipients without any sense of direction, progress, or result). They must feel as forlorn as Rafi, who has the sensation of being ‘pulled’ into different directions by ‘tumbling’ data, i. e., data streams that never stop and whose sheer all-encompassing presence reminds him of the omnipresence of dust in a desert. Rafi’s problematisation of data streams starkly contrasts with the current celebrations of big data by Silicon Valley people. The CEO s of companies such as Google, Apple or Facebook usually advertise the virtues of new products in live promotions, which have the character of performances, and in online-statements. Facebook-founder Mark Zuckerberg, for example, has repeatedly praised the ‘brave new world’ that his network, which devours large sums of personal data, has helped to build. In an open letter which was posted on 1 February 2017 (actually, this is his 2012 “Founder’s Letter”, which was actualised as a reaction on Donald Trump’s isolationistic politics), Zuckerberg states Facebook’s “social mission”: namely, “to make the world more open and connected” (Zuckerberg; 146 Christine Schwanecke cf. also Isaac). That this openness and connectivity as well as the collection of big data also has its drawbacks is often ignored by those who hail the undeniably democratic and inclusive potential of social networks that aim at building a “global community that works for everyone” (Zuckerberg). However, there are exceptions from the rule - with information scientists like Jaron Lanier. As one of the ‘fathers’ of the internet, he has come to enliven the social debate around digital data by criticising the gratuitous accumulation of large amounts of information by companies like Zuckerberg’s. In his Who Owns the Future (2013), Lanier assesses the - economically, personally, and socially - fatal concentration of information, money and power by digital networks and global online companies. Despite the fact that his book already suggests a vast number of insightful revelations on the idea and effects of open source publishing and big data, Lanier’s ideas have only become popular when it was awarded the ‘Friedenspreis des Deutschen Buchhandels’ in 2014. After this, his work was widely discussed: on the internet, the radio, and in daily papers, i. e. in mass media that have contributed to break down his general argument into easily digestible chunks for the public. Journalists have advertised his insight that the internet is not just an innocent and democratic space, but also - and even predominantly - “a particular construct of power, money and technical decisions” (Kane). Thus, the coverage of Lanier’s internet criticism by popular media has helped making the information scientist’s arguments part of a larger social debate in both the USA and Europe. Here, and more specifically in Germany, Harald Welzer, the enfant terrible of sociology, has succeeded in popularising the notion of the blooming data cultures as ‘tyrannies’ and ‘attempts on people’s freedom’ (cf. Soboczynski) with his bold but brilliant theses, which he promotes in books (cf. Welzer) and in radio as well as newspaper interviews. The problems and virtues of the information age, which are brought about by information in the form of digital data and their squaring in data streams, and voiced in the above mentioned social debates, have not stopped short of British drama and theatre. New media, the digital, the internet and its data streams are not only invading our 20 th and 21 st -century everyday lives and popular culture but also traditional, arguably ‘high-brow’ art forms, like conventional drama and theatre as well as post-dramatic performances. As Dagmar Kase and Leslie A. Wade testify with their respective articles, theatre has witnessed a “digital turn” (Wade 55) and has become “mediatized” (ibid.; cf. also Neumann). Two current trends have become particularly evident: the digital informs both staging and playwriting. Firstly, there is multi-media theatre, which incorporates the newest digital technologies. Directors as well as performers use the internet as a live-broadcast tool (cf. Kase 72) or make use of digital recordings and online downloads in contemporary stagings of canonical plays (Wade refers to, Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 147 e. g., J. B. Priestley’s 1937 play Time and the Conways ). Secondly, there are plays and performances that address digitalisation and the socio-cultural changes it has brought about. Playwrights seem to immerse themselves more and more in a negotiation of what it means to be human or post-human in the age of the internet and big data (Wade 55), the age of the ‘quantification of selves’ (cf. Danter / Reichardt / Schober). In this age, humans increasingly define themselves or are defined by the data they leave behind on the internet. Furthermore, the data streams between those humans have become substitutes for their personal relationships. The discussions of these phenomena on stage seem to be part of a movement which Martin Middeke, Peter Paul Schnierer, and Aleks Sierz identified in 2011: the phenomenological drama of the late 20 th and early 21 st century, which presents “the conflicts between the real and the imaginary” (Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz xxii). These conflicts have been increasingly staged in reference to digital data and extended to include the struggle between what it means to lead human and digital lives. Analysing Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) in the present article, I will exemplify this second trend in British drama. I will explore how Horne processes the existence of data streams, post-human lives, and (virtual) realities by way of her play. Before this analysis, however, I will put this play into its defining contexts: the context of Horne’s own work and the context of other plays that investigate human relations by exploiting the information age and its excess of digital data, flowing from user to user in data streams. 2. Jules Horne as a Writer of the Information Age and ‘Information Age Plays’ Born in 1963, Jules Horne herself is arguably a writer of the information age; with her art, she moves freely between various media and - partially experimental - analogue and digital genres. Of course, she has also written stage plays. Among these are three commissioned plays for the Nutshell Theatre, a Scottish house that stages both new and established work in settings beyond conventional theatre spaces, such as church halls or allotments. The first two plays of this trilogy ( Allotment , 2011, and Thread , 2014) won Fringe First Awards at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Besides writing several radio dramas for BBC radio, one of which makes use of the possibilities of digital recording techniques and adds original ‘vox pops’, i. e., short interviews with ordinary people from the street, to a scripted romantic comedy ( Life: An Audio Tour , 2008), Horne has experimented with very short stories, so-called ‘ultra-short stories’ or ‘nanonovels’. Each story was begotten by way of a quick glance into a random book and the browsing of a webpage (Horne, Nanonovels , xi-xiii; 159-62). The 148 Christine Schwanecke resulting collection of 150 brief stories has not only appeared in print but also on webpages, and, as the author notes on her homepage, reflects a simultaneously challenging and intriguing feature of the medium in which it appears: its ephemerality (Horne, Jules Horne ). Just like the medial hardware Horne uses, the majority of her work is characterised by the combination of novelty and timelessness. In her dramatic work, current issues come together with timeless, phenomenological questions: Allotment , for instance, merges questions of ecology and sustainability with the classic story of rivalry between siblings (ibid.); in Gorgeous Avatar , she joins current matters of quantification with the ageless issue of human relations. Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar is part of a body of plays that have come up since the rise of the internet in the 1990s. And they are not only born of the cultural context of the information age; they also make use of this context by addressing data streams, post-human lives and loves as well as virtual realities. They do this not necessarily by making the digital their main topic. Many playwrights mention the new technologies in passing, such as Patrick Marber in his play Closer (2004), in which two of his characters have online sex, or Alan Ayckbourn in his Comic Potential (1998), in which the author philosophises on the characteristics and consequences of artificial intelligence. Plays like these bear witness to the new realities, practices, and rituals that have emerged since the last decade of the 20 th century, in which the digital has become a substantial part of everyday life and, hence, of the dramatic settings of plays set in the present. At the same time, there are plays which are more notably ‘plays of the information age’. Even if digital phenomena have not (yet) given rise to a conventionalised new genre, these works make pointed use of the digital turn. Alan Ayckbourn’s Virtual Reality (2000) comes to mind, in which the main character, Alex, has invented ‘Viewdows’, screens which offer a virtually generated view where there is none (cf. Billington); or Situation Rooms by the performance collective ‘Rimini Protokoll’ (2013). These plays not only refer to the United States’ heart of digital intelligence, which is situated in the White House (i. e. its situation room); they also reveal and discuss the hidden, but globally working data streams. Gorgeous Avatar arguably belongs to the latter kind of dramatic work in that it discusses different emanations and effects of the ‘digital turn’ in detail. In the following, I will ask what these emanations and effects are and how they bear on the structure of modern relationships in Horne’s play. Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 149 3. Intertwining and Concurring Realities in Gorgeous Avatar With Gorgeous Avatar , Jules Horne investigates a triangle of phenomena brought about by the digital turn: data streams, post-human lives, and (virtual) realities. As the author shows, the interplay between these matters has had a profound impact on life as it used to be. What exactly has changed and how this is dramatically presented will be explored after a brief sketch of the drama’s plot. The two-act play revolves around the lives of Amy and her neighbours, Dan and Rose, who live in a remote Scottish village. While Dan and Rose are preparing a (fake) home-improvement video with a digital camera, agoraphobic and housebound Amy is waiting for her American online romance, Rafi, to meet her for the first time; he is to visit her in her cottage. While sitting at her computer in act one working and waiting, she imagines three different scenarios of his arrival. In act two, Rafi actually turns up and things turn out to be totally different than expected. By means of her plot, the author stages a state of affairs in which the digital has entered into a complicated relationship with life beyond personal computers. Online realities seem to have permeated and sometimes even substituted lives beyond the digital world - ‘real’ lives. This becomes especially evident if one has a look at the play’s spatial set-up and Amy’s character conception. Spatially, Gorgeous Avatar is characterised by intense ambiguities. On the one hand, it features a double spatial stasis (the setting is static, like the main character, as I will show below), and the setting can be described as local and rural; on the other hand, despite this spatial stasis, there is movement in that there is an invasion of the local by the global. The presence and simultaneity of two different but intertwining spatial realities, which has become especially obvious with the digital turn, has come to be termed ‘glocal’ (first in economic studies, then in cultural studies; cf. Reichardt 57, 107). In Gorgeous Avatar , the ‘glocal’ becomes manifest thus: Firstly, the whole play is set in Amy’s living room, which is, as background noises and comments by other characters make clear, situated in an old cottage that must be located in a very remote, rural landscape. Secondly, and in contrast to conventional drawing-room plays, in which the central room is usually astir with the comings and goings of characters (classics like some of Oscar Wilde’s and Noël Coward’s work come to mind), there is also stasis in the main character’s body: throughout the presented time, Amy never leaves her living room. In addition, she is sitting most of the time - at her computer (cf. Horne, Gorgeous Avatar , e. g., 10, 20, 26, 35, 38). 1 The play’s spatial ambiguity and ‘glocality’ hence hinges on the presence of Amy’s computer in her 1 All single numbers in brackets which will follow hereafter refer to Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar. 150 Christine Schwanecke living room and the semantic supremacy it is endowed with. As setting and sound show, the computer, and with it potential relations to the outside and the worldwide net, has permeated every inch of Amy’s life. By way of her PC , the exterior and the global constantly seeps into the static local set-up of the ‘real’ life of the agoraphobic character. Right in the beginning, the secondary text reads, “[e]arly morning. A run-down cottage with a computer. […] Sound: quiet cows, sheep. A computer boots up and beeps” (7). Here, the epitome of English nature and rurality - cows quietly lowing - meets the epitome of the modern, digitally immersed individual - someone who is constantly linked to other people, potentially all across the world, and who is introduced in absence by a booting computer. A ‘normal’ day in the countryside after the digital turn begins, unlike days used to begin, not only with animal sounds but also with technological reverberations. With this spatial and acoustic dichotomy, Horne already insinuates what will come clearly to the fore somewhat later in the play: Amy’s life is a palimpsest made up of intertwining and overlapping layers of analogue and virtual realities. While Horne correlates the local to the analogue, she links the global to Amy’s virtual life. This simple equation is complicated when what used to be neatly separated (the virtual and the real; far away, online relationships and physically close, real people) becomes fused through Rafi’s visit. Through the explicit characterisations by her fellow characters, it is established that Amy actually leads an isolated, locally bound life: “[Amy] only has the one scene. It’s the one outside the window. That field. The hills, the horses. All framed. […] She never goes beyond the garden.” (54) In her actual life, the main character cannot “handle” life beyond the garden (ibid.). She seems to be not just locked in her house but also in herself; she has become rusty in what concerns normal, social interaction with other beings. Amy’s only real-life contacts are her neighbours, Rose and Dan, and their presence in her house is sometimes experienced as invasive. Declarations such as “[i]t’s my house” and “[i]t’s my carpet” (55, emphasis in original) and refusals to talk to her neighbours (35) show that the protagonist feels the need to (re-)establish the boundaries of her personal, domestic life to keep the ‘intruders’ in check. She even keeps her employer, Michel Lièvre, at a distance, which is even easier to do. Lièvre, for whom she is struggling to write a Paris tour guide in English, is based in another country - France (she talks about “the Paris contract”; 8). When he calls, Amy simply does not answer the phone (13 f.). In the complicated palimpsest of different layers of realities that make up her life, Amy likes to keep her distance from those people, places, and situations that are physically tangible. She feels most comfortable within the boundaries she has imposed on herself. Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 151 While Amy cannot handle real life and real people, who, even when they are far away or kept at bay, she experiences as intrusive, she is much more at ease with her computer-bound life. Through this virtual reality, her life becomes ‘glocal’ in that she invites the world into her house. The digital and virtual means enable her, metaphorically and literally speaking, to be international and somewhat mobile within her rural, local, motionless life; goods, people, and her work come to her most private space, her living room. Amy not only has a French employer; she also feels comfortable doing everything online that people used to do in real life before the digital turn. She visits online dating sites (18), has online sex (102 f.), she marries an US American citizen via telephone, and she has an online wedding ceremony on a Mexican website, which makes the marriage legal (86 f.). While real-life people can be uncomfortable and annoying, Amy enjoys the freedom of switching off her computer anytime she wants to and to stop interacting with other people if she does not feel like it. Thus, the protagonist leads a life in which being glocal - and being non-committal concerning being and staying with people, in situations and at certain places - becomes a substantial condition, and in which virtual realities are much more in accord with people’s desires and needs than the actual reality. Even though the facts of Amy’s life seem to create an unlikely and unrealistic scenario, making the plot seem somewhat absurdist, with her character design of Amy Horne exemplifies how old certainties, traditional habits, and assumedly constant social practices have changed with the rise of virtual realities. The playwright implicitly raises the question of how social interaction has changed when the actual, corporeal presence of two or more agents is no longer required in personal communication. Horne even makes this problem explicit with Rose, who is designed antithetically to Amy. When the neighbour learns of the protagonist’s unusual wedding, she states: “Digital this and buttons that and voices in India pretending to be in my kitchen. […] Don’t we have to be anywhere any more? ” (87, emphasis in original) With Rose’s reference to the disembodied voices from Indian call-centres in her home and the character’s uneasiness towards this new, glocal reality, Horne points out how complex realities have become and how hard, for some, it is to cope with them. The ‘not being there’ anymore of human bodies in virtually shaped social interaction, about which Rose has her reservations, is further exemplified in its distorting and bizarre effects. Intimacy, which used to be possible only if people allowed themselves to become - corporeally and emotionally - close to one another, is paradoxically, for people like Amy, just as possible if they keep their distance from each other. This is why, when Amy meets her husband in the flesh for the first time, she feels, as the scene caption puts it, ‘bitten by reality’ (cf. 65); the analogue reality painfully collides with the hopes nurtured by the protagonist’s 152 Christine Schwanecke virtual life. Rafi and Amy’s first meeting is characterised less by a familiarity to be expected in a relationship between spouses than by an awkwardness and foreignness associated with strangers. Amy even pretends to be someone else to keep Rafi at a safe distance - who, in turn, tries to find words to describe this peculiar change of affairs: Everywhere eggshells. I don’t want to alarm you. I’m conscious of the strange … of the fragile nature of the encounter after all these weeks of correspondence, and I’m treading … tiptoeing around, verbally, wondering where all this sudden formality has come from, and wondering - additionally - why you’re pretending to be not Amy when it’s patently obvious you are. And that makes me feel weird […]. (68) Rafi’s pauses and his careful search for the ‘right’ words reveal the complexity which the colliding realities have brought both to the characters’ personal relations and to the self-conceptions of each individual: before Rafi’s arrival, Amy’s real life is steeped in virtuality. When the actual sweeps over the computer-generated reality through Rafi’s arrival, the protagonist does not know how to react and what to do with her body or her emotions; she hides behind an alternative personality, pretending to be a sister of herself (66 f.). What is custom in the virtual world, having an avatar or being somebody else, does not work in ‘real life’ at all. Horne goes even further in her discussion of new realities after the digital turn: in addition to the inadequacy of physical and emotional escapism, Amy’s mental presence suffers in reality. With the omnipresence of computers, concentration on a single task comes to be supplanted more than ever by moments of distraction. Sitting at the computer, Amy does not concentrate on the task at hand. She has to write her Paris guide but, to put it once more along the lines of Rose, Amy ‘ is not there’ (“Don’t we have to be anywhere any more? ”, 87). Instead, as the structure of the play shows, the protagonist adds one more layer to the already complicated, palimpsestic structure of the multiple realities she lives in: her fantasies. In act one, Amy repeatedly imagines Rafi’s arrival (act one, scenes four, seven, and ten). Horne has her do this neither in soliloquies nor in dialogic narrative; on the contrary, the meetings are actually presented as stage encounters. Since the characters materialise immediately in front of the audience, recipients are led to believe they are witnessing a real-life get-together between the protagonists. The fact that the meetings appear as ‘real’ to the audience as they arguably are to Amy is further enhanced by the fact that they are not marked as mental fictions. Consequently, virtual realities and fantasies, i. e. ‘realities of the mind’, compete and collide with actual realities in Gorgeous Avatar : in act one both of the former invade the latter, with which Amy seems to be comfortable; in act two, with Rafi’s arrival, the latter is superimposed on Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 153 both of the former, which seems disconcerting for the play’s characters. Horne’s playing with realities, however, should not be understood as a criticism of the importance of virtual realities in contemporary actual lives nor as a condemnation of those digital natives and computer nerds who prefer online relationships to actual ones because they allegedly never learned or have forgotten how to cope with them. The Scottish playwright’s sketch of concurring realities after the digital turn and its evaluation is more complicated and, thus, more noteworthy than that. By way of addressing today’s online practices, habits, and realities, Horne poses a much broader question: she engages in a philosophical enquiry into the general nature of human reality and interpersonal relationships. Have love and romance not always been a matter of fantasy, belief, and wishful thinking? Confronted with the actual reality of Amy’s virtual wedding, Rose asks, for instance: “Where is the romance in that? ” The protagonist’s answer is definite: “In your head. […] Where it always is.” (87) Horne implicitly contemplates the question if these mental realities, which usually go unacknowledged but which seem to be a substantial part of actual realities, are not exactly the same as virtual realities. A dialogue between Rafi and Amy indicates that this might be the case: RAFI . […] But the way we met - AMY . apart - RAFI . in different places - AMY . the same place - RAFI . a shared / [indication of overlapping dialogue] place - AMY . / [indication of overlapping dialogue] a private place - RAFI . doesn’t make it any less real. (102 f., emphasis in original) Just like spatiality, reality has become complicated in the information age. As Rafi’s and Amy’s stichotomic recounting of their hyperreal online wedding shows (91-4), virtual and mental reality can be just as real, truthful, and emotionally involving as the actual one. Gorgeous Avatar shows, in consequence, that it has to be renegotiated what is real and what is not. If mental and virtual realities have to be re-evaluated and regarded not as fake but as actual realities, what is reality then if not a combination of the mental, virtual, and actual? Has reality not always been an amalgam, even before the invasion of the digital into analogue lives? And if this is the case, where can one draw the line between reality and fantasy, between lie and truth, between existence and non-existence? As Rafi puts it in one of Amy’s fantasies: “You sold me a turkey. You sold yourself a turkey. Because that high-flying […] life of yours ain’t happening. […] Only in your head ma’am. Only in your head.” (53) If one takes the thought of the realness of virtual and mental happenings further and, with this, ad absur- 154 Christine Schwanecke dum , one has to pose the question: is there anything in the actual reality at all? As Amy - just as absurdly - tells one of her mentally construed Rafis: “I hate to tell you this. That place doesn’t exist. The whole of Oklahoma doesn’t exist. You don’t exist.” (52) As Gorgeous Avatar shows, reality has only become more difficult to grasp after the digital turn. The following chapter discusses the equally complicated question of what it means to be human in a time when data seem to have consumed actual identities and bodies. 4. Of Humans and Their Data and Humans as Their Data in Post- Human Lives As Leslie A. Wade has remarked, “[t]he digital turn […] implicates theatre in a discussion of the human and post-human. What is at stake is not just the priority of a stage practice or performance form but vying conceptions of human interconnection” (54 f.). With the present play, Jules Horne certainly also engages in this discussion, presenting and evaluating some of these rivalling conceptions. The problematisation of (virtual) realities in the information age also entails a redefinition of the condition(s) of being a human in digital and virtually-enhanced environments. In this respect, Gorgeous Avatar can be seen as a theatrical visualisation of the fact that, in the historical era of advanced postmodernity, the very notion of ‘the human’ is not only de-stabilized by technologically mediated social relations in a globally connected world, but it is also thrown open to contradictory redefinitions of what exactly counts as human. (Braidotti, “Posthuman”, 197) Amy lives exactly that which Rosi Braidotti’s observation describes as the general conditio humana after the digital turn: instead of having analogue relationships, she cultivates ‘technologically mediated social relations’ via the internet; instead of living locally or in isolation, her computer furthers ‘global connections’ (cf. Section 3). As media uses, cultural practices, and social realities have changed with the digital turn, people like Amy seem to have transformed from conventional human beings into ‘post-human’ beings: at once more and less human. This transformation becomes evident as follows. Digital and technological means help people like Amy to transcend their physical and spatial boundaries. The protagonist can be in two places at once, in front of her computer and at her wedding in a virtual space. She does not even need a body to meet other people - as Amy establishes with Rafi, this is why they have met and they have not met at the same time (41, 67) - or to make people fall in love with her and to fall in love herself: Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 155 RAFI . I fell in love, frankly. […] AMY . So did I. […] RAFI . With what exactly? AMY . With you. […] Or a version of you. (75) In the information age, love and relationships seem to be no longer based on corporeal attraction. That which has defined humans so far and made them distinctive and recognizable to each other, namely, their physical, outer shell, becomes an unimportant feature of human interaction. Even in choosing a potential partner for reproduction - originally part of a seemingly immutable process in human reproduction and evolution - the subconscious, automatic, biologically necessary evaluation of a potential partner’s body has now become unimportant. Human self-presentations on the internet, i. e. ‘versions’ of people’s selves, seem to have become just as significant when people are looking for potential partners. In consequence, the digital age has helped bring about the realisation of a certain noble ideal of romantic love that has been advertised since the Romantic era. Popular fairy tales of an oral tradition like “The Beauty and the Beast”, which was first written down by Gabrielle-Suzanne de Villeneuve in 1740, or plays like Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac (1897) promote the inner value of those who look ghastly or unconventional. In the same manner, novels like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) show the problematic consequences of judging people by their outer appearance. Would Frankenstein’s creature have turned against humans if they had condoned his physical shape? The digital age seems to have absorbed these Romantic ethics - with the seeming effect of making mankind less shallow. When people meet in person, the negligibility of the outer appearance becomes manifest in comments like Rafi’s, who assures Amy: “That you have a body at all is a wonderful bonus […].” (104) With the decline of physical importance in human relationships there seems to be a rise of technology that replaces the actual human body - at least in parts. Having a “modern connection” in Gorgeous Avatar means being connected not by kinetic means (“flesh to flesh”; 41) but by computer keyboards (“[m]ommaboard to poppaboard”; ibid.), which stand metonymically for the hardware and software that help to connect people online. Being post-human, then, paradoxically not only means to be ‘disembodied’ but also to be ‘technologically enhanced’. Man becomes machine-like: the computer functions as a prosthesis to people’s bodies. With their PC s, the socially ‘handicapped’ can still have social contacts, and the agoraphobic can still move in (virtual) space without leaving their home - just like Amy. With this, Horne visualises what Rosi Braidotti has addressed with reference to Donna Haraway’s observations on technoscience, 156 Christine Schwanecke namely, that “new kinds of bodies are being constructed right now” (Braidotti, “Posthuman”, 198; cf. also Braidotti, Posthumanismus , 94-108; Herbrechter 158-69). Digital prostheses are a substantial part of these humans’ bodies, which even the end of Horne’s play illustrates. In the last scene, Amy and Rafi agree to sit down and continue their communication with their imagined keyboards on their laps; they seem to be lost without them. In Horne’s information age, the human body, which has become negligible in analogue human interaction, is extended by machines for virtual social communication. People like Amy become ‘cyborgs’. Like these technologically enhanced organisms, which are familiar from science fiction and which do not ‘work properly’ until their function is restored by artificial means, the socially malfunctioning Amy only ‘works properly’ with technological complements. Amy’s prostheses for social interaction are her computer, the internet, and her online identity. The avatar of the play’s title is Amy’s virtual alter-ego. It replaces her real person with digital codes and graphic means, making human relations possible on social websites, thus enabling Amy to get close to others. The human self is transferred from reality into virtual realities; originally the inhabitant of the human body, it is transformed into abstract, digital information. Such a self can be, in addition, multiplied. The users of social websites are no longer bound to one personality; they can cultivate many profiles and have multiple avatars - in short, have several versions of their selves (see Amy’s remark above; i. e. she fell in love with one “version” of Rafi; 75). In Horne’s play, the virtues of the digital age are critically discussed. The facts that humans can transcend their bodies and become ethically as well as physically enhanced post-humans who no longer judge people by their outer appearance seems to come at a cost. That people, furthermore, tend to transform into super-humans by technological extensions and by multiplying their selves appears equally problematic. Turning into a machine, into disembodied, ephemeral data, or into multiple selves, post-humans are not just enhanced humans; their enhancement also goes hand in hand with the diminishment of their humanity. Some of the agents in the play replace their bodies with data, which is, by definition, ephemeral and hard to capture. This becomes clear with Rafi’s failing attempt to ‘quantify’ himself, i. e. to describe himself to Rose and Dan using the contents of his wallet and his organiser: Driver’s licence. Credit card. Travel card. Wine-store discount card. Library card. […] There are names in here. Names, and addresses and telephone numbers. People out there, friends, co-workers, tradesmen, whatever. People I’ve had a reason to put in this book. Pick one out. Go on, give them a call. […] Ask them what I look like. Ask about my ex-wife. […] Ask if I exist. (98 f.) Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 157 The cards and data stored in his wallet and organiser do not suffice to define Rafi. They only give unsatisfactory answers to ‘qualitative’ questions, such as who he really is and what his character is like. The quantification of Rafi, the definition of him in terms of ‘names’, ‘addresses’, or ‘numbers’, is not even significant enough to tell that he really exists. This is what Rafi seems to realise himself after giving a list of the present data (he even starts to doubt his own existence, 99); firstly, his data could be fake and, secondly, they seem to have replaced his ‘real’ self completely. It requires people who know or have met Rafi to testify that he really is the person summed up by his data and, even more importantly, to describe what he is really like (“[a]sk them”, 98). In the digital age, it is often forgotten that people are so much more than the sum of the data they have collected and stored virtually and in reality. It is the interaction with other people that defines them - their practices, habits, and hobbies. What is more, even in post-human, disembodied times, it is still the warmness and the softness of their bodies that classifies humans as human. When Rose learns that Amy has an online relationship, she asks: “[W]here is the feel of the man in that? The chin and the cheek of him? The hand with the too short nails and the morning-after breath […]? ” (88) Being human, for Rose, entails it all: humans’ kinetic and olfactory features - be they appetizing, like ‘chins’ and ‘cheeks’, or unsavoury, like ‘morning-after breath’ - and their perception (‘feel’) through others. It entails, furthermore, emotions, which always seek bodily release and expression. This is made clear by the following dialogue: RAFI . What do you do with all those pent-up emotions? DAN . Anger and fears/ [indicates overlapping dialogue] and ROSE ./ and hopes and frustrations / and RAFI ./ and anguish and heartache and being in love? AMY . I have a cushion, OK ? A cushion and a fist. (62) Amy confesses that to deal with her emotions, she screams in her cushion or bites her fist. So although the protagonist tends to disregard her body and restrain her emotions, she sometimes cannot avoid somatic eruptions of feelings (in the, admittedly, somewhat helpless fashion of biting herself or pressing a pillow to her face). Besides the other problems that digital disembodiment brings about, potential fraud makes post-human relationships difficult. Similarly to the 2013 motion picture Her , in which the protagonist falls in love with a computer programme, Rafi is afraid of the complete replacement of a human by machines and software possible in virtual reality. He declares that after one year of online dating and an online marriage he simply had to meet Amy in person to make sure that she is a human being: 158 Christine Schwanecke [T]here are programmes - clever programmes - that simulate real human interaction, and you don’t want to fall in love with one of those. And vice versa, of course. I had to find out whether the wonderful person that typed her way into my heart with so few spelling mistakes was real. (91) To traditional people like Rose and even to digital natives like Rafi, who feel at ease in virtual spaces, love and relationships as well as people only become ‘real’ if they are more than words, more than data. As Horne testifies further, it is, even in post-human times, a look, handshake, hug, or kiss (76 f., 79) that people need to express their emotions and to bring them ‘really’ close to each other. You can have online sex and online weddings, but the arguably most intimate feeling between humans - love - cannot be sustained without bodies; metaphorically and literally, you have to have the “stomach for’t” (88). With her criticism of digitalisation and its effects on humans as well as their relationships, Horne thus celebrates the seemingly obsolete virtues of bodily presence and face-to-face interaction. A biosphere that increasingly tends to supplant personal meetings by media encounters or turns humans into super-humans and post-humans is only at a first glance a ‘brave new world’. People in the information age have lost more than they have won. They have given up what used to make them actually human: physical presence, social encounters, the human touch, concentration and immersion in the moment, personal flaws and shortcomings, and maybe even the joy of belonging to a species of gregarious mammals who feel at ease with their bodies and relish in the nearness of others. 5. Data Streams as Defining Shapers of (Virtual) Realities and Post-Human Lives after the Digital Turn As shown earlier, in post-human times and virtual realities individuals seem to be both the sum of their data as well as more than their data. Thus, the subject matter discussed in the sections above is densely interwoven with the topic of ‘data’. Bits of digital information and their squaring in data streams appear to be defining for both realities and human lives in the information age. Virtual realities, their influence on actual realities, and the generation of post-human lives have only become possible on the basis of the collection, storage, and dissemination of vast amounts of data. Consequently, “Big Data has emerged as a system of knowledge that is already changing the objects of knowledge [as well as cultural practices and habits]” (boyd / Crawford 665). Not surprisingly, these matters also become important to a playwright like Horne, who engages in the illumination of the diverse consequences of the digital turn. Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 159 In Gorgeous Avatar , four topics in particular are debated with regard to data and data streams: information as a surplus of data, data liberality, unreliability of data, and fake data. Scholars investigating the quantification of selves have problematised the topic of ‘data’, which serve as the basis for human quantification and, after the digital turn, as the basis for the generation of (self-)knowledge in post-human lives: A concept of knowledge as economic resource in a postindustrial ‘information age’ […] unveils the paradox of quantifying a non-quantifying entity. On the one hand, digital media demonstrate that (collective) forms of knowledge are neither predictable nor ascribable to individuals […]. On the other hand, they simultaneously suggest a potential of collecting, generating, and accessing knowledge through massive databases. (Danter / Reichardt / Schober 56) Today, information does not stand alone; data do not come as single units. As the quote above indicates and as Rafi makes clear with his “words and words and words” soliloquy (see Section 1), they always come as sets of data that are collected and stored in “massive databases”; they are distributed and made accessible in large quantities through data streams, which move “back and forth” (53) between individuals. Online platforms, just like the one Amy and Rafi have used, are sites that store massive amounts of information and permit their users to access it. With Gorgeous Avatar , Horne illustrates the paradox outlined above - how databases seemingly generate knowledge and how, at the same time, information becomes a non-processable mass through its multiplication. Rafi and Amy, as post-human online platform users, believe they can generate knowledge of themselves and others through the amount of data they collect and store in their online profiles and through the data they stream back and forth in their online conversations. On the basis of the information they share, the protagonists feel they know each other so well that they even fall in love with each other and marry. At the same time, when they meet in the flesh, they realise that the data streams which the internet provides - information about themselves and others - fall short of generating self-knowledge and knowledge of others. This becomes clear in repeated, absurd dialogues on the question of who one is and who the other is, which do nothing to answer these very questions and to enlighten those who pose these questions: “ AMY . Is that you? | RAFI . I think so. I may be wrong.” (39) or “ AMY . Who is it? | RAFI . It’s me. […] Is that you? | AMY . You? | RAFI . Amy? | AMY . That’s me.” (21) The sheer vastness of data which can be potentially accessed creates the illusion that knowledge of oneself and others can be easily gained via the internet; Amy and Rafi, too, hope to gain information about each other. Data streams, then, shape a reality in which the misconceptions that pervade these data equal knowledge, and that 160 Christine Schwanecke this vast knowledge is only a click away. As Horne illustrates, however, in their sum and in the confusion of their being streamed back and forth, digital data are actually hard to process by individuals; their sheer quantity may leave people none the wiser when they attempt to come to terms with them. Gorgeous Avatar also exemplifies the large number of data streams, their instability, their fleeting character, and their uncontrollability by structural means. Instead of making Amy’s actual reality more stable and giving her information she can reliably shape her reality with, information streams shape an actual reality that is just as unsteady (it is prone to constant revision) and uncontrollable (it is unclear what is said by whom and when) as the streams themselves. As was pointed out earlier, Amy repeatedly imagines Rafi’s arrival in act one. Even if a large amount of information on Rafi is available on the internet, the gaps in the data provided still leave room for different versions of the character. In scene four, Rafi shocks Amy with a moustache; in scene seven, he turns out to be a contract killer; in scene ten, he comes across as the caricature of an Oklahoma cowboy. These versions of Rafi, just like the data streams that provided information on him, are uncontrollable and unstable. They are like algorithms, self-contained sequences of actions based on massive amounts of data, which perform automatic reasoning tasks. This is made clear by the fact that each new scene revises the previous one - obviously as automatically and unwittingly as algorithms. Like some of the results automatic reasoning processes bring about, the scenes do not inevitably make sense: all scenes end in distortion, and the end of each new encounter with Rafi gets more absurd than the one before. Scene seven even culminates in a musical interlude, in which Amy’s neighbours and Rafi wildly rhyme and sing. Amy, who is uncomfortable with this unexpected and nonsensical turn of events, repeatedly tries to stop it (e. g., 58), but unsuccessfully. As the succession of scenes and the way they are designed illustrate, Amy’s actual reality (as well as her imagined reality) is as unstable and uncontrollable as the data streams that have influenced and shaped it. The uncontrollable surplus of data and their would-be knowledge generation make data streams unreliable shapers of post-digital-turn realities. Information streams become even more open to criticism when one considers the liberal way in which these data are handled in every-day practices. Amy’s neighbours, Dan and Rose, cannot believe that the protagonist has shared her real name, her real photograph, and her real address with her online acquaintance (18 f.). This kind of data liberality is unimaginable for those who are not as much under the influence of the digital turn, as Dan shows by way of a thought experiment: “Say you saw this guy at the station. All the people, running around. Strangers. Don’t-know-from-bloody-Adams. Would you go up and talk to him? […] Would you go up and grab him by the collar and tell him about yourself ? ” (16) Dan Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 161 transfers Amy’s data practices on the internet to the actual reality and, in doing so, shows Amy how careless she has been. He unveils a fact she has ignored: data liberality in virtual reality is as dangerous as it is in real life. Amy realises that she has given sensitive, private data to a complete stranger: “He might be a nutter.” (17) However, Horne is not raising a didactic finger with her play; it has a happy ending. It seems she does not view laissez-faire data exchange to be quite as problematic as she sketches it at this point. Besides her criticism of the data liberality of the digital age, Horne thematises the unreliability of data distributed in the digital age - and the abundance thereof. Amy writes a Paris guide without having left her house in quite a while; she has not been to Paris recently (if ever) and still she has accepted this job. Despite the lack of actual experience, she tries to furbish the unalterable facts of Paris - i. e. data on its architecture or its sites - with alluring adjectives for her guide: “A stunning - new building - in the heart of Paris. In the bustling heart - in the pulsating - in the throbbing - heart of Paris […].” (20, emphasis in original; cf. also 14) Ameliorating the basic data on Paris with adjectives picked off the top of her head, Amy is characterised as a digital native whose reality is shaped by the non-committal data-exchange on the internet. The randomness with which she chooses the vocabulary for her real-life job renders the recipient doubtful of the general truth value of her statements. Amy produces unreliable data, but, as a user of the internet, she is also a potential recipient of distorted information. This is why Horne has her characters repeatedly and explicitly refer to the dangers of data fraud that originates on the internet but has potentially negative effects on real life. Dan points out to Amy that she can never know with whom she is in contact on online platforms. Her US American acquaintance might be lying: “I could be him, for all you know. […] He could be writing all that stuff from anywhere. From next door.” (38) And, when Rafi tells Amy about another female online acquaintance of his, he highlights the possibility of being deceived by his contact, remarking on her gender: “Leastways, she says she’s a girl.” (42) The fact that in post-human, digital times data inaccuracies and manipulation are ubiquitous - especially on online platforms - is further highlighted by Rafi, who shows herself astonished that the real Amy looks like the photograph she uploaded on the internet: “You look like your photograph. […] That’s a first. They never look like the photograph.” (40) The character’s remark emphasises the pitfalls of online communication: the distribution of visual and verbal lies as well as the faking or amelioration of data have become common cultural practices in the information age. With this, Horne foresees a phenomenon that should become virulent ten years after the publication of her drama. By 2016, fake data will no longer be a problem of private online interaction; by then, it 162 Christine Schwanecke will have undermined any meaningful political discussion and even influenced the outcome of democratic elections. Horne does not just accuse online users of data fraud. Rose, a character who is designed as diametrically opposed to Amy and Rafi, takes pride in messing with data. She even goes one step further than the protagonist with her Paris guide: Rose is not only doctoring data, but faking them. She has renovated her house over the course of the last year and agreed to record the renovation by way of a video diary for a home improvement channel. Yet, in the process of refurbishing her home, she never managed to film things with her digital camcorder. This is why she has to counterfeit her ‘before and after’ video now that everything is redecorated (19 f.). Although Dan and Amy criticise her undertaking (20), they help Rose to produce her sham documentation. They even encourage her to “make an effort” (28) in deception, “or they’ll never believe it” (ibid.). To help Rose get into character and to remind her of earlier states her house was in, Dan provides her with outline data, i. e. data that serve as the basis for the generation of knowledge: “Listen to the trees. Rustling. […] Dry they are. […] All the branches are as bare as antlers. […] It’s December. […] It’s cold. […] The floorboards are bare. […] The toilet is blocked. […] The phone’s cut.” (30 f.; cf. also 37) The data frame Dan provides, together with some props and adequate dress (28), ‘makes’ Rose’s fictional world, i. e. the world that has to be recorded by her camcorder in order to establish a make-believe winter and a make-believe ‘before’. Faking data, thus, is how Rose and her neighbours go about making ‘reality TV ’. And they do not even realise the irony. According to Gorgeous Avatar , the omnipresence of data streams and the way they are depicted, handled and received thus furthers the shaping of distorted, unreliable, and even fake realities. In addition, these information streams create post-ethical humans; they enable people to take the advantage of bending reality through virtual and digital data and hardly stop to question their undertakings. 6. Conclusion Gorgeous Avatar is part of a body of contemporary plays that address, explore, and critically evaluate the effects of the digital turn. As this article has illustrated, the Scottish playwright Jules Horne explores the topics of ‘data streams’, ‘post-human lives’, and the intertwinement of ‘virtual and actual realities’. By way of implicit characterisation, explicit character utterances, and structural and spatio-acoustic means, she deals with the various and complex interrelations of these three subjects, which do not only have a high degree of actuality in ‘real life’ but are also widely discussed in the humanities at present. Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 163 Horne explores the ways in which spatiality and reality have become complicated in the information age. The ‘glocal’ human beings of her world have to deal with the thorny intersections between various levels of reality (virtual, actual, and mental) and their paradoxical corollaries: they have changed into post-humans by creating avatars, being cyborgs, and using the internet as a prosthesis in their social dealings. People are frequently overwhelmed by the paradoxes data streams and algorithms bring about, even though they helped shape these streams. And some individuals surrender to post-ethical thinking by participating in the common practice of bending and faking data. If they do not do this, like Amy, who distributes her personal data honestly and liberally at one point, they potentially put themselves in danger. Notwithstanding her play’s criticism, Horne does not condemn the digital age and its post-human inhabitants. Quite on the contrary, not least with her intertextual reference to Hamlet’s “words, words, words”, she places the current problems and issues her characters deal with into a general (literary-)historical context. In so doing, she allows for historical comparisons and universal reflections on the nature of reality, truth, and being human. The digital turn has not solely brought about these questions, which have always been discussed and have merely been galvanized in a new way by the information age. This is why they have to be renegotiated, and this is exactly what Horne does with her drama. While contemporary novels that broach the issues at hand (cf., e. g., Dave Eggers’ The Circle , 2013, or Lottie Moggach’s Kiss Me First , 2013) are, at best, ‘theatres of the mind’, Horne’s play, in its staged form, helps the audience to literally envision the absurdities and even potential pitfalls brought about the ways they, themselves, use digital media, handle information, and create their ‘new’ post-human lives. This might lead to surprising moments of self-awareness - shocking and amusing at the same time. Daily practices as well as conventions that usually go unnoticed, unreflected, or unchallenged are renegotiated, in an entertaining and highly stimulating manner - and all this loosely based on Cicero’s nosce te ipsum ! Bibliography Primary Sources Ayckbourn, Alan. Comic Potential . London: Faber and Faber, 2000. Horne, Jules. Gorgeous Avatar . London: Nick Hern Books, 2007 [2006]. —. Nanonovels: Five-Minute Flash Fiction . Selkirk: Texthouse, 2015. Marber, Patrick. Closer . London: Methuen Drama. 2007 [2004]. 164 Christine Schwanecke Secondary Sources Billington, Michael. “Artificial Intelligence.” The Guardian . 12 February 2000. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ books/ 2000/ feb/ 12/ books.guardianreview5. Accessed on 3 April 2017. boyd, danah [sic! ] and Kate Crawford. “Critical Questions for Big Data: Provocations for a Cultural, Technological, and Scholarly Phenomenon.” Information, Communication & Society 15.5 (2012): 662-79. Braidotti, Rosi. Posthumanismus . Frankfurt / New York: Campus Verlag, 2014. —. “Posthuman, All too Human. Towards a New Process Ontology.” Theory, Culture & Society 23.7-8 (2006): 197-208. Danter, Stefan, Ulfried Reichardt and Regina Schober. “Theorising the Quantified Self and Posthumanist Agency: Self-Knowledge and Posthumanist Agency in Contemporary US -American Literature.” Quantified Selves / Statistic Bodies . Eds. Pablo Abend and Mathias Fuchs. 2.1 (2016): 53-70. Herbrechter, Stefan. Posthumanismus: Eine kritische Einführung . Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2009. Horne, Jules. Jules Horne . 2017. http: / / www.juleshorne.com/ . Accessed on 3 April 2017. Isaac, Mike. “Facebook’s Zuckerberg, Bucking Tide, Takes Public Stand against Isolationism.” The New York Times . 16 February 2017. https: / / www.nytimes. com/ 2017/ 02/ 16/ technology/ facebook-mark-zuckerberg-mission-statement.html? _ r=0. Accessed on 20 May 2017. Kane, Pat. “Who Owns the Future? By Jaron Lanier To Save Everything, Click Here, By Evgeny Morozov.” The Independent . 15 March 2013. http: / / www.independent.co.uk/ arts-entertainment/ books/ reviews/ who-owns-the-future-by-jaron-lanier-to-saveeverything-click-here-by-evgeny-morozov-8535071.html. Accessed on 20 May 2017. Lanier, Jaron. Who Owns the Future? New York: Simon & Schuster, 2013. Middeke, Martin, Peter Paul Schnierer and Aleks Sierz. “Introduction.” The Methuen Drama Guide to Contemporary British Playwrights . Eds. Martin Middeke, Peter Paul Schnierer and Aleks Sierz. London: Methuen Drama, 2011. vii-xxiv. Kase, Dagmar. “New Theatre of the 21 st Century.” Meno Istorija ir Kritika / Art History & Criticism 2 (2006): 72-5. Neumann, Fritz-Wilhelm. “Cyberspace: The Impact of Information Technology on the Stage.” Contemporary Drama in English: Anthropological Perspectives . Eds. Werner Huber and Martin Middeke. Trier: WVT , 1998, 173-84. Reichardt, Ulfried. Globalisierung: Literaturen und Kulturen des Globalen . Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2010. Soboczynski, Adam. “‘Die smarte Diktatur’: Schlimmer als bei den Nazis? ” ZeitOnline . 16 June 2016. http: / / www.zeit.de/ 2016/ 24/ die-smarte-diktatur-harald-welzer. Accessed on 20 May 2017. Wade, Leslie A. “The London Theatre Goes Digital: Divergent Responses to the New Media.” Theatre Symposium 19 (2011): 54-68. Data Streams in Jules Horne’s Gorgeous Avatar (2006) 165 Welzer, Harald. Die Smarte Diktatur: Der Angriff auf unsere Freiheit . Frankfurt: S. Fischer Verlag, 2016. Zuckerberg, Mark. “Founder’s Letter, 2012.” Facebook . 1 February 2017. https: / / www. facebook.com/ notes/ mark-zuckerberg/ founders-letter/ 10154500412571634. Accessed on 20 May 2017. A Critical Review of Science: Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002), Individual Identity, and Human Cloning1 6 7 A Critical Review of Science: Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002), Individual Identity, and Human Cloning Maurus Roller 1. Science Revisited Ever since Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), science and the scientist’s reckless endeavours to manipulate human nature to suit his needs have been notorious subjects within the English literary tradition. The fin de siècle presents us with two of the most well-known cases in point that call into question the unrestrained dealings of self-professed “master-scientist[s]” (Mellor 111) whose pursuits are dubious at best: Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886) and The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896). Similar to these novels, and more than a hundred years later, Caryl Churchill’s play A Number (2002) points not only to the ongoing significance of this topic at the outset of the 21 st century but also to the highly problematic outcomes of scientific aspirations that seem to know no bounds. By focusing on “the ethically fraught subject of human cloning” (Chaudhuri 474), it forcefully highlights the effects of modern science and technology on the individual human being and on the opportunities and limitations this being is confronted with in its attempt to lead a fulfilling life. More precisely, it portrays the failure of some of the characters - namely the two sons B1 and B2 - to perceive the lives they lead as individual and therefore meaningful, and this in view of their origin as human clones that seems to prevent uniqueness and to create sameness instead. 1 Churchill’s A Number thus addresses a highly controversial topic that has been at the centre of heated debates ever since scientists of the Scottish Roslin Institute announced that they had successfully cloned a sheep in 1996 (cf. Macintosh xv; Schroten 91). The possibility of human cloning seemed to loom on the horizon, and both hopes and fears prevailed that genetic engineering would soon be “a means of manufacturing copies of living or deceased persons” (Macintosh xv). Public debates were fed by religious and ethical arguments, and 1 Fundamental propositions of this essay and, by implication, my theses on the interrelationship between human cloning and human individuality in Caryl Churchill’s A Number , draw on arguments previously elaborated on in my analysis of 20 th -century British drama (cf. Roller 450-85). The present article elucidates some of the latter book’s basic assumptions on human identity, individuality and agency. 168 Maurus Roller they expressed concerns that human cloning could potentially endanger human dignity and the subject’s individuality: “The media presented humans born through cloning as copies of DNA donors and emphasised the challenge that cloning supposedly posed to our unique identities.” (ibid. 43) Public discourse on genetic engineering was accordingly dominated by the widespread assumption whereby cloning (re)produces sameness and therefore subverts uniqueness: “[P]opular culture, media accounts, and even policy reports have succumbed to this false vision of human copies lacking in individuality.” (ibid. 120; cf. ibid. 108-23; Steinvorth 92) It is worth noting that this assumption becomes untenable once the technology of genetic engineering is examined from a scientific vantage point, since cloning is unable to reproduce exactly the same organism. Instead, it cannot but instil difference even on the genetic level, and this due to spontaneous mutation, the significance of mitochondrial DNA (genetic material that exists outside the nucleus, transferred from one cell to another) and the impact of environmental influences (cf. Hillebrand / Lanzerath 13 f.; Schroten 92 f.). This being said, the unfounded notion that cloning prevents uniqueness has continued to pervade public discourse on genetic engineering, and it has even contributed to political action being taken in order to ban human cloning (cf. Macintosh xv; Schroten 91). Picking up this discussion , A Number on the one hand is clearly critical of human cloning and its effects on the individual subject. On the other hand, it does not present a purely negative portrayal of human life at the turn of the new millennium, influenced as it may be by the overpowering dynamics of modern science and technology. In an attempt to resolve the predicament human clones might find themselves in, A Number firstly promotes an attitude to our existence that is embraced by B1 and B2’s brother Michael and that relies on a double premise: the necessity to acknowledge existential givens of one’s life in order to be able to actively mould it as a fulfilling life. What is more, Churchill’s play illustrates that the subject’s individuality and identity are not predominantly or even exclusively shaped by its biological and genetic makeup - they equally depend on sociocultural factors, interpersonal relationships and the subject’s unique biography (cf. Schroten 99; Luckhurst 159). A Number ultimately questions the prevailing assumption that cloning precludes individuality, and it replaces the concept of sameness by ideas of similarity and difference. As will be shown, the optimistic disposition embodied by Michael, if somewhat exaggerated, offers an alternative to the despair and self-abandonment represented by the play’s other characters. Against this backdrop, A Number does not advocate an attitude of negativism when it comes to modern science and technology. The play’s critical stance rather calls for a prudent assessment of the benefits and risks the scientist is confronted with nowadays, a stance that Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002) and Human Cloning 169 can occasionally be heard in the ethical debate on human cloning (cf. Mieth 131; Steinvorth 113). At the same time, it seems to recognise the futility of such hope in the face of the dynamics of modern technology. As the play demonstrates, these dynamics can at times be hardly kept at bay, a predicament that is suggested by the clones’ father Salter in one of his sparse perceptive statements: “copies of you which some mad scientist has illegally” (Churchill, Number , 4). 2 A Number therefore refers us back to the individual subject that apparently has to take responsibility for its dealings with the results of modern science and for the conscious fashioning of its own life. At this point, it should be noted that the reproductive cloning of human beings 3 is not only considered to be highly controversial; it furthermore involves incalculable risks which make it virtually impracticable at present (cf. Hillebrand / Lanzerath 22-35; Schroten 95-100; Jensen, Therapeutic Cloning , 1; Center for Genetics and Society). This being said, the play’s sceptical evaluation of science and its mechanisms of self-regulation should not simply be read as a case of “[s]cientific dystopianism” ( Jensen, Therapeutic Cloning , 65). Genetic engineering in A Number is rather representative of a more general tendency that has marked Western society since the second half of the 20 th century and that Anton C. Zijderveld referred to in terms of its “abstract nature” (48) - a phenomenon whereby our daily lives have increasingly come under the influence of forces such as information technology, bureaucracy or science, which are beyond our immediate grasp but which nevertheless threaten to shape our very existence (cf. Zijderveld 10, 48 f.; Zapf 7, 21). Against this backdrop, it is all the more imperative for the individual subject to acknowledge what it cannot change and to make active use of those opportunities that are available, so that its life will not be wholly shaped by external circumstances (cf. Schmid 146 f.; 245; Roller 60). 2 In the following, references to A Number will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. Here and in many other places, the language of A Number is deliberately fragmentary, sentences are left unfinished, and punctuation is often missing. For the language of A Number see also section 3 of this article. 3 The following analysis exclusively addresses the issue of reproductive human cloning. For the distinction between ‘reproductive cloning’ that is meant “to clone a human embryo for implantation and live birth” and ‘therapeutic cloning’ that intends “to clone a human embryo from which stem cells can be derived for medical therapies” ( Jensen, Therapeutic Cloning , 9), see Hillebrand / Lanzerath 22. 170 Maurus Roller 2. Stating the Problem To take on the challenge of self-fashioning in the face of new and far-reaching changes brought about by modern technology is precisely the problem B1 and B2 are unable to cope with. These two characters seem to be unwilling to bear with their existence as human clones. Underlying their negative self-evaluation is the common notion that cloning prevents individuality. Against the backdrop of this widespread and irrational fear, the scientific rationale according to which genetic engineering will not be able to produce two identical human beings is ultimately unable to alleviate the emotional discomfort caused by the idea that cloning supposedly results in sameness, as B1 and B2 stress multiple times: “B1. and he looked just like me did he indistinguishable from (18)”; “B2. we just happen to have identical be identical identical [sic! ] genetic” (5). As a result, and in keeping with their telling names that suggest “experimental material” (Dinkhauser 5), B1 and B2 perceive themselves predominantly in their capacity as donor and clone and as inextricably entwined with each other rather than as separate human beings (cf. Luckhurst 160): “B1. and this copy they grew of me, that worked out all right? ” (17); “B2. Because there’s this person who’s identical to me […] something terrible which is exactly the same genetic person” (29). The anxieties that are here articulated by B1 and B2 while talking to Salter are based on “the crudest genetic determinism” (Brock 12). In this context, it is surprising to see that even the two brothers seem to be dimly aware of the significance of influences other than their genes that account for their individual identity as stated by B2: someone with the same genetic exactly the same but at a different time a different cultural and of course all the personal all kinds of what happened in your own life your childhood or things all kind of because suppose you’d had a brother with identical an identical [sic! ] twin say but separated at birth so you had entirely different early you see what I’m saying would he have done the same things […] so it’s a combination of very complicated […]. (33) In this passage, B2 calls into question the predominance of genetic dispositions (“someone with the same genetic exactly […] would he have done the same things”), and he vaguely points to several dimensions that, taken together, mould a person’s individual identity (“so it’s a combination of very complicated”). Perhaps most significantly, B2 hints at the impact of historical and cultural circumstances (“at a different time a different cultural”), of personal bonds (“suppose you’d had a brother with identical an identical twin say but separated at birth”) and of biographical experiences (“all kinds of what happened in your own life”), all of which contribute to a person’s ontogenetic development. Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002) and Human Cloning 171 Eventually, however, neither B2 nor B1 are able to overcome the overpowering force of the discursive concept of genetic determinism that, in the case of human clones, seems to rule out any claims to individuality. As a consequence, both characters lack the notion that they can - and have to - mould their lives actively and that they will only thus emerge as unique human beings, leading fulfilling lives and being distinct from everyone else. They ultimately fail in their “struggle to discover and articulate an identity for themselves” (Gray 65). It should already have become clear that neither scientific insights proclaiming the immanent difference of human clones nor identity theories pointing to the multifariousness of an individual’s personality are able to alleviate the psychic disturbances caused by genetic engineering. If anything, the occasionally expressed belief in scientific or philosophical arguments that would ultimately conquer the emotional discomfort felt by the individual subject seems fairly naive (cf. Steinvorth; Macintosh 86-8; Jensen, “Reproductive Cloning”, 303-5). Only to know of the existence of one or several others that are genetically similar to oneself entails grave internal consequences for the clone as well as for the donor of the genetic material (cf. Quante 120 f.). This situation is considerably aggravated by the fact that clones (as opposed to twins) are always in danger of feeling genetically manipulated by interests outside of themselves, which potentially turns them from an end in themselves into a means to some obscure purpose - as for example to replace a lost child (cf. Jensen, “Reproductive Cloning”, 299, 303; Mieth 136 f.). Against this background, the only reasonable conclusion is to desist from any attempts at human cloning for reproductive reasons (cf. Jensen, “Reproductive Cloning”; Quante 122), even if it could (in the future) be done without much risk to the embryo. Up to now, my argument has exclusively focused on the clones’ “mental disintegration” (Luckhurst 162) and on their deficient self-perception which is based on the dichotomy “original” (10) versus “copy” (14). If we widen the scope of our analysis to include the social context (cf. Quante 113), it becomes clear that the response the two brothers receive from their environment and that is personified by Salter does little to alleviate their predicament. As indicated in his first encounter with B2, and as will be shown in further detail below, Salter - notwithstanding his repeated avowals to the contrary - basically proceeds from an idea of the essential identity and sameness of human clones (cf. Gobert 115): “they’ve damaged your uniqueness, weakened your identity […].” (7); “it’d be it’d be […] walk round the corner and see yourself you could get a heart attack. Because if that’s me over there who am I? ” (9) This idea also provided the basis for his past dealings with his sons in which he apparently perceived B2 as a genetically engineered replacement for his failed educational project B1: 172 Maurus Roller I spared you though you were this disgusting thing by then anyone in their right mind would have squashed you but I remembered what you’d been like at the beginning and I spared you, I didn’t want a different one, I wanted that again […]. (40) Admittedly, not the least of the problems with Salter is his pronounced unreliability when it comes to the narration of past events (cf. Luckhurst 161 f.). All told, he presents no less than four different and contradictory versions of the past. He insinuates an illegal theft of B2’s cells (6), only to confirm B2’s suspicions of in vitro fertilisation (11) and of his elder brother’s death shortly afterwards (13), and he finally corroborates B1’s fear of having been replaced by B2 (16). These different versions do not add up to a coherent narrative, and they eventually point to the difficulties Salter himself has when trying to cope with present and past events. The latest of Salter’s narrations, however, gains substance and plausibility in the course of the play through repetition and elaboration, and it is increasingly accepted by the characters as a reference point in their interpretation of past, present, and self. Thus, the two clones’ appeal for answers that could offer relief to their gnawing self-doubts ultimately results in Salter’s confirmation of their initial suspicions and fears. Instead of feeling respected as individuals in their own right, they suffer from their status as objects of a scientific experiment (cf. Luckhurst 160-3), and their suffering corresponds to the relative role they were assigned to play: “Except what he feels as hate and what I feel as hate are completely different because what you did to him and what you did to me are different things.” (35) In the preceding passage, B2 implicitly (and without seeming aware of it) alludes to a person’s biographical experiences that bring about individuality and difference. As Dinkhauser confirms: “Human clones are not identical, because they differ according to their history of relationships.” (5) This holds true for the characters in A Number , as B2 struggles with his role as a genetically engineered successor of B1 (“so I’m just him over again. […] but I’m not him […]. I’m just a copy. I’m not the real one.”, 14), whilst his elder brother finds it almost impossible to cope with the lack of parental affection shown by Salter (“about you sent me away and had this other one made from some bit of my body some”, 16). What the two characters have in common, however, are familial bonds that have been all but destroyed by the scientific experiment (cf. Hillebrand / Lanzerath 30). That the ties between Salter and B1 had been severely strained even before the experiment becomes obvious not only from the cloning project instigated by Salter but also from B1’s childhood memories: “[…] your father’s not young when you’re small is he, he’s not any age, he’s more a power. He’s a dark dark power […].” (15; cf. Luckhurst 162-4) Yet, as Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde already showed at the end of the 19 th century, it appears highly Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002) and Human Cloning 173 unconvincing to turn to science in an attempt to come to terms with problems that are ultimately of a personal or cultural nature. In this novel, the protagonist’s chemical experiments fail to resolve the conflict between human needs and cultural norms that he is faced with. Similarly, A Number makes it clear that genetic engineering did not contribute to the resolution of the characters’ difficult situation but caused mental disturbances instead, which eventually led to social retreat (B2), murder, and suicide (B1). Once more, the only conclusion left seems to forgo any attempts to clone human beings, and this in the interest of all involved, clones and parents. 3. The Context of Cloning One difficulty all of the characters share is their inability to cope with the situation intellectually and to come up with accurate terms and concepts that would describe their situation. They seem to be totally overwhelmed by what has happened to them and repeatedly struggle for words, albeit without much success: B1. The other one. Your son. My brother is he? my little twin. (25) B2. […] I just, because of course I want them to be things, I do think they’re things, I don’t think they’re, of course I do think they’re them just as much as I’m me but I. I don’t know what I think […]. (5, emphasis in original) SALTER . Nobody regrets more than me the completely unforeseen unforeseeable […]. (21) Such “disruptions of language” (Kritzer, “Political Currents”, 58) point both to the mental bewilderment experienced by the protagonists and to the challenge of grasping the abstract structures of our contemporary world (cf. ibid.; Dinkhauser 7 f.). In Churchill’s play, these structures assume the form of modern technology, and they superimpose themselves on the lives of characters that find it difficult to come to terms with this situation and with being at “the forefront of science” (12): “B1. a speck yes because we’re talking that microscope world of giant blobs and globs” (16); “B2. […] we don’t know all these complicated we can’t know what we’re it’s too complicated to disentangle all the causes […].” (34 f.) To be faced with forces that threaten to develop a momentum of their own and that at the same time seem to determine the individual subject’s very existence whilst being only partly understood (if at all) could easily give rise to feelings of helplessness and despair. In an attempt to counter these feelings and to gain some “sense of identity and coherence” (Kritzer, “Political Currents”, 58), B1 and B2 repeatedly aim to define difference by referring to individual character traits and to their unique biography: “B2. I wouldn’t be identical […] because for a start I’m not frightening.” (26); “B1. You know when I used to be 174 Maurus Roller shouting.” (22) Yet, since they are ultimately unable to shift their attention from being genetically similar to a perception of themselves as individuals in their own right, their efforts to define difference and to gain uniqueness are bound to fail. The same eventually applies to Salter, whose intention to take legal action appears inadequate in the light of abstract technological problems and the trauma they cause: “I think what we need is a good solicitor.” (21) This is also what Amelia Howe Kritzer points to in her analysis of Caryl Churchill’s later plays: “Turn-of-the-millennium events […] have posed problems that seemed to invalidate activist solutions.” (“Political Currents”, 57) Against the backdrop of his inability to deal with the technology of human cloning intellectually, it does not come as a surprise to see that Salter is equally incapable of coming to terms with its results and the existence of several and - as it must appear to him - all too similar sons. This is indicated in the last scene where he continuously questions Michael and where he appears to search for an unambiguous ‘core identity’ that, to him, seems to guarantee his son’s distinctness and individuality: “further in […] just about yourself ” (47). What he overlooks in his adherence to this traditional and ultimately untenable idea of a fixed and stable human essence (cf. Straub 283; Luckhurst 164) is the influence of various and dynamic factors that only in their combination make up an individual’s identity. This is what Michael in particular highlights when confronted with Salter’s quest for individual character traits. In presenting himself to Salter, he refers to his specific relationship with other individuals (“I’m married, three children”, 43), to biographical decisions that gave shape to his life (“I’m a teacher, mathematics”, ibid.), to personal convictions (“you want what my beliefs, politics how I feel about war for instance is that? ”, 45) and to his interests (“Well here’s something I find fascinating, there are these people who used to live in holes in the ground […].”, 44). Michael’s identity can thus be described in terms of an ongoing process in which diverse if pre-existing elements are multifariously combined so as to eventually bring about individuality: “[I]dentity appears as the series of constantly multiplied specifications of […] numerous systems in play. […] [The individual subject’s] singularity exists in the unique and unrepeatable sequence of a life, but not in some essential ‘subject’.” (Ermarth 411 f.) Put another way, individuality does not reside in anything as obscure as a human essence but exists only as the unique combination of manifold dimensions and therefore as difference within structures of similarity (cf. Heinz 87-128). Salter, however, is clearly unable to come to terms with this dynamic notion of individuality, and as a consequence he cannot but remain deeply sceptical when dealing with his sons: “they’ve damaged your uniqueness, weakened your identity […].” (7) Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002) and Human Cloning 175 These insights into Salter’s mental life seriously call into question his repeatedly voiced assertions of the clones’ essential difference (26, 29, 42 f.). It becomes clear on closer examination that he considers it imperative to justify himself and to lay emphasis on the sons’ uniqueness, and this in the face of a misguided scientific experiment that was in all probability meant to substitute B2 for B1. As Salter has to concede, reviewing the whole experiment: “It wasn’t perfect. […] it’s a blur to be honest” (17). He ultimately proceeds from a concept of genetic sameness that was also the precondition for this very experiment when it was conducted in the past: “I didn’t want a different one, I wanted that again because you were perfect just like that and I loved you.” (40) The motivation behind all this appears to have been a feeling of inadequacy and failure when it comes to the bringing up of his eldest son: “I know I could have managed better because I did with you [B2] […].” (32) In other words, Salter seems to have made an attempt to overcome his past and to restart with a clean slate by drawing on modern technology: “I didn’t feel I’d lost him when I sent him away because I had the second chance.” (49; cf. Dinkhauser 11) This short close reading of Salter’s motivations gives rise to two problems. First of all, human beings are fundamentally what they have become. The human subject cannot dispose of past events and experiences but has instead to accept them as part of its biography and ultimately identity (cf. Glomb 20, 27). As a consequence, Salter’s attempt at a new beginning could not hope to meet with much success, something that Churchill’s play implicitly hints at when it portrays Salter’s encounters with his sons and the mental issues that these encounters bring to the fore (cf. Klein). Even more relevant to my argument is the second problem that refers us back to the context of cloning. As should have become clear by now, Salter’s objective to have an identical human being produced which would fulfil all the hopes he set into him, above all that of being an exact replacement of his first son when young, was doomed to fail. This objective does not only overlook the fact that genetic engineering does not reproduce sameness and that personal identity is the dynamic result of an ongoing and complex process (cf. Hillebrand / Lanzerath 29). It is furthermore oblivious of the serious mental consequences the clone might be faced with in later life. These consequences would in all likelihood consist in the knowledge on the part of the clone that he is expected to replace another person and to develop a specific personality - feeling instrumentalised (as is the case with B2: “and you wanted to replace him […] but I’m not him […].”, 13 f.) instead of being recognised as an individual subject in its own right (cf. ibid.; Mieth 137; Jensen, “Reproductive Cloning”, 299). While discussing the modern issue of human cloning and its effects on those involved, A Number , in passing, also refers to the scientist and to the question 176 Maurus Roller of whether the geneticist’s actions are permissible or irresponsible (15-8). In this context, the play seems to caution us against an all too careless approach to modern science that could easily be misled into a celebration of unlimited opportunities whilst neglecting human needs or potential risks that come along with new developments (for the limits of science see also the article by Stefan Glomb in this volume). The dangers of such naivety, or even worse, of a ruthless exploitation of every technological option available, have been fleshed out in a particularly trenchant, if slightly polemical fashion in Sarah Daniels’s feminist play Byrthrite (1987): Fertilised in a Petri dish as a result of egg donation, Transplanted by the doctor, father of the future, perfect nation, […] Have mastered techniques of in vitro fertilisation, Surrogacy, ectogenesis and superovulation, Won’t stop now, intrauterine surgery will enrich our lives, […] Our future’s in the hands of […] reproductive technology. (404 f.) While focusing on the negative consequences that genetic engineering and an uncritical employment of modern technology may yield for the human subject, A Number implicitly also asks for self-imposed restrictions in the field of scientific research. Yet, as the play seems to anticipate, modern science will hardly be hampered by any such self-critical precautions. 4 It accordingly refers us back to the individual subject, to whom it falls to adapt to new developments and to mould its life under the new and demanding circumstances created by technological developments which threaten to affect every facet of human existence in the 21 st century. This eventually points to Michael, who, notwithstanding his awareness that he is a clone, is apparently leading a fulfilling life. 4. Looking for Solutions Until well into the second half of the play’s action, the audience is presented with characters who are unable to fashion their lives successfully. Against the backdrop of Salter’s past shortcomings and faced with the overriding impression of being determined by technological forces beyond their grasp and com- 4 With its focus on the issue of human self-fashioning under the ever-changing conditions of science and technology, A Number ignores possible regulations that might arise in the political arena. Contemporary developments, however, suggest that technological trends transcend national borders, and this certainly tends to impose restrictions on any political initiative being taken (cf. Macintosh 171-98; Luckhurst 157-9). Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002) and Human Cloning 177 prehension, B1 and B2 perceive their existence as being devoid of any claims to uniqueness and thus as meaningless. At first glance, it might therefore seem as if A Number endorses the postmodern deconstruction of the subject. It is only in the last scene that the play dispels this notion by introducing a new character and thereby also a fresh perspective on the issues of genetic engineering and individual self-formation: “Michael, centered on other people and the world around him, speaking of concrete things such as lettuce and his wife’s ears, is the only one at ease with […] himself.” (Gray 65; cf. Luckhurst 163; Chaudhuri 474) 5 As indicated by this quote, Michael is capable of positively embracing the existential givens of his life instead of trying to overcome them and of rejecting his very being as a human clone: We’ve got ninety-nine per cent the same genes as any other person. We’ve got ninety per cent the same as a chimpanzee. We’ve got thirty percent the same as a lettuce. Does that cheer you up at all? I love about the lettuce. It makes me feel I belong. (50) Where B1 and B2 resign themselves to self-abandonment, “Michael has a secure sense of identity” (Luckhurst 164). He seems to be deeply content with the life he leads, and this despite his recently acquired knowledge of having been cloned. On closer examination, Michael’s position is first of all premised on the assumption that genetic engineering does not produce sameness but rather similarity, which still allows for difference: “all these very similar people doing things like each other or a bit different or whatever we’re doing […].” (ibid. 49; cf. Gobert 116) Michael furthermore, unlike B1 and B2, does not pretend to be able to define his identity and individuality independently of others but can only see himself in relation to those around him (cf. Glomb 28): SALTER . because you’re just describing other people or […] not yourself MICHAEL . but it’s people I love so SALTER . it’s not what I’m looking for. Because anyone could feel MICHAEL . oh of course I’m not claiming (46) Inscribed into Michael’s reply is also the idea that uniqueness is never constituted outside but always within of what Salter terms the “unifuckingversal” (49). When mentioning the feeling of ‘love’, he on the one hand refers to something generally human which seemingly transcends every claim to singularity. On the other hand, however, these emotions that in their common depiction as 5 This dramatic flexibility in the latter stages of the play could also be read as a formal equivalent to the play’s readiness to subscribe to a multifaceted analysis of its subject of human cloning (cf. Quigley 39; Kritzer, Theatre of Empowerment , 191). 178 Maurus Roller “being ‘in love’” are a “form of cultural production” (Lodge 249) nevertheless always relate to specific human beings and might moreover be experienced by each individual subject as part of its singular “existential reality” (ibid.). This does not only point to the potential for individual appropriations of pre-existing and universal structures. It eventually also highlights the significance of social recognition that the human subject receives from interpersonal relationships and that serves as a stable and reliable foundation for Michael’s awareness of himself: Rather than constructing an isolated identity, he relates to his wife and children. His relatedness is the base of his individual confidence making him indifferent to the fear of dehumanisation that B2 expresses in Scene I, and also satisfying his need for recognition that B1 unsuccessfully craves for in Scene II . Out of his self-confidence, which is based on relatedness, Michael can be at ease with his origin. (Dinkhauser 14) Michael is accordingly willing to acknowledge the biological preconditions of his existence. Yet, it is important to note that his attitude does not amount to anything like passivity and resignation. On the contrary, even a cursory reading of the play’s last scene suggests choices and decisions made by him in the past which gave shape to his life, which, to Michael, is deeply meaningful and fulfilling: SALTER . are you happy? MICHAEL . […] Yes I think I am, I don’t think about it, I am. The job gets me down sometimes. The world’s a mess of course. But you can’t help, a sunny morning, leaves turning, off to the park with the baby, you can’t help feeling wonderful can you? (43 f.) Based on the character of Michael, A Number accordingly overcomes the limitations both of postmodernism and its radical deconstruction of human agency and of early modern philosophy with its ideal of the autonomous subject (cf. Zima XI ). Instead, and in line with the newly established tradition of English drama after World War II (cf. Roller 87-91), the play positions itself in-between these two extremes and highlights opportunities available to the individual human subject within pre-existing, if limiting structures that cannot be transcended (cf. Chaudhuri 475). One could argue that, notwithstanding his vital display of active self-care and love of life, Michael’s attitude is too careless and optimistic when it comes to his genetically engineered origin (“I think it’s funny, I think it’s delightful”, 48) and it is certainly the case that he is not paying sufficient attention to the potentially grave consequences of reproductive cloning, which ultimately threaten to affect the clone’s self-perception. Yet, this does nothing to diminish the play’s fundamental insights into the requirements of human self-fashioning, most notably Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002) and Human Cloning 179 the emphasis it places on the necessity to accept unalterable circumstances and on the willingness to actively shape one’s life within existing conditions. 5. Conclusion A Number thus focuses on the issue of human self-fashioning, which has begun to take centre stage in Western culture since the early modern period (cf. Straub 280; Reckwitz 26), and which continues to be of salient significance against the backdrop of new and far-reaching developments in science and technology. Churchill’s play in particular addresses the two questions of individual identity and of genetic engineering (cf. Luckhurst 158; Gobert 112-22) that have, at the turn of the millennium, become intertwined through the looming prospect of reproductive human cloning. On the one hand, it portrays the difficulties the individual subject is faced with in its attempts to fulfil the demand of leading a distinctly unique life, which has become of paramount importance in Western culture since the 1970s: “The urge to be oneself offers an elusive goal.” (Quigley 38; cf. Reckwitz 441-51; Quante 121) On the other hand, however, this does not mean that the play represents the ideal of an individually meaningful life based on choices made by the human subject as obsolete. A Number therefore still adheres to the traditional Western concept which has already become an issue in Caryl Churchill’s Top Girls (1982 / 1984): “I believe in the individual.” (84) This conclusion of A Number is premised on four important conditions. As has been shown, the play first of all insists that a person’s life is not exclusively shaped by genetic factors. Most importantly, genetic disposition does not predetermine personal identity, and neither does it result in the complete identity of two different people, something that three of the play’s four characters seem to recognise only occasionally: SALTER . […] Because if that’s me over there who am I? B2. Yes but it’s not me over there (9) This is not to deny the influence exerted by genetic dispositions on the ontogenetic development of human beings and most notably on the self-perception of human clones (cf. Jensen, “Reproductive Cloning”, 303). It does, however, refer us to the significance of several other key factors that contribute to a person’s individual identity, and these primarily consist in biographical experiences, interpersonal relationships, and a specific sociocultural environment. This becomes clear when we compare the three sons that have developed different personalities despite the comparatively high degree of genetic similarity between 180 Maurus Roller them (cf. Klein; Gobert 117). 6 Yet, even if these considerations ultimately refute approaches to human identity based on the dichotomy ‘original versus copy’, it is evident that the latter could still be used as a point of reference for those involved in the process of human cloning. In view of what has been said so far, A Number secondly propagates a concept that defines personal identity in opposition to two extremes, and this in line with other proponents of the New English Drama that managed to overcome traditional concepts of identity (and agency) after World War II (cf. Roller 55). The play on the one hand subverts essentialist notions based on genetic determinism. On the other hand, it also repudiates postmodern positions that tend to deconstruct identity by handing it over to the process of ‘ différance ’ (cf. Macintosh 100 f.; Zima 207; Glomb 27), a process that is initially symbolised by B1 and B2 infinitely referring to each other. By introducing the character of Michael, the play instead insists that identity is constituted at the intersection of outside and inside, of various cultural and interpersonal influences, and of self-referential strategies enabling the subject to discern meaning and fulfilment in his or her own life. A third condition emerging from A Number closely ties in with the latter requirement. It is based on the willingness to accept certain unalterable circumstances that influence one’s existence and at the same time to actively shape one’s life within these circumstances. Such an attitude could now be more important than ever, since (according to A Number ) ethical standards which might prevent technological developments in fields as controversial as genetic engineering seem highly unlikely. Only such an attitude, which implements the New English Drama’s concept of human agency, situated as it is between heteronomy and autonomy, will ultimately enable the individual subject to cope with new challenges at the outset of the 21 st century, challenges that will inevitably influence its life deeply. According to A Number , however, this finally implies not only the willingness , but also the vital necessity to actively fashion our lives - something that results not least from the lack of determinism involved in every individual’s genetic dispositions. Right at the outset of the new millennium, Caryl Churchill’s A Number thus points to the ongoing contribution of the New English Drama to contemporary debates on controversial topics such as reproductive human cloning. It does so 6 This is also the case with monozygotic twins, whose genetic disposition is even more similar than that of clones due to the fact that they also share the same mitochondrial DNA. Monozygotic twins (may) still differ in their mental and physical makeup and in their biographical development (cf. Steinvorth 92). Unlike monozygotic twins, however, human clones are the result of a deliberate scientific process, and this might well yield negative consequences for the clones. Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002) and Human Cloning 181 by presenting characters on stage that are for the most part unable to come to terms with the (rather abstract) issue of genetic engineering and that find it difficult to express their inner thoughts and afflictions. The erratic and incoherent language used by the characters therefore serves to illustrate the potentially grave consequences reproductive human cloning might yield for the individual subject and his or her self-perception. As a consequence, A Number also highlights that topics such as genetic engineering are invariably linked to issues of identity, individuality, agency, and self-fashioning. These issues have been of pivotal importance in British drama since its renewal at the fin de siècle , and they seem to continue and permeate major works of the New English Drama well into the 21 st century. Bibliography Primary Sources Churchill, Caryl. A Number. London: Royal Court Theatre, 2002. —. Top Girls. London, New York: Methuen, 1982 / 1984. Daniels, Sarah. Byrthrite [1987 / 1991]. In: Sarah Daniels, Plays: One. London: Methuen, 1997 [1991]. 329-420. Lodge, David. Small World: An Academic Romance [1984]. London et al.: Penguin, 1985. Secondary Sources Brock, Dan W. “Cloning Human Beings: An Assessment of the Ethical Issues Pro and Con.” Commissioned Paper Brown University . N. d. https: / / bioethicsarchive.georgetown.edu/ nbac/ pubs/ cloning2/ cc5.pdf. Accessed on 27 April 2017. Center for Genetics and Society. N. d. http: / / www.geneticsandsociety.org/ section. php? id=16. Accessed on 27 April 2017. Chaudhuri, Una. “Caryl Churchill.” The Oxford Encyclopedia of British Literature: Volume 1. Ed. David Scott Kastan. New York: Oxford UP , 2006. 473-8. Dinkhauser, Gabriele. “Nonidentical Clones: Caryl Churchill’s A Number : Drama in a Scientific Frame.” University of Mannheim, Anglistisches Seminar, Mannheim. Unpublished Term Paper, 2007. Ermarth, Elizabeth Deeds. “Beyond ‘The Subject’: Individuality in the Discursive Condition.” New Literary History 31 (2000): 405-19. Glomb, Stefan. Erinnerung und Identität im britischen Gegenwartsdrama. Tübingen: Narr, 1997. Gobert, R. Darren. The Theatre of Caryl Churchill. London, New York: Bloomsbury, 2014. 182 Maurus Roller Gray, Frances. “Caryl Churchill.” British and Irish Dramatists since World War II : Fourth Series. Ed. John Bull. Detroit et al.: Thomson Gale, 2005. 51-65. Heinz, Sarah. Die Einheit in der Differenz: Metapher, Romance und Identität in A. S. Byatts Romanen. Tübingen: Narr, 2007. Hillebrand, Ingo and Dirk Lanzerath. Klonen: Stand der Forschung, ethische Diskussion, rechtliche Aspekte. Stuttgart: n. p., 2001. Jensen, David A. “Human Reproductive Cloning: Ethical Perspectives.” Ethical Dilemmas in Assisted Reproductive Technologies. Ed. Joseph G. Schenker. Berlin, Boston: de Gruyter, 2011. 297-308. Jensen, Eric A. The Therapeutic Cloning Debate: Global Science and Journalism in the Public Sphere. Farnham, Burlington: Ashgate, 2014. Klein, Julia M. “Caryl Churchill’s Identity Crises.” The Chronicle of Higher Education. 26 May 2006. http: / / web.b.ebscohost.com/ ehost/ detail/ detail? vid=10&sid=b0362f08-4 ebd-4229-ae3b-7c4171959351%40sessionmgr120&hid=101&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc 3QtbGl2ZQ%3d%3d#AN=2007301381&db=mzh. Accessed on 27 April 2017. Kritzer, Amelia Howe. “Political Currents in Caryl Churchill’s Plays at the Turn of the Millennium.” Crucible of Cultures: Anglophone Drama at the Dawn of a New Millennium. Eds. Marc Maufort and Franca Bellarsi. Brussels: Peter Lang, 2002. 57-67. Kritzer, Amelia Howe. The Plays of Caryl Churchill: Theatre of Empowerment. Basingstoke, London: Macmillan, 1991. Luckhurst, Mary. Caryl Churchill. Abingdon, NewYork: Routledge, 2015. Macintosh, Kerry Lynn. Human Cloning: Four Fallacies and Their Legal Consequences. New York: Cambridge UP , 2013. Mellor, Anne K. “A Feminist Critique of Science” [1988]. Mary Shelley: Frankenstein. Ed. Fred Botting. Basingstoke, London: Macmillan, 1995. 107-39. Mieth, Dietmar. “Ethik, Moral und Religion.” Klonen: Ethisch betrachtet. Ed. Anne McLaren. Münster: Lit Verlag, 2004. 125-45. Quante, Michael. “‘Aber Dich gibt’s nur einmal für mich! ’: Gefährdet Klonieren die Identität der Person? “ Gene, Klone und Organe: Neue Perspektiven der Biomedizin. Ed. Rainer Paslack and Hilmar Stolte. Frankfurt am Main et al. Peter Lang, 1999. 109-24. Quigley, Austin E. “Stereotype and Prototype: Character in the Plays of Caryl Churchill.” Feminine Focus: The New Women Playwrights. Ed. Enoch Brater. New York, Oxford: Oxford UP , 1989. 25-52. Reckwitz, Andreas. Das hybride Subjekt: Eine Theorie der Subjektkulturen von der bürgerlichen Moderne zur Postmoderne. Weilerswist: Velbrück Wissenschaft, 2006. Roller, Maurus. Krise und Wandel: Das britische Drama im 20. Jahrhundert. Untersuchungen zum Verhältnis von Identität, Autonomie und Form-Inhalt-Relation. Tübingen: Narr, 2014. Schmid, Wilhelm. Philosophie der Lebenskunst: Eine Grundlegung. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1998. Schroten, Egbert. “Ist das Klonen von Menschen prinzipiell falsch? ” Klonen: Ethisch betrachtet. Ed. Anne McLaren. Münster: Lit Verlag, 2004. 91-108. Caryl Churchill’s A Number (2002) and Human Cloning 183 Steinvorth, Ulrich. “Kritik der Kritik des Klonens.” Hello Dolly? : Über das Klonen. Eds. Johann S. Ach et al. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1998. 90-122. Straub, Jürgen. “Identität.” Handbuch der Kulturwissenschaften: Volume 1. Grundlagen und Schlüsselbegriffe . Eds. Friedrich Jaeger and Burkhard Liebsch. Stuttgart, Weimar: Metzler, 2004. 277-303. Zapf, Hubert. Das Drama in der abstrakten Gesellschaft: Zur Theorie und Struktur des modernen englischen Dramas. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1988. Zijderveld, Anton C. The Abstract Society: A Cultural Analysis of Our Time. Harmondsworth, Ringwood: Penguin, 1972 [1970]. Zima, Peter V. Theorie des Subjekts: Subjektivität und Identität zwischen Moderne und Postmoderne. Tübingen, Basel: Francke, 2000. “No View from Nowhere”: Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014)1 8 5 “No View from Nowhere”: Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) Stefan Glomb VALENTINE . Ah. The attraction that Newton left out. Tom Stoppard, Arcadia (1993) HEISENBERG . Mathematics becomes very odd when you apply it to people. One plus one can add up to so many different sums … Michael Frayn, Copenhagen (1998) 1. Literature and Science Given the importance of science in cultural history, it comes as no surprise that the analysis of the relationship(s) of literature and science has by now firmly established itself as a major field of interest in contemporary literary studies. Moreover, there is an impressive range of contemporary British playwrights that have devoted themselves to the topic. To name but some of the most widely noticed authors and works: Caryl Churchill, A Number (2002); Michael Frayn, Copenhagen (1998); Mick Gordon, On Ego (2005); Stephen Poliakoff, Blinded by the Sun (1996); Lucy Prebble, The Effect (2012); Shelagh Stevenson, An Experiment with an Air Pump (1998); Tom Stoppard, Hapgood (1988), Arcadia (1993) and The Hard Problem (2015) (cf. Higgins). Considering the complexity of the topic, it is important to be mindful of the fact that neither of the terms ‘literature’ and ‘science’ refers to a simple, clear-cut entity. As N. Katherine Hayles states in an influential article, [r]ather than defining the field through essentialist definitions of literature and science, I prefer to regard its history as a barometer registering shifts in the culture’s views of disciplinary inquiry, and indeed of the organization and constitution of knowledge in general […]. (Hayles 1068) This approach can be easily backed up by even a small selection of literary texts that have proved particularly influential to science and literature studies: Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818); Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H. (1850); 186 Stefan Glomb H. G. Wells, The Time Machine (1895); Aldous Huxley, Brave New World (1932); Bertolt Brecht, Leben des Galilei (1938 / 39), Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Die Physiker (1962) and Tom Stoppard, Arcadia (1993). If we include Incognito (2014), this list extends over two centuries and comprises texts written in various cultural contexts, spanning the three main literary genres as well as different national literatures and addressing scientific subjects and paradigms as diverse as galvanism, geology, Darwinism, thermodynamics, genetic engineering, chaos theory and neuroscience. This point needs stressing in order to forestall the impression that science as a topic is exclusively germane to contemporary British drama rather than being dealt with in a concerted effort of manifold contributions. The central importance of science is also reflected in the work of Nick Payne (born in 1984), who was awarded prizes for several of his plays and was shortlisted for the Evening Standard ’s Most Promising Playwright Award. Most recently, Payne made a name for himself as a screenwriter for Ritesh Batra’s adaptation of Julian Barnes’ novel The Sense of an Ending (2011). His plays include If There Is I Haven’t Found It Yet (2009), Wanderlust (2010), One Day When We Were Young (2011), Constellations (2012), Incognito (2014) and Elegy (2016). For the present purpose it may suffice to take a look at the two plays which are thematically most closely connected to Incognito . In Constellations , Marianne is a physicist interested in quantum multiverse theory, a fact that informs the structure of the play, which presents Marianne and Roland’s relationship in a number of permutations, or constellations, based on the assumption that “at any given moment, several outcomes can co-exist simultaneously. […] In the quantum multiverse, every choice, every decision you’ve ever made exists in an unimaginably vast ensemble of parallel universes” (Payne, Constellations , 17). In a way that is also relevant to Incognito , the play addresses the problem of freedom: MARIANNE . In none of our equations do we see any sign whatsoever of any evidence of free will. […] We’re just particles. […] You, me, everyone, we might think that we have some say in - We might think that the choices we make will have some say in the - […] We’re just particles governed by a series of very particular laws being knocked the fuck around all over the place. (ibid. 18, emphasis in original) The idea that free will is only an illusion and that for much of the time we are steered by processes we are ignorant of, as well as the notion that insights from the world of science may have negative consequences in a social context are also dealt with in Incognito . Elegy also restricts itself to a small number of characters: Carrie and Lorna are a couple, Dr Miriam Gomez is a doctor. After a brain operation, Lorna is no longer able to recognize Carrie, to whom she has been married for twenty years, and, as slowly transpires in the course of several flashbacks, the very operation that saved Lorna from being utterly incapacitated Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 187 also erased all the memories connected to the time she spent with Carrie. What makes this situation particularly poignant is the fact that it is Carrie who talks Lorna into having the operation that undoes their mutual bond. Again, Payne raises the issue of how scientific developments affect human relationships and concepts like love and morality. The choice of Incognito as the subject of the present article is due to the way that the play addresses the role of neuroscience as a discipline that has garnered considerable attention not just in the field of science but in the overall context of contemporary culture as well. In fact, our time has been christened ‘The Age of the Brain’ (cf. Skillman; Burn 213). This development has made itself felt in numerous areas: “Over the past sixty years, the empirical study of the brain has touched nearly every discourse concerned with the actions we ascribe to minds, from learning language to suffering grief.” (Skillman 5) More recently, neuroscience has also been the focus of attention in yet another replay of the so-called ‘Two-Cultures’ debate that dates back to the 19 th century and was sparked by increasing animosity between the sciences and the humanities. The intellectual climate today is very much informed by conflicting claims as to subjects like free will and selfhood, with (some) neuroscientists claiming that they are the only ones who can provide convincing answers, and humanists asserting that the concepts and arguments employed by scientists are unduly reductionist (cf. Glomb, “Selbstbewusstsein”). In this context, Incognito is a timely play because it serves to highlight the role of literature in a debate that has mainly involved scientists and philosophers. The following interpretation will, therefore, provide information concerning the philosophical background, which the play alludes to without spelling it out, and, in conclusion, discuss in how far a literary treatment of the topics raised in the play differs from scientific and philosophical approaches. 2. Participants and Observers In contrast to the two plays briefly discussed above, Incognito is less minimalistic: it features 22 characters acting in 30 scenes located in different time-frames and presented in non-chronological order. The main characters are Harvey, Martha and Henry: Harvey is based on Thomas Stoltz Harvey, the pathologist who dissected Albert Einstein’s brain after his death in 1955; Henry Maison is based on Henry Molaison, a patient who had parts of his brain removed as a cure for epilepsy (cf. Payne, Elegy , 67); Martha is a fictional neuropsychologist. In consultation with Martha, her patient Anthony remembers the time when he first got to know his girlfriend Deborah: “We met at a party. That’s the good thing about the first year of undergraduate study, you get to interact with stu- 188 Stefan Glomb dents from other subjects. I guess maybe later on there’s no need to, to interact with other subjects.” (36) What is interesting here is the ambiguity of the word ‘subject’: while in the first instance it means ‘field of scholarly study’, the meaning of the second instance is less clear. The collocation with ‘interact’ suggests human subjects, but the repetition of the word also makes the second instance retain the meaning of the first. On the diegetic level, this testifies to Anthony’s confusion as a result of his medical condition. What is more important, however, is that this ambiguity reflects a theme that runs through the whole play: the dualism of observer and participant, of persons as beings whose interest is directed at objects, on the one hand, and persons as taking part in social interaction, on the other. Two of the three main characters, Harvey and Martha, think of themselves predominantly as scientific observers and, to their cost, disregard the fact that they are also participants in the social world. To Harvey, a staunch believer in the blessings of science (cf. Payne, Incognito, 90), 1 the opportunity to dissect and study Einstein’s brain seems like a one-in-a million chance to further the progress of his discipline: [I]f you can understand the ingredients, the components, that make us who we are, then my God you can understand everything. And there is no bit of the brain that can’t be studied, or weighed, or measured, or cut open; there isn’t a gland or a ventricle inaccessible to the surgeon’s knife. (63 f.) Harvey falls prey to what philosophers call the ‘atomistic fallacy’: the idea that the “dismantling of the material parts involved in mental processes provides a key to how consciousness works” (Sturma, Philosophie des Geistes , 22). Moreover, the violence implicit in this passage is reminiscent of Wordsworth’s poem “The Tables Turned” (1815) with its famous line “[w]e murder to dissect” (Wordsworth 60), which has become a catchphrase highlighting the dangerous potential of scientific progress. What is even more important, however, is the finishing section of Harvey’s speech: “And what better place to start, what better place to begin, than by examining the brain of one of the greatest scientific minds of the twentieth century.” (64, my emphasis) By conflating the terms ‘brain’ and ‘mind’, Harvey is committing a category mistake, i. e. “the attribution to an entity of a property which that entity cannot have” (Audi 123; cf. also Sturma, Philosophie des Geistes , 22). Harvey believes that analysing the brain will unlock the secrets of the mind, which would only be possible if the mind, too, had physical properties. Unaware of this discrepancy, he aims at catching Einstein’s brain in the process of thinking: 1 Numbers in brackets in the following refer to Payne, Incognito . Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 189 You have to work quickly. By submerging the brain in the formaldehyde, you capture it, you freeze it, midstream. You capture the brain cells almost as if in mid-thought, so that when it comes to slicing the brain up, what you’re lookin’ at is as close to a living brain as - (61) At which point Harvey is interrupted by an incredulous interlocutor, which is just as well, since he might have found it difficult to end his sentence convincingly. The passage testifies to the same category mistake, namely the idea that dissecting a brain will tell you something about its owner’s thoughts, and to the “fantasy whereby touching brains may reveal the stuff of which the self is made” (Tougaw 336). While it is true that neuroscience has established connections between mental states and certain kinds of brain activity, the ‘hard problem’ of consciousness, also known as the ‘body-mind-problem’, or ‘psychophysical problem’, remains unexplained as yet (cf. Chalmers; Sturma, Philosophie des Geistes , 22; Ferber 91 ff.): “[T]wenty-first-century science and philosophy of mind […] are no closer to resolving this hard problem than Plato or Descartes were, despite the fascinating insights the brain sciences have offered in recent decades […].” (Skillman 10) Basically, as Chalmers puts it, the hard problem of consciousness is the problem of experience . […] It is widely agreed that experience arises from a physical basis, but we have no good explanation of why and how it so arises. Why should physical processing give rise to a rich inner life at all? It seems objectively unreasonable that it should, and yet it does […]. (Chalmers 226, emphasis in original) 2 Referring back to Harvey, we can safely say that weighing, measuring and slicing up the brain will not solve the problem. At this point, it is not difficult to see how the hard problem is also relevant to the distinction between participants and observers. While the brain is an object accessible to an observer, the same cannot be said of the mind. 3 The brain is something we have (like other 2 This is also what the title of Tom Stoppard’s most recent play The Hard Problem refers to. One of the characters, Amal, shares Harvey’s interest in the brain as a physical object: “[T]he brain is a machine, a biological machine, and it thinks. It happens to be made of living cells but it would make no difference if the machine was made of electronic gates and circuits, or paperclips and rubber bands for that matter.” (Stoppard 22, emphasis in original) According to him, “[t]here’s overwhelming evidence that the brain causes consciousness” (ibid. 23), to which Hilary replies: “There’s overwhelming evidence that brain activity correlates with consciousness. Registers consciousness. Nobody’s got anywhere trying to show how the brain is conscious” (ibid.). 3 Cf. again Hilary from The Hard Problem : “[T]he study of the mind is not a science. We’re dealing in mind stuff that doesn’t show up in a scan - accountability, duty, freewill, language , all the stuff that makes behaviour unpredictable” (Stoppard 37; emphasis in original). 190 Stefan Glomb organs); the mind is to a large extent what we are . The experience I have of my mind is unique and inaccessible to an outside perspective. The dominance of the scientific view of reality can easily blind us to the fact that this is not a “view from nowhere” (this is the title of an influential study by American philosopher Thomas Nagel), one that allows us to see things ‘as they really are’, but decidedly a view from somewhere , i. e. an approach that is firmly embedded within culture, history, and the lives of those practicing it. The ideal of reducing the observing subject to a pinprick of attention that gains insight which is unsullied by any trace of subjectivity is certainly necessary for science to function (cf. Ferber 67). But when this approach is universalised as the unmarked norm, as the only serious and significant way of referring to the world around us, problems arise. One of them is a lack of attention to the fact that we are never purely observers. Indeed, observation and participation form an asymmetrical relation. German philosopher Martin Seel explains this as follows: No one, no conceivable being capable of gaining knowledge, can be an observer only, for his act of observing aims at observations which can be communicated to others. […] Any objective stance, be it ever so distanced, is a participating stance. […] There is participation without observation but no observation without at least virtual participation. (Seel 139) 4 In a similar line of argument, philosopher Martin Hartmann stresses that the we takes precedence over the I : What takes priority in epistemological terms is not the first-person perspective of a solitary subject but rather a ‘we-perspective’. Of course, this we-perspective cannot be a perspective of observation; it is, rather, the perspective of collaborative activity […]. This perspective […] is called the participant’s perspective. Reality, both in the lifeworld and in science, is constructed on the basis of this perspective […]. (Hartmann 113) Harvey, too, is not merely an observer but also embroiled in life-world contexts, as becomes clear in the fact that his motivation is not purely scientific, since dissecting Einstein’s brain also gives him an opportunity to make a name for himself: “this could be the biggest moment of my life” (24); “this could be the start of something really spectacular, real important” (32). As it happens, we learn in the course of the play that the man who never tires of quoting Louis Pasteur’s “chance favours the prepared mind” (42, 64, 80) somehow fails to reach the stage of preparation required for the completion of his task. Harvey remains trapped in his solipsistic obsession with Einstein’s brain and has to be reminded of the 4 All translations from the German are mine. Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 191 fact in a letter by Otto Nathan, Einstein’s executor and trustee: “I believe we owe the scientific world and also laymen some - positive or negative - results of the research on Einstein’s brain.” (69) Moreover, Harvey’s disregard for his role as a participant goes beyond the scientific community and has even more drastic consequences in his private life. His affair with one of the nurses that he works with at the hospital leads to the break-up of his marriage and loss of contact with his children. As a result, his life goes downhill until he commits suicide by (allegedly) throwing himself off the Brooklyn Bridge (cf. 85). 5 The play creates the strong impression that both his interest in Einstein’s brain and the fact that his research never gets beyond the dissecting stage may be due to inflated expectations on Harvey’s part. In an almost fetishistic manner he expects the brain to solve the problems he has with himself. It seems to promise a way of coming to terms with his existence that does not require him to be a participant, i. e. to devote time and thought to personal relationships and the vagaries of everyday life: “The distance of the observer is basically a distance towards the obligations and troubles of social interaction; he analyses, processes or studies facts which he does not have to answer for.” (Seel 131) And Harvey is not the only character in Incognito who mainly relies on scientific observation. 3. Selfhood, Consciousness, and Freedom Like Harvey, Martha, who runs the Neuropsychology Department of a hospital, is a deeply troubled person. The play establishes several parallels between the two characters: Martha’s marriage, too, has failed, and her current attempts to form a new relationship are as unsuccessful as Harvey’s. Also, the fact that she is an adopted child appears to make it difficult for her to develop a positive outlook on life. Even though she is a respected clinical neuropsychologist, she, like Harvey, suffers from a growing sense of futility: […] I don’t know anything about anything, and I have to look these patients and these people and their families, while they babble on and on and on, I have to look at them, in the eyes, in the eyes, and I have to tell them it’s going to be alright - But really what I wanna say is: we’re pointless. We are pointless. We’re a blip. A blip within a blip within an abyss. So, yes, I have had a bit to drink because, otherwise, frankly, I think I’d be tempted to drive a fucking hammer through my head. (94) Here, and throughout the play, the alcohol-induced laboriousness of her speech reflects a lack of order and direction in Martha’s life. As her use of ‘us’ implies, 5 This is where Payne’s Harvey differs from the real Thomas Stoltz Harvey, who did not commit suicide. 192 Stefan Glomb however, she refers not only to her own personal plight but to humanity at large. Her desperation results from a scientific perspective according to which human beings are meaningless in the grand scheme of things, and the way they see themselves is for the most part based on illusions. Yet, in contrast to Harvey, she is aware of the limitations of an approach based on dissecting brains: I know it feels like an appalling revelation, but the moment I stopped seeing my patients as human beings and started seeing them for what they really are - My, my mum, my adoptive mum, she … I s’pose what I’m trying to say is, when you, when you, when you look at a brain, say - […] When you really, really look at it, you realise, or at least I did: there’s nothing - There is nothing there - Nothing in there. You can poke it, you can prod it, you can weigh it, you can chop it up - (49, emphasis in original) 6 In her view, the fact that treating the brain as a material entity does not render satisfactory clues about the way it works makes it a particularly fascinating object. In an article on the ‘neuronovel’, Jason Tougaw puts it like this: “As a physical object, the brain resonates strangeness, mystery, and unknowability.” (Tougaw 335) Indeed, Martha is fascinated by the way the brain is active behind the scenes: “The brain is a storytelling machine and it’s really, really good at fooling us.” (49) What she is talking about here is called ‘confabulation’: It’s, it’s basically a process whereby the brain produces spontaneous, partly made-up, maybe partly not, memories. It’s so people with certain disorders or syndromes can continue to function. A damaged brain can continue to make sense of the world even if the patient can’t. (47) The idea expressed here is that the brain is active behind our backs when it comes to creating illusions that we mistake for reality. As a result, even a concept as fundamentally important as the self turns out to be an illusion if considered in the light of neuroscientific research: 7 6 The elliptic and ambiguous reference to her adoptive mother serves a double function: it signals to the audience that Martha suffers from personal problems she is not even able to spell out properly, and it is one of several elements in the play that create the impression that not everything can be fully explained. 7 As is well known, the self has come under attack from a number of quarters in recent times. David Lodge draws attention to what the sciences and the humanities have in common in this respect: “There is […] a certain affinity between the poststructuralist literary theory that maintains that the human subject is entirely constructed by the discourses in which it is situated, and the cognitive science view that regards human self-consciousness as an epiphenomenon of brain activity.” (Lodge 89) While it is certainly naïve to conceive of the self as a stable, monolithic entity, taking the opposite stance by simply denying its existence is an equally sub-complex approach. Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 193 There isn’t a, the brain doesn’t have some kind of central region that unites all the elements of us. Our brains are constantly, exhaustively working overtime to deliver the illusion that we’re in control, but we’re not. The brain builds a narrative to steady us from moment to moment, but it’s ultimately an illusion. There is no me, there is no you, and there is certainly no self; we are divided and discontinuous and constantly being duped. (48 f.) If virtually everything we think, say and do is triggered by processes which we cannot fully grasp, let alone influence, this is bound to have grave implications for the way we think about freedom and responsibility. If only free persons can be held responsible for their acts, if only someone who could have acted otherwise can be punished for a crime, then what does it mean to say that we are all fundamentally unfree? The inferences that Martha draws from this are patently obvious: when she is approached for an expert’s report by the defence counsel in a murder case - a man stabbed his wife after he had stopped taking his anti-depressant medication - she refuses to cooperate: I - I suppose the problem is I disagree with the basic - […] I’m not sure that I could say with any great confidence that this man was any more or less in control of his actions than he ordinarily - […] I don’t - I don’t necessarily agree with the legal view of responsibility (77 f.) The reason is clear: Martha fails to see the difference between non-accountability resulting from a pathological condition and the kind of alleged nonaccountability we are all subject to due to the hidden machinations of our brains. At this point, it is necessary to supply further background information concerning certain neuroscientific findings that have given rise to a radical criticism of commonly held notions about freedom. In philosophical terms, Martha adheres to a position called hard ‘determinism’, “according to which freedom is an illusion since behaviour is brought about by environmental and genetic factors” (Audi 327) or, as in the present context, by neural processes (hence the term ‘neuro-determinism’). Hard determinism is a variety of ‘incompatibilism’, which maintains that the idea of freedom is incompatible with the view that everything happens as a result of physical causes (cf. Ferber 174 ff.). What kicked off the latest round of the Two-Cultures debate was an experiment conducted by US -American physiologist Benjamin Libet in 1983 to show that a particular kind of brain activity, the so-called ‘readiness potential’, precedes the conscious decision to carry out an act (such as moving one’s finger). Libet’s “subjects consciously and freely ‘decided’ to initiate an action only after the neurological preparation to act was well under way. This implies that the conscious decision was not the cause of the action” (Banks / Pockett 657). Some neuroscientists 194 Stefan Glomb jumped to the conclusion which Martha also draws in Payne’s play, namely that there is no such thing as free will. Philosophers, however, have been busy to prove that this conclusion is based on a number of problematic assumptions. Even though this is not the place to present in detail “a heated debate, which has lasted […] two decades so far and shows every sign of heating up still further” (Banks/ Pockett 657), 8 understanding Payne’s play requires knowledge of at least some of the counter-arguments. First of all, neuro-determinists confuse causes and reasons. Causes are operative in the scientifically observable physical world, free action, by contrast, requires reasons. Jürgen Habermas, one of the most prominent voices in the debate referred to here, elucidates this as follows: Usually, actions are the result of a complex chain of intentions and considerations, which weigh up goals and alternative means with regard to opportunities, resources and obstacles. A design which temporally compresses the planning, decision and execution of a bodily movement, and which isolates it from any context of further goals and well-founded alternatives, can only grasp artefacts. These artefacts lack what implicitly constitutes actions in the first place: the internal connection with reasons. (Habermas 159) While causes apply and can be observed in a scientific context, participants in social interaction must be able to give reasons for what they do, both to themselves and others. This is why hard determinism is an ultimately indefensible proposition: “If determinism is true, it cannot give reasons for its truth. For it is not reasons, but causes, that make the determinist believe in the truth of his perspective. Reasoning, however, presupposes freedom.” (Ferber 185) Furthermore, considering free will as an illusion from which everyone suffers is philosophically untenable, because “both in terms of epistemology and the philosophy of mind, the concept of a ‘necessary illusion’ is misleading, even inconsistent” (Seel 159). This criticism can be taken a step further to show that the conclusion constitutes a performative contradiction (cf. Sturma, Philosophie des Geistes , 46): “For if the practical self-conception and self-relation of human beings is largely illusionary, this applies also to the outlook of whoever practices science. As a scientist, he claims a freedom of judgement which his diagnosis exposes as non-existent.” (Seel 159) All in all, hard determinism does not only go against the grain of our everyday experience, it is also a position that cannot be defended consistently. Concerning Incognito , the question arises why Martha should be so eager to align herself with the anti-freedom camp. As with Harvey, the play makes it abundantly clear that her tendency to let the insights gained from a scientific 8 For detailed accounts of the controversy see Walter; Recki 42 ff. Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 195 observer’s standpoint determine her view of humanity is rooted in her inability to come to terms with the demands of everyday life. While Martha tenaciously clings to an observer’s view, according to which everything can be explained by recourse to natural laws, the following passage, in which she talks about the consequences of pathological memory loss, shows the extent to which the position of the observer and that of the participant are in fact mutually entangled: PATRICIA . Well, that is the darkest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Like, ever. MARTHA . Or it’s liberating - I mean, imagine if you could, if you could forget all the embarrassing things you’d ever done, all the people you loved who are dead and who you desperately miss - Imagine if you could forget all that trauma and all that pain. Having to remember keeps us locked into a particular mode of behaviour - It makes us a certain person. Imagine how liberating it would be to not know who you are. To feel free to behave however you want. To not be sad or self-conscious or afraid of what might be around the corner. Most of the amnesiacs I go to see or work with make a full recovery. More often than not their amnesia is temporary. But for a couple of minutes or a couple of hours, I feel like saying to them: enjoy it while it lasts. I envy the freedom they have to be anyone they want. (48) Nowhere in the play does it become more obvious that Martha sees scientific findings and the conditions of her patients through the lens of her own personal problems. The idea that memory loss may be liberating ties in with the fact that she eagerly embraces the view that there is no such thing as the self. Since we get to know very little about Martha’s actual work, we perceive her mainly as a person caught up within the complex sphere of everyday life. Seen from this perspective, her frequent recourse to reductive scientific explanations appears as a way of shirking responsibility and avoiding any kind of serious commitment. Like Harvey, she prefers the clearly defined tidiness of scientific observation to the comparatively messy participation in the life-world, and thus, like him, she is a drifter, who fails to give her life direction by prioritising, taking decisions and acting accordingly. This is underlined by the fact that she drinks too much, is unable to give up smoking and fails to make a real effort to establish meaningful personal relationships. Her scientific denial of freedom obscures the freedom she actually has. In other words, her position as a scientific observer restricts her view to seeing only physical causes as determining factors and makes her blind to the fact that, seen from the perspective of a participant, decisions and actions are not caused physically but through reasons. 9 Thus, the distinction between absolute freedom and absolute determinism that seems to dominate much of the debate referred to here is far too crude to 9 For the following cf. Glomb, “Hybrid Individual”, 68 ff. 196 Stefan Glomb do justice to the problem at stake. It is more appropriate to distinguish between different kinds of causation, physical causality being only one of them. In this context, it is important to realise that the very idea of absolute freedom, of freedom without determining factors, is nonsensical. Freedom can never be unconditional but is always conditioned by factors pertaining to a particular person. In an influential study, philosopher-cum-novelist Peter Bieri states this as follows: “A will is always a particular will, and it is always somebody’s will. A will that could not be distinguished from another by having a particular content and belonging to a particular person could not be a will.” (Bieri 239, emphasis in original) According to Bieri, the idea of absolute freedom is inconceivable because there is no such thing as a completely free will: Let us assume you had an unconditional free will. This would be a will which would not depend on anything. A completely detached will, free from any causal connections. Such a will would be a crazy, abstruse will. For its detachment would imply that it would be independent of your body, your character, your thoughts, your fantasies and memories. It would, in other words, be a will without any connection to what makes you a particular person. Thus, in a substantial sense of the word, it would not be your will at all. (ibid. 230, emphasis in original) The freedom Martha has is the freedom to exercise what Harry Frankfurt calls ‘second-order volition’ (Frankfurt 16 ff.). While smoking and drinking are first-order desires, second-order volition refers to the way we deal with those desires: “[T]he notion of the will […] is the notion of an effective desire - one that moves (or will or would move) a person all the way to action.” (ibid., emphasis in original) Hence, giving up the fatalistic notion that her behaviour is determined by the hidden workings of her neuronal apparatus would allow Martha to realise that she can actually put into practice the insight that drinking and smoking are detrimental to her health. This, along with other decisions, would be a way of giving her life a new direction: “By forming a will through deliberation and the play of the imagination, we work on ourselves. We endow the will with a profile that did not exist before. In that sense you are a different person after taking a decision than you were before.” (Bieri 382) Seen in this light, Martha’s (and some of her scientific peers’) habit of treating the brain as a fully-fledged agent is highly problematic. According to David Eagleman, whose book Icognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain seems to have inspired the title of Payne’s play, the “brain works its machinations in secret, conjuring ideas like tremendous magic. It does not allow its colossal operating system to be probed by conscious cognition. The brain runs its show incognito” (7). In social contexts, however, the authors of decisions and actions are not brains but persons . This is why treating the brain as though it was a person Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 197 has been criticised as the ‘homunculus fallacy’ (Keil 207 ff.), i. e. the notion that something in the brain “takes decisions, weighs up, evaluates, deceives us, is aware of itself, pictures itself, experiences itself as an autonomous agent” (Keil 208). The idea is that there is a little person ( homunculus ) inside our brain, secretly pulling the levers, as in Pink Floyd’s famous line “There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me” (cf. Eagleman 8). Again, Martha’s propensity to treat her brain as a separate entity and to endow it with the kind of agency that in fact only she as a person can have, allows her to shirk responsibility. 10 Harvey and Martha face two types of problem: as scientific observers they try to solve the riddles of the natural world, and as participants in the social world they must come to terms with their own lives. What the play shows is how problems can arise when conclusions drawn in the realm of science are used as guiding principles for navigating the life-world. Patricia points this out when she confronts Martha after feeling betrayed by her: “[…] I know you don’t believe in free will, but I think you seriously need to exercise a bit of, like, self-fucking control.” (93) Right from the start, Martha fails to make clear what kind of relationship she expects to have with Patricia. In this context the question of whether the neuro-determinism she adheres to is true or not is irrelevant since even those who may be convinced by the view that freedom is illusory will, in all likelihood, continue to hold themselves and others responsible for their actions: It is not just the subjective evidence of our freedom of the will, but the whole spectrum of social reactions from gratefulness to bearing a grudge, which lend plausibility to freedom. […] It is not logically and physically impossible, but it certainly is pragmatically and humanly impossible to act as though other human beings were not persons who are the authors of their actions. (Ferber 188 f.) Allowing her bleakly deterministic view of human nature to diminish her sense of self, Martha, like Harvey, fails to see that scientific principles are not universally applicable. What follows from the fact that “the life-world and brain science cannot easily be made to agree” (Sturma, Neurowissenschaften , 10) is that in the context of the life-world the question of whether or not we are ultimately determined by physical causes becomes insignificant: “Even if determinism was true, it would not change the ways in which we participate and react […].” (Ferber 188) 10 The Hard Problem draws attention to a similar phenomenon when Hilary answers Bo’s claim that it does not matter what makes people good with the following riposte: “It might matter if people who are out for themselves think they’re justified by biology” (40). 198 Stefan Glomb 4. Networks and Knowledge As was shown above, Martha’s neuro-reductionist confusion of observation and participation leads her to conclude that “there is certainly no self ” (48). Martha, along with a number of real-world neuroscientists, fails to realise that the fact that the idea of the self does not have an observable equivalent in the physical world does not mean that it does not exist. Like consciousness, the self is not a physical object but an experienced phenomenal certainty. It may, in fact, be advisable to use the term ‘identity’ rather than ‘self ’, since the former is a relational term and thus does not carry the implication of referring to something monolithic and stable. As with the mind, “an identity is not only something that a person has ; a person also is an identity, insofar as I experience myself as a unity in different times and places” (Ferber 85, emphasis in original). To grasp the nature of this phenomenon, it is more appropriate to see it as a network. In her article “The Science of Selfhood”, which is included in the published edition of Payne’s play Elegy , Anil K. Seth, professor of neuroscience at the University of Sussex, explains this as follows: One of the most important lessons, from decades of research, is that there is no single thing that is the self. Rather, the self is better thought of as an integrated network of processes that distinguish self from non-self at many different levels. There is the bodily self - the experience of identifying with and owning a particular body […], the perspectival self, the experience of perceiving the world from a particular first-person point-ofview. The volitional self involves experiences of intention, of agency, or urges to do this or that […]. At higher levels we encounter narrative and social selves. The narrative self is where the ‘I’ comes in, as the experience of being a continuous and distinctive person over time. […] Finally, the social self is that aspect of my self-experience and personal identity that depends on my social milieu, on how others perceive and behave towards me, and on how I perceive myself through their eyes and minds. (Payne, Elegy , 65 f.) This shows that neuroscience does not have to be coterminous with reductionism and that Martha is far from representing the whole range of positions within her profession. Seth is far more reticent in her conclusions: [T]he world outside the laboratory is still full of people who experience themselves - and each other - as distinct, integrated wholes. How the science of selfhood will change this everyday lived experience, and society with it, is a story that is yet to be told. (ibid. 69) Martha’s scientific disregard for the first-person perspective of individuals endowed with consciousness leads her to embrace a view that is not just counterintuitive but also incompatible with everyday experience, as “every doubt about Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 199 the evidence of consciousness is bound to become implausible at some point” (Ferber 127). Again the difference between Martha’s outlook and that of Seth is instructive since the latter uses the word ‘experience’ five times in the first quote above and thus, rather than treating it as an epiphenomenon, 11 highlights the central importance of the first-person perspective. Thomas Nagel, who argues for the mutual irreducibility of the objective and the subjective perspective, points out the necessary incompleteness of a purely objective view: [T]here are things about the world and life and ourselves that cannot be adequately understood from a maximally objective standpoint […]. A great deal is essentially connected to a particular point of view […], and the attempt to give a complete account of the world in objective terms detached from these perspectives inevitably leads to false reductions or to outright denial that certain patently real phenomena exist at all. (Nagel 7) Martha’s denial of the existence of a self is in line with the passage referred to earlier, where she envies what she considers her patients’ “freedom […] to be anyone they want” (48) resulting from memory loss. However, looking at Henry, the third protagonist of the play, shows that she is wide of the mark. Henry is a patient who suffers from the inability to form new memories. The last thing he remembers is that he was on the point of setting off on a honeymoon with his wife Margaret as soon as he has undergone a brain operation. Margaret is present during the first phase of his post-operative treatment but later dies giving birth to their daughter, a fact that Henry’s medical consultant Milner 12 tries in vain to communicate to him. From this point on and for the rest of his life, Henry awaits Margaret’s return and keeps asking after her. He is unable to form new personal relationships because he remains stuck at the moment in time when Margaret and he were most happy. Both the fact that he lacks the capacity to understand his situation and the feeling of being useless make him wish to end his life (cf. 83). What the three protagonists - two of them sane, one suffering from a severe mental condition - have in common is the inability to form and / or uphold personal relationships, the feeling that they are leading a meaningless life, and the fact that they either commit (Harvey) or get close to committing (Martha, Henry) suicide. While this juxtaposition does not necessarily imply that the 11 Epiphenomenalism is “a theory about the relation between matter and mind, according to which there is some physical basis for every mental occurrence. Mental phenomena are seen as by-products, as it were, of a closed system of physical causes and effects, and they have no causal power of their own” (Mautner 193). 12 Payne’s Victor Milner is modelled on Brenda Milner, the neuropsychologist who studied Henry Molaison’s case (cf. Payne, Elegy , 67). 200 Stefan Glomb difference between sanity and illness is one of degree rather than kind, what it certainly does demonstrate is that the goal of leading a life considered worthwhile can be very difficult to achieve. As was shown above, the reason for Martha’s willingness to embrace a deterministic worldview seems to lie less in the irrefutability of certain scientific conclusions than in her personal history. Towards the end of the play, she is contacted by a colleague of hers who has recently been involved with Henry, who is now 80 and a famous case (cf. 91). In order to gain permission to study Henry’s brain after his death, the doctors are looking for relatives. Martha, who professionally knows about Henry, is made to realise that she is actually his granddaughter. Margaret, Henry’s wife, died giving birth to a girl who was put up for adoption and in turn gave birth to Martha who was also put up for adoption. In the final scene of the play, Henry and Martha, who in a sense have been ‘incognito’ to each other, meet for the first time: he is still waiting for Margaret to return for their honeymoon, and, asked about their destination, says (the sequence is repeated almost identically due to his defective memory): “Brighton. Margaret wants to visit the West Pier. She wants to visit the starlings.” (97 f.) Martha cannot bring herself to tell him that they are related but tells him that her son is a musician. Henry, who is himself a gifted musician and has gradually regained his ability to play, finishes Incognito with a piano piece: “ Henry plays the melody taught to him by Margaret. He plays with great confidence and fluidity; it’s fucking brilliant. ” (99) The melody is an impressive theatrical device whose function is to highlight Henry’s deep attachment to Margaret, which has survived the cataclysmic upheaval caused by his illness. This final meeting has several implications for the play as a whole: 1) concerning the observer-participant-dualism, Martha’s meeting with Henry symbolises the coming together of the two perspectives. Henry, who before represented the type of person that Martha dealt with only professionally as a detached observer now turns out to be intimately connected with her. Even though the play does not show this explicitly, knowing about Henry may even contribute to restoring her to a more meaningful life. 2) The idea of studying someone’s brain posthumously invites comparison with Harvey. But where his solipsistic endeavour to (quite literally) tap into Einstein’s brain is exposed as a fruitless attempt at self-aggrandisement, the project that Martha’s colleagues pursue shows them to be participants in a network of social relations. Just like their conscientious care for him during his lifetime, analysing Henry’s brain can be understood as a way of making life easier for people suffering from the same condition by furthering the knowledge of the scientific community. 3) The improbability of the circumstances of the meeting is semantically charged. That Martha should be a doctor specialising in the very illness that her grandfather suffers from is highly Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 201 unlikely and thus introduces a contingent element that undermines the idea of an all-pervasive causality. 4) This links up with the image of the formations of starlings. Earlier in the play, Anthony, a patient suffering from a condition similar to Henry’s, talks (equally insistently) about his girlfriend: “[…] Deborah was outside and there were starlings. I love the way they come together and move away and then come back together. They sometimes look like half a shape. It’s beautiful.” (36) In terms of causal connection, there is no discernible reason for the parallel between the two passages in the play (neither is there for another one, where Anthony inadvertently addresses Martha as Margaret, which verges on the miraculous, cf. 86). The centrality of the bird image is highlighted by the cover of the published edition of the play: a cloud of birds forms a shape that looks like a human head. The temporal aspect is important: the picture does not make it clear whether the incomplete head is about to take shape or about to lose it. 5) The temporal dimensions are also relevant to the meeting of Martha and Henry. It is again Anthony who draws attention to Einstein’s theory, quoting Deborah, who is a physicist: Deborah told me that before Einstein, time seemed like a river, flowing in one direction; yesterday the past is upstream and we can never get back to it, and tomorrow is downstream and we’re constantly swept along by the tide. But Einstein said no, it isn’t like that. (84) According to Einstein, “time was not an objective given, but a consequence of the act of time-measurement. Time only existed when measured, and measurements varied according to the relative motion of the measuring body and the body measured” (West-Pavlov 25). Also, Anthony remembers Deborah’s love of H. G. Wells’ scientific romance The Time Machine : I remember she told me her father had died when she was very young. […] She told me he used to read to her from The Time Machine . She said to me that she was obsessed with that book and that that was what drew her to physics. She committed to the idea that she could build a time machine and go back to him. (84) The part of Incognito discussed here also demonstrates the relativity of time and the disruption of an orderly linear procession from past to future. Henry, though physically inhabiting the same time zone as Martha, is mentally still living in the past. Like a time machine, Henry’s illness provides Martha with the opportunity to witness her grandfather’s perspective as it was when he was still a young man. Like Deborah, Martha has suffered from the loss of her parents and grandparents, a fact that goes some way towards explaining the disordered state of her life. But while she is still potentially able to regain control of it, Henry is 202 Stefan Glomb at the mercy of his medical condition. His illness shows that loss of memory is by no means to be envied, since it also means loss of identity: Diseases that affect memory alter identities. The plural noun is important. For memories are embedded within our relationships, roles and communities. What we remember reflects who we are to other people. Our stories are informed by, and inform, the stories of others. We depend on each other as we develop our identities: as someone’s child, sibling, friend, lover, partner or colleague. And we, in turn, hold up the mirror of identity to those whose lives entwine with our own. (Bowman 60) All of the five aspects listed above are about connections: social connections between relatives (1) and between researchers in a scientific community as well as doctors and patients (2), contingent connections as part of the play’s aesthetic structure (3), spatial patterns connecting birds (4) and temporal patterns connecting past and present as well as memory and identity, which are located within an intricate web of social, temporal and spatial connections (5). This is where the concept of the network appears helpful. A very simple definition, taken from Caroline Levine’s analysis of basic literary forms, may suffice: “once there is a link between two nodes, there is a network” (Levine 119). Even though its “holistic vision, the revelation of unexpected similarities between widely different systems, and the current cultural fascination with the concept of network bring with them the temptation to think of network science as a ‘theory of everything’” (Caldarelli / Catanzaro 117), in the present context it serves to demonstrate how Incognito points beyond the kind of scientific reductionism analysed above. What is central in the present context is the fact that, as a concept, the network is at odds with a number of dichotomies and demarcations that serve to fix and stabilise what can be more fruitfully thought of as being complex and fluid. For instance, thinking of nature and culture as constituting a dichotomy appears as a distortion if considered from this angle. Philosopher Hartmut Böhme states: “Concerning nets, the systematic distinction between nature and culture is useless. Both material things and symbolic objects are capable of creating nets.” (Böhme 17) Using a network approach to get beyond the dichotomy of nature and culture, and thus avoiding the extremes of either treating them as polar opposites or, conversely, as being subject to the same laws, allows for a consideration of both similarity and difference, here and in a number of other fields as well. Networks span the whole gamut “from computers to organic tissue to city planning to friendships” (Levine 115), and the fact that they “do not fit formal models of unified shape or wholeness” (ibid. 113) serves as an antidote to the kind of monoculture to be found in some scientific quarters. This, however, is not to claim that networks are per se liberating (cf. ibid. 114). But networks “are useful […] because they allow us to refuse meta- Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 203 physical assumptions about causality in favour of observing linkages between objects, bodies, and discourses” (ibid. 113) and, it should be added: minds. As has been shown above, the same logic applies if we replace the dichotomies objectivity-subjectivity and observation-participation by a network approach that, rather than breaking down complexity to manageable simplicity, implies that what we analyse is ultimately inexhaustible: “At any given moment, we know that we cannot grasp crucial pathways between nodes, and this points us to our more generalized ignorance of networks. We cannot ever apprehend the totality of the networks that organize us […].” (Levine 131) Hence, conceiving of reality in terms of networks goes together with a certain acceptance of contingency and ignorance. While this may sound like an outrageous notion to scientifically trained ears, it has a different ring in a life-world context. Whereas in science ignorance is seen as temporary because it is located within a horizon of potential knowability, in the life-world full knowledge cannot (and need not) be attained: [At] any moment our knowledge of social interconnections can only be partial: we may intuit the overwhelmingly complex webs of social interconnections in glimpses and hints, but the networks that connect rich and poor, city and world, the dead and the living, are never fully present to consciousness. […] [T]he overlapping of social networks approaches a magnitude and a complexity so great that their wholeness defies full knowledge […]. (Levine 129) It is against this backdrop that the hegemonic spread of scientific approaches finds its explanation. Their overspill into areas where a critical perspective exposes science’s limitations, or, to put it differently, the transition from science to scientism, 13 is at least partly due to the attractiveness of an outlook that promises to keep at bay, and maybe finally do away with, the messiness of everyday life. However, it is not only on the level of content but also in its formal features that Payne’s play exemplifies the fruitfulness of a network approach. The macrostructural orderliness of the triad “Encoding” (13), “Storing” (43) and “Retrieving” (70), which implies a neat sequential logic as well as closure, is undermined by the fact that these section headings (which are not available to a theatre audience anyway) do not align with the comparatively formless array of scenes subsumed under them. The play as a whole is characterised by structural openness which arranges the 30 scenes and 21 characters in a non-linear fashion. Thus, the audience and readers are required to establish the connections which 13 Scientism is “the belief that the methods of the natural sciences are applicable in all inquiry, especially the human and social sciences” (Mautner 562). 204 Stefan Glomb allow the play’s network of characters, situations and themes to emerge. In fact, the attempt to establish a perfect fit of the macrostructural triad and the individual scenes would entail the kind of conceptual violence that to a large extent underpins scientism. Finally, the title Incognito with its emphasis on not knowing is also significant. This does not mean, of course, that the play’s message is that ignorance is bliss. Again, dichotomies are misleading since there is a wide spectrum of shades between complete knowledge and complete ignorance. What the play certainly does, however, is invite scepticism of the complacency and insouciance (as well as the will to power) of those who are constantly trying to make us believe that there is a neat scientific explanation to everything under the sun. The single-(and simple-)minded insistence on physical causality as the only connection worth considering stands out in sharp relief against the play’s focus on the relativity and multiplicity of perspectives, the variety and complexity of networks and the fluidity of reality. Plays like Incognito serve to remind us that “the ontologising of scientific findings into a naturalistic worldview which is reduced to ‘hard’ facts is not science but bad metaphysics” (Habermas 215). 14 This squares with Miriam’s statement in Payne’s Elegy : “Science, the work I do, is a method of inquiry, not a view of the world […].” (24) 5. Conclusion At this point, it seems necessary to forestall the impression that the present interpretation is trying to use Incognito as a weapon for science-bashing. As I hope to have shown above, the play is far from presenting a one-sided view but shows science to be a dialectical phenomenon whose complexity forbids a reductionist singling out of detrimental or beneficial aspects (reductionism, it should be noted, is just as much at home in the humanities as in the sciences). In so far as it contributes to a reflexion about the cultural location of science, Incognito is akin to what happens in philosophy and science studies, the latter being “part of an ongoing endeavour to realign the humanities and social sciences with the natural sciences” (Sielke 9 f.). Yet, literary texts have their own specific ways of dealing with topics from the world of science, which means, among other things, that scientific findings, concepts and approaches change their shape as soon as they enter a literary text: Scientific material does not have clear boundaries once it has entered literature. Once scientific arguments and ideas are read outside the genre of the scientific paper and 14 “The question of whether our world is deterministic or non-deterministic cannot be answered by the empirical sciences, or by philosophy, or by both. It is a metaphysical question, the answer to which is mainly motivated by ideology” (Walter 35). Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 205 the institution of the scientific journal, change has already begun. Genres establish their own conditions which alter the significance of ideas expressed within them. When concepts enter different genres they do not remain intact. (Beer 186) To give an example: as has been pointed out above, the title Incognito is taken from a book by a neuroscientist who claims that “the brain runs its show incognito” (Eagleman 7). While this view is mirrored by Martha, the play as a whole expands and deepens the meaning of the word considerably by referring it to Martha’s lack of self-awareness, to the fact that Martha and Henry have been incognito to each other for much of their lives as well as to the thought that striving for scientific knowledge may not be fruitful in all spheres of life. There is a close thematic link between plays like Incognito and the ‘neuronovel’, a genre that has become increasingly prominent in recent years: Neuronovels revisit the representation of consciousness in response to developments in brain research; provoke debates about determinism and reductionism, asking readers to reconsider simple cause-and-effect relationships between biology and experience; reflect and challenge cultural assumptions about neurological difference; experiment with literary conventions to foreground the bewildering complexity of relations between brain, body, and world; and challenge the equation of consciousness and interiority, suggesting that conscious experience is dynamic and relational, emerging through interactions between an organism (or protagonist) and its environment, including other organisms, cultural products, and social relationships. (Tougaw 339 f.) What both genres have in common is that they concentrate on individuals living in the life-world. Thus, they exemplify what can be called literature’s ‘methodological individualism’, i. e. “a focus on flesh-and-blood, situated human beings with specific characteristics and individual names” (Glomb, “Hybrid Individual”, 76). 15 The literary text as a whole, its reception and the fictional world it unfolds are individual in the sense of not being entities and processes that can be subsumed under a general rule or concept, and they are located not in some abstract realm but in the world we inhabit in our daily lives. 16 This life-world, a term that I have hitherto used rather loosely, is defined as follows by philosopher Bernhard Waldenfels, a leading contemporary expert on this topic: The term ‘life-world’ does not denote the world as such, but this world of ours, insofar as we inhabit it with our bodies, experience it with our senses, act and suffer in it, live 15 See Gebauer and Wulf: “literary mimesis selects the single case from society’s totality; in this it is distinct from the great models of sociological, political and economic theory. Its approach is methodological individualism” (Gebauer / Wulf 304 f.). 16 For a more detailed presentation of this line of argument cf. Glomb, “Hybrid Individual”, 74 ff. 206 Stefan Glomb and die, look around in it, enjoy it, share it and fight each other for it. The life-world is our world, insofar as it consists not only of scientific constructs, ideal measurements, mathematical formulae, technical appliances, institutional regulations, cultural patterns and historical relics. (Waldenfels 1418, emphasis in original) By grounding virtually everything they deal with in the life-world, literary texts, as well as pointing out positive aspects, can also draw attention to distortions and dangers resulting from scientific theories that lose sight of their link with everyday concerns and the fact that “[s]cientists and writers dwell in the land of the living where multiple epistemological systems interlock, overlap, contradict, and sustain our day-by-day choices” (Beer 195). Due to generic characteristics, novels and plays differ in their respective focus: where neuronovels usually zoom in on interiority, plays like Incognito tend to foreground social interaction. This is also the case with the two plays that provided the epigraphs to this chapter. In Arcadia, Newton’s system is called into question not just by more recent scientific developments, but its neat logic is crucially also opposed to the unpredictability of human relationships. In Copenhagen , Heisenberg, who feels most at home in the sphere of mathematics, is made to realise that the uncertainty which he encounters in the social world is more difficult to deal with than its counterpart in particle physics. These plays, therefore, serve as a potent antidote to rampant abstraction and, in the case of Incognito , a certain kind of “neurohype” (Walter 8). Bibliography Primary Sources Frayn, Michael. Copenhagen . London: Methuen, 1998. Payne, Nick, Elegy . London: Faber & Faber, 2016. —. Incognito . London: Faber & Faber, 2014. —. Constellations . London: Faber & Faber, 2012. Stoppard, Tom. The Hard Problem . London: Faber & Faber, 2015. —. Arcadia . London: Faber & Faber, 1993. Wordsworth, William. Wordsworth’s Poetry and Prose . Ed. Nicholas Halmi. New York, London: Norton, 2014. Secondary Sources Audi, Robert (ed.). The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy . Cambridge: Cambridge UP , 1999 [1995]. Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 207 Banks, William P. & Susan Pockett. “Benjamin Libet’s Work on the Neuroscience of Free Will.” The Blackwell Companion to Consciousness . Eds. Max Velmans and Susan Schneider. Oxford: Blackwell, 2007. 658-70. Beer, Gillian. Open Fields: Science in Cultural Encounter . Oxford: Oxford UP , 1996. Bieri, Peter. Das Handwerk der Freiheit: Über die Entdeckung des eigenen Willens . München: Hanser, 2001. Böhme, Hartmut. “Einführung: Netzwerke: Zur Theorie und Geschichte einer Konstruktion.” Netzwerke: Eine Kulturtechnik der Moderne . Eds. Jürgen Barkhoff, Hartmut Böhme and Jeanne Riou. Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau, 2004. 17-36 Bowman, Deborah. “Living Through Change.” In: Nick Payne. Elegy . London: Faber & Faber, 2016. 59-63. Burn, Stephen J. “Neuroscience and Modern Fiction.” Modern Fiction Studies 61.2 (2015): 209-25. Caldarelli, Guido and Michele Catanzaro. Networks: A Very Short Introduction . Oxford: Oxford UP , 2012. Chalmers, David. “The Hard Problem of Consciousness.” The Blackwell Companion to Consciousness . Eds. Max Velmans and Susan Schneider. Oxford: Blackwell, 2007. 225-35. Eagleman, David. Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain . Edinburgh, London: Canngate, 2011. Ferber, Rafael. Philosophische Grundbegriffe 2. München: Beck, 2003. Frankfurt, Harry G. The Importance of What We Care About. Cambridge: Cambridge UP , 1998. Gebauer, Gunter and Christoph Wulf. Mimesis: Kultur - Kunst - Gesellschaft . Reinbek: Rowohlt, 1992. Glomb, Stefan. “The Hybrid Individual: Reading Literature as a Critical Commentary on Reckwitz’ Theory of Subject Cultures.” Subject Cultures: The English Novel from the 18 th to the 21 st Century. Eds. Nora Kuster, Stella Butter and Sarah Heinz. Tübingen: Narr, 2016. 49-78. —. “Selbstbewusstsein jenseits der zwei Kulturen: David Lodges Roman Thinks … ” Literatur, Wissenschaft und Wissen seit der Epochenschwelle um 1800 . Eds. Thomas Klinkert and Monika Neuhofer. Berlin, New York: de Gruyter, 2008. 335-54. Habermas, Jürgen. Zwischen Naturalismus und Religion: Philosophische Aufsätze . Frankfurt / M.: Suhrkamp, 2005. Hartmann, Dirk. “Physis und Psyche: Das Leib-Seele-Problem als Resultat der Hypostasierung theoretischer Konstrukte.” Philosophie und Neurowissenschaften . Ed. Dieter Sturma. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2006. 97-123. Hayles, N. Katherine. “Literature and Science”. Encyclopedia of Literature and Criticism . Ed. Martin Coyle. London: Routledge, 1991. 1068-1081. Higgins, David. “Theatre and Science.” A Concise Companion to Contemporary British and Irish Drama . Eds. Nadine Holdsworth and Mary Luckhurst. Oxford: Blackwell, 2008. 225-44. Keil, Geert. Willensfreiheit . Berlin, Boston: de Gruyter, 2013 [2007]. 208 Stefan Glomb Levine, Caroline. Forms: Whole, Rhythm, Hierarchy, Network. Princeton: Princeton UP , 2015. Lodge, David. Consciousness and the Novel . London: Penguin, 2002. Mautner, Thomas (ed.). The Penguin Dictionary of Philosophy . London: Penguin, 2005 [1996]. Nagel, Thomas. The View from Nowhere . Oxford: Oxford UP , 1986. Recki, Birgit. Freiheit . Wien: Facultas, 2009. Seel, Martin. Paradoxien der Erfüllung: Philosophische Essays . Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2006. Seth, Anil K. “The Science of Selfhood.” In: Nick Payne. Elegy . London: Faber & Faber, 2016. 65-9. Sielke, Sabine. “Science Studies and Literature.” Anglia 133.1 (2015): 9-21. Skillman, Nikki. The Lyric in the Age of the Brain . Cambridge Mass.: Harvard UP , 2016. Sturma, Dieter (ed.). Philosophie und Neurowissenschaften . Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2006. —. Philosophie des Geistes . Leipzig: Reclam, 2005. Tougaw, Jason. “Touching Brains.” Modern Fiction Studies 61.2 (2015): 335-58. Velmans, Max, and Susan Schneider (eds.). The Blackwell Companion to Consciousness . Oxford: Blackwell, 2007. Waldenfels, Bernhard. “Lebenswelt.” Neues Handbuch philosophischer Grundbegriffe . Eds. Petra Kolmer and Armin G. Wildfeuer. Vol. 2. Freiburg: Alber, 2011. 1418-29. Walter, Sven. Illusion freier Wille? Grenzen einer empirischen Annäherung an ein philosophisches Problem . Stuttgart, Weimar: Metzler, 2016. West-Pavlov, Russell. Temporalities . Abingdon: Routledge, 2013. Science, Freedom, and Determinism in Nick Payne’s Incognito (2014) 209 IV. Cultural Identity Re-Visiting the British Empire: Neo-Victorian Perspectives on Multicultural Britain in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) Lisa Schwander 1. Remembering the British Empire in the 21 st Century- - Debates, Contexts, Implications In her play The Empress (2013), playwright Tanika Gupta turns from the predominantly contemporary setting of her earlier plays to the Victorian age, thus foregrounding a historical moment at the height of British Imperialism. Her choice mirrors a broader 21 st -century preoccupation with this aspect of the past, whose growing temporal distance does not seem to affect its relevance for contemporary audiences. On the contrary, Gupta’s play demonstrates that the empire is not only of interest as a historical phenomenon, but that it can also provide a fresh perspective on highly relevant issues of the new millennium. Two decades after the official return of Hong Kong to China, the British Empire still holds an important place in British national discourse: politicians frequently refer to the country’s imperial past; newspapers discuss the British Empire and its memory politics; writers of fiction choose it as their subject, and museums dedicate entire exhibitions to this aspect of British history. 1 These examples provide ample evidence for the claim that empire, “as a concept, […] is alive and kicking” (Buchenau / Richter xix). Two competing views emerge among the various engagements with this aspect of the past. The first one celebrates the empire as a glorious peak of British history and, in gross denial of documented oppressions, sees it as a great advocate of freedom and human rights. The second strand promotes a critical revision of the imperial past. Warning of the dangers surrounding a distorted memory, this second approach foregrounds how the empire has shaped and continues to shape our contemporary world. The dispute between these two interpretative schemes over the memory politics at stake indicates not merely a historical argument, but a more profound disagreement about Britain’s identity and her place in the world at the beginning of the 21 st century. 2 1 In 2015/ 16, the Tate Britain, for instance, hosted an exhibition called Artist and Empire. Facing Britain’s Imperial Past . 2 The recent controversy surrounding the ‘Rhodes Must Fall’ movement is a case in point. The movement criticises the choice of Cecil Rhodes, an advocate of imperialism and 212 Lisa Schwander Over the last 20 years, polls have repeatedly surveyed public opinion on Britain’s past empire with a persistent pattern running through the results: the great majority of British people believe in a benevolent empire that had a positive impact on the colonised countries (cf. Dahlgreen, “British Empire”). In early 2016, 44 percent of the respondents thought the empire was a cause for pride - with only 21 percent arguing against this evaluation - and 43 percent judged it as “a good thing” (cf. Dahlgreen, “Rhodes”). In many cases, the overwhelmingly positive evaluation is not grounded in historical evidence - in fact, the empire’s positive public image combines with a profound lack of knowledge about the imperial past. 3 A swath of popular culture seems particularly influential in shaping British notions about their past empire by promoting imperial agents as heroes, regardless of charges of racism associated with their names (cf. Buettner, “Cemeteries”, 16; “Record”, 94 f.). Paul Gilroy has analysed the selective memory that shapes British notions about their imperial past and attested that the nation remains in a state of “postcolonial melancholia”. Erasing negative aspects of the past from the national memory, this melancholic approach replaces a serious historical engagement with a glamorous version of the British Empire (cf. Gilroy 2 f., 90). Overall, the resulting image of the empire appears to be an instance of “imperial nostalgia” 4 in the face of Britain’s diminished status in world politics. The contexts in which politicians relate to the empire support this view. Not only do Conservative and Labour Prime Ministers alike maintain that the empire should no longer be a reason for regret or shame (cf. Gott), they also draw on the concept to convey a contemporary vision of Britain in the world. When David Cameron stated that “Britannia didn’t rule the waves with armbands on” (ibid.), he revealed how the idea of a return to past greatness in world racist thinking, as the figurehead for universities until today and asks for the removal of Cecil Rhodes statues around campuses. Initiated at the University of Cape Town, this movement quickly spread to other places and triggered a hot debate in Britain about a statue of Rhodes outside Oriel College, Oxford (cf. Chaudhuri). 3 See the results of a 1997 Daily Telegraph survey quoted by Richards (128). This seems to have hardly changed at all over the last two decades. In a recent article, The Guardian , for instance, traces the results of the 2016 survey back to a still uninformed public: “How can we ask people to take pride in, or feel regret about, a history that is hardly taught in schools and little explored elsewhere? ” (Olusoga). 4 Ward et al. have traced a nostalgic yearning for a more glorious past in various cultural products of the second half of the 20 th century and shown how ‘imperial nostalgia’ has inscribed itself into the national consciousness as a reaction to a perceived imperial decline from the Suez crisis on. In his 1984 essay “Outside the Whale”, Salman Rushdie criticised the ubiquity of Raj nostalgia and linked it to a Thatcherite spirit of the time. However, the phenomenon has clearly continued beyond the end of Thatcher’s Britain. For a further discussion of the term, see also Rosaldo’s understanding of ‘imperialist nostalgia’. Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 213 politics still guides contemporary political considerations. Disregarding the consequences of this particular way of ruling, he implied the need for a strong, tough nation and turned agents of colonialism into models for today. Theresa May’s recent emphasis on building “a truly global Britain” in the context of the Brexit decision points towards a similar nostalgia for Britain’s past. These statements confirm Barbara Buchenau and Virginia Richter’s observation that what they call the “post-empire imaginary” still lingers on the political horizon, appearing as a benchmark for contemporary political visions. They describe how the empire “fulfils a condition of the Lacanian Imaginary: it functions as an image of totality which is placed in an irrecoverable position of alterity” (Buchenau / Richter xix), holding people “captive in a magic mirror maze of the past, obstructing political maturation and agency” (ibid. xx). Engaging in a more serious historical endeavour, others seek to review the past to the very end of ‘political maturation’ by relating the 19 th century to Britain’s contemporary multiculturalism. 5 Those in favour of historical revision emphasise that the descendants of the formerly colonised now form an integral part of the British nation and need to be taken into account by any memory politics (cf. Gott; see also the article by Kerstin Frank in this volume). Counteracting one-sided nostalgic depictions and acknowledging the wrongs inflicted upon formerly colonised parts of the world appears a political necessity. The empire also serves to scrutinise the present when it appears as a point of origin for today’s multicultural Britain. Several artists whose work was on display at the Tate Artist and Empire exhibition, for example, commented on the need to show how Indian culture has become a formative constituent of British culture: [E]ven though you may say, well, multiculturalism is dead, and blah, blah, blah, stuff like that. Well, yes, but, you know, this is the reason why we have all these Tandoori houses, this is the reason why years ago somebody could claim that chicken tikka masala was the national dish, you know? […] The Empire is something which is not fashionable maybe, but it’s hidden beneath what the society is today. (Locke) 5 Multiculturalism is a very controversial term that critics often associate with an implicit cultural determinism and expect to foster thinking in terms of difference. Especially the official state policies subsumed under the label of multiculturalism at the beginning of this millennium met with sharp criticism for institutionalising difference and segregation. When I use multicultur(e)/ alism I do not wish to engage in this debate in the scope of this paper. Instead, I solely use it for lack of a better term to label the lived coexistence of people of various origins within one society, thus limiting it to what Lentin calls “descriptive multiculture” (1277). However, pointing to the problems of this term seems crucial in a discussion of The Empress , as the play itself is interested in the same issues as the criticism mentioned above. 214 Lisa Schwander In the context of new racism and the growing scepticism towards cultural diversity, pointing towards a shared history becomes increasingly significant in arguing for an inclusive Britishness. Gilroy emphasises the need for an awareness of the violent history that connected Britain irrevocably with other parts of the globe, which he considers crucial for overcoming continuing racial discrimination. Only through an engagement with history can the nation arrive at an understanding of Britishness that sees its cultural minorities no longer as “aliens” but as rightful British citizens (cf. Gilroy 90). Identifying a “neocolonial racial ordering” (Meer / Nayak NP 14), proponents of the need for a revised history locate their argument within a fight against ongoing oppressions. In their view, considering the extent to which structures formed during the empire still underlie today’s society - especially in the realm of race relations - is “not so much an historical argument as a political or, indeed, ethical (anti-racist) imperative” (Howe 290). 6 In all these latter cases, the critical review of the imperial past closely connects to a contemporary reformist agenda. Fiction plays an important role in shaping public ideas about the empire. Contrasting with the nostalgic example of popular culture mentioned above, there is a growing field of novels and plays that critically re-view imperial history. While these texts take part in the debate about what the empire was and how it should be remembered, they also tend to emphasise those aspects that are directly linked to today’s society; hence, they re-engage with the empire filtered through the perspective of topical contemporary themes. Through fictional means, they draw attention to continuities and relations of consequences or parallels between the past and the contemporary moment and add to the positions discussed above. Benjamin Poore, for instance, identifies a tradition of empire plays that explore parallels between the British Empire and recent neo-imperialist politics in the wake of the ‘war on terror’ (cf. Poore 2); other plays foreground parallels in the realm of racial and ethnic discrimination. The following sections analyse Tanika Gupta’s The Empress in the context of the contemporary re-engagement with the empire and highlight the specific contribution of this text to the debate. 6 Similar arguments apply to neo-imperial global policies. Here again, observers ask for a reconsideration of the empires of the past and call attention to parallels between the different eras with regard to global warfare and its underlying motives. Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 215 2. Introducing Tanika Gupta Born in London in 1963 to parents of Bengali origin, Tanika Gupta is often categorised as a ‘British Asian writer’. This is a somewhat contentious label. On the one hand, Gupta herself has repeatedly argued against essentialist categorisations that define writers associated with minority cultures in terms of their origin or ethnicity. She criticises this practice for restricting writers to certain thematic fields and, in doing so, excluding them from a norm associated with white male writers. 7 On the other hand, Gupta’s extensive work - she has also written for the radio and for television and adapted classics to a postcolonial context - circulates around themes related to the particular experience of British Asians and justifies such a label to a certain extent. While some of her plays are set in India, the great majority of her work deals with South Asian communities, immigrant experience and race relations in multicultural Britain. Dedicated to a political vision of “a just and tolerant multicultural society” (Billingham 247), Gupta’s plays subject the contemporary world to a fierce critique. Commenting on her approach, critics have emphasised aspects of social realism, which underline the “seriousness of purpose” dominant in much new writing (Middeke / Schnierer / Sierz x, xx; cf. also Griffin 235). However, at times Gupta’s social realism combines with mystical elements as represented by the spirit of the recently deceased Priya in The Waiting Room (2000) or by references to a subconscious dimension through repeated inclusions of the characters’ dreams in Fragile Land (2003). Gupta’s plays reflect on some of the most pressing themes of the globalised present. In Gladiator Games (2005), she focuses on the theme of racism and its potential institutional basis. Including elements of verbatim theatre, the play works through the real case surrounding the murder of Zahid Mubarek: it tells the story of the young Asian prisoner whose cellmate, an overtly racist prisoner, beat him to death. The play’s name alludes to the suspicion that the guards intentionally paired these prisoners for a repellent form of entertainment. Fragile Land and White Boy (2008) portray the lives of a group of teenagers in Britain who come from various backgrounds and are struggling to find their place in society. Both plays provide a bleak vision of growing up in a multicultural environment in 21 st -century Britain. Gupta’s work embeds these local stories within a more global take on the contemporary world. Her 2006 play Sugar Mummies 7 In an interview she said, “I’m not an Asian writer, I’m a writer. You wouldn’t call Tom Stoppard a Czech writer or a white writer or an English writer, would you, so why should I be labelled? … Of course, I’m still proud of being Asian, but the major factor remains that it shouldn’t determine your writing because in a sense it denigrates you as a writer - I don’t know, it ‘corners you.’” (Billingham 207, emphasis in original; cf. also Starck 349). 216 Lisa Schwander deals with Western sex tourism, and Sanctuary (2002) features a group of refugees stranded in an English churchyard, whose traumatic experiences and guilt surrounding war and genocide in their countries of origin gradually come to the fore. The latter play has been described as a “biting comment on the British government’s reception of refugees as well as a challenge to the construction of global hierarchies which underlie much of Western politics” (Starck 350). In its analysis of the globalised 20 th and 21 st -century present, Gupta’s work emphasises the ongoing exploitation of many parts of the world by the West and draws attention to the unbroken challenges of racism and exclusionist politics and practices. On this basis, Starck claims to identify “a new form of postcolonial drama. It is not so much the quest for an identity that is placed at the play’s centre, as is often the case, but the question as to whether anything has actually changed in our perception of a postcolonial world” (353). 3. The Empress as a Neo-Victorian Empire Play In contrast to these texts set in the contemporary moment, Gupta’s 2013 play The Empress transports its audience into the time of Queen Victoria. It focuses on a cast of Asian characters who, linked by their shared ship journey, arrive in England in 1887. Following their lives in the new surroundings, the play contrasts the various experiences of the arrivals in different plot lines before re-uniting them at the docks in its closing scene. Three of the Asian characters are modelled on the historical figures of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi as a young law student, political activist Dadabhai Naoroji, and Queen Victoria’s Indian servant Abdul Karim. Sent to the queen to wait on her, Abdul Karim famously took on the role of her munshi - her Indian confidant and teacher. While one plot line features this historically documented story of Queen Victoria and Abdul Karim, a second plot line presents the story of the fictional Bengali nursemaid Rani. Dismissed after her arrival because the family has “no further use” (Gupta, The Empress , 35) 8 for her, she finds employment with a second family only to lose it again shortly after when sexual abuse by her employer results in her pregnancy. Through her association with Dadabhai, she becomes involved in politics and finally stays in England with her daughter and her Indian lover Hari. The play evokes the British Empire as the horizon against which its plot unfolds. As Queen Victoria held the additional title ‘Empress of India’ from 1876 on, the title The Empress emphasises her role within the framework of the empire rather than her position in England. Besides that, Gandhi’s and Naoroji’s 8 In the following, references to The Empress will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 217 conversations focus repeatedly on English imperial policies and their consequences. The impact of the empire is also at the centre of the English setting the play constructs. Focusing on migration to Britain from South Asia, it presents an English society internally changed by its imperial expansions. 19 th -century migration to the ‘mother country’ was a historical reality, and with her focus on ayahs, lascars, Indian servants and students, Gupta portrays precisely those groups involved (cf. Visram 44; Harper / Constantine 184). Migration was, however, very limited in numbers and occurred on a larger scale only in the second half of the 20 th century. It seems that the play carefully chooses its slice of history in order to stylise the 19 th century as the precursor to multicultural Britain in the 21 st century. Despite its historical scope, The Empress blends seamlessly with Gupta’s overall work. Through the focus on migrants, its take on the empire covers an interest in culturally diverse societies. Simultaneously, though, the play draws attention to global power structures by embedding the characters’ personal stories within a larger political frame. Through the backdoor of history, it adds to many of the highly topical debates at the centre of Gupta’s dramatic interest. The turn to the empire seems thus not only motivated by the currency of the historical controversy surrounding it. Equally important is that it provides an especially apt model to stage cross-cultural encounters highly relevant to today’s interconnected world. 9 The Empress critically reviews the Victorian past in order to re-construct it as a testing ground for cultural contact on an intraas well as international level. In doing so, the play develops an approach to history that locates it within the neo-Victorian subgenre of history plays. The neo-Victorian has only recently come to the attention of literary critics as a genre in its own right, and various attempts to define its core features compete at present. While some critics see it as the genre’s defining feature that it self-reflexively questions our own preconceptions and interests in the Victorians (cf. Heilmann / Llewellyn 4), others emphasise its capacity to employ the Victorian period for an analysis of the contemporary situation: Due to the contiguous relationship between the Victorians and us, the neo-Victorian project lends itself particularly well to negotiate ‘who we are today’, and we contend that, consequently, neo-Victorianism should openly survey the manifold strategies 9 This seems to be a trend in the fictional re-engagement with colonialism beyond national borders: in his study on recent German historical novels about Africa, Dirk Göttsche argues that “[o]ne of the reasons for contemporary authors’ fascination with cross-cultural experience in colonial Africa is clearly the resonance of this theme with contemporary multiculturalism and the increasing significance of transcultural lives in a world of global mobility and migration” (Göttsche 130). 218 Lisa Schwander catering to today’s identity politics. It would hence be defined by its particular way of revisiting the nineteenth-century past in order to (co-)articulate today’s concerns. (Boehm-Schnitker / Gruss 5) This understanding captures Gupta’s approach to the empire, where a historical scrutiny of the empire’s underlying mechanisms overlaps with the contemporary outlook of the play. While the play’s refashioning of the past is clearly motivated by contemporary themes, it simultaneously engages in a serious act of historical re-interpretation. In one of the founding texts of the neo-Victorian field, Dana Shiller (cf. 540 f.) highlighted the genre’s complementation of a postmodern scepticism of historical certainties with a faithful commitment to the substance of the Victorian era. Paola Botham moreover identified a “new cultural appetite for historicity, after the dominance of postmodern theory” (84), as a tendency of the 21 st -century history play on the whole. While The Empress ’s proximity to historically documented material is indicative of such an approach to the “past as real ” (Botham 100, emphasis in original), the play often uses this historical material precisely to support a highly contemporary argument. Instances of carefully researched depictions of the past alternate with debates the play anachronistically transports into the Victorian frame. This results in an aesthetic characteristic of neo-Victorian literature, where the “double temporal consciousness” (Kohlke / Gutleben 2) of historical fiction becomes especially pronounced. In merging past and present-day worlds, The Empress draws attention to continuities between the ages and makes the Victorian era appear as a point of origin for contemporary society. In the following, I will show how The Empress puts forward a neo-Victorian empire imaginary that re-interprets the past for a contemporary political project and contributes to social debates on three levels. Firstly, the specifics of the play’s depiction of the empire foreground the latter’s functioning as a mechanism of exploitation. In dialogue with its historical sources, the play presents and dismisses apologetic arguments, and it rejects celebratory versions of imperial history. Secondly, in its depiction of the Asian characters’ experiences, the play focuses on various forms of racial and ethnic discrimination. Rooting the British-Indian relations depicted in The Empress in the 21 st -century context of multicultural British society will show how the play evokes parallels between Victorian and contemporary discourses. By doing so, The Empress draws attention to the persistence of discriminatory patterns, albeit changed in form. Thirdly, the play functionalises the historically documented friendship between Abdul Karim and Queen Victoria to provide a version of national history that explicitly includes British Asians and employs history for a defence of Britain’s multicultural dimension. Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 219 4. Re-Interpreting the Nation’s Imperial Past As discussed above, many contemporary evaluations of the British Empire continue to claim that humanitarian interest was a driving force behind imperial expansion. Strategically deploying its fictional and dramatic means, the play instead shows self-interest to be the prime motive of imperialism. Through a twofold strategy, it produces vivid imagery of exploitation throughout the performance: physical manifestations of exploitation dictated by stage directions alternate with references that continuously evoke this motif through the characters’ utterances. Appealing to the senses more directly than a theoretical analysis could possibly do, these images provide an accessible mode of historical interpretation. The play for example creates a powerful allegory for an exploited India in Abdul’s description of the Taj Mahal. Used as a source of personal enrichment by English colonists who take home its precious materials, the Taj Mahal becomes a monument that “ was more extraordinary than it is now” (58, emphasis in original). While the Taj Mahal builds up as a mental image only, other scenes foreground the dramatic genre’s potential for visuality and provide physical evidence of exploitation on stage. In a scene strategically split between two parallel scenarios on stage, the play shows Queen Victoria preparing for her Diamond Jubilee while Dadabhai holds a speech against imperial politics. In pairing Dadabhai’s insistence on “the country […] being continuously bled” with Victoria’s pride in her “gold detail […] especially embroidered for [her] in India” (119), it turns the queen’s luxurious attire into a physical manifestation of the empire’s economic practices. In its depiction of the group of the mainly anonymous lascars, the play transfers the notion of exploitation from the country’s resources to that of its inhabitants. “[U]ndernourished and dirty ” and “ scrubbing the deck ” (17), they demonstrate the empire’s consequences for those under its reign. With the parallel construction of this imagery in various aspects of the performance, the play exploits the full potential of its genre to combine visually and audibly perceptible evidence in order to convey its historical interpretation, allowing the impressions of a disastrous system to leave their mark on the viewers. While the extensive use of imagery draws attention to the play’s fictionality, The Empress nevertheless marks these fictional representations as valid historical interpretations. Contextualised within documented history, the play’s visualisations of exploitation claim to capture a historical essence. The character Dadabhai in particular plays an important role in bridging the gap between the play’s historical and fictional discourses and shows how The Empress negotiates between these two poles. In Poverty and Un-British Rule in India (1901), the his- 220 Lisa Schwander torical figure Dadabhai Naoroji 10 identified the “drain” (30) taken out of India through British rule as source of India’s poverty. When the character Dadabhai frequently articulates the drain theory of his historical model, he complements the above imagery with a theoretical analysis and anchors the play’s depiction within the realm of historical ‘facts’. By constantly pointing to the self-interest of the British project in India - emphasising unfair British taxation (25), the theft of resources (ibid.), and an indifference towards the consequences of their rule (119) - he acts as a mouthpiece for an anti-imperialist position. However, the play embeds these allusions to its historical source within a fictionalised approach that allows for a stance independent from any documented interpretations. The play engages imaginatively with Naoroji’s positions when it functionalises Dadabhai’s character development to scrutinise and dismiss claims of a humanitarian motive behind imperialism. A sharp critic of the actual practices of imperial rule, Naoroji distinguished these from an ideal British rule in India, which he believed would be in the country’s best interest. 11 When Dadabhai explains his wish to become an MP , the play takes up the tone of Naoroji’s original text: DADABHAI . […] I believe in English fair play. I also believe that we have to educate the British electorate as to the real conditions of India as a preliminary to awakening our call for reform. RANI . And you can’t do that from the outside? DADABHAI . I have my supporters but not the power to change anything. This British Empire is growing. The Queen is acquiring more and more lands, like a greedy whale, she is swallowing entire countries. Nations are being enslaved. Through taxes, through restrictions on trade, through the looting of our precious minerals. RANI . So much for English fair play. (105) Although faced with constant evidence of the disastrous workings of Britain’s imperial project, Dadabhai upholds his belief in British fair play. To support this idea, he constructs the queen as an antithesis to a well-meaning electorate. Putting her in a metonymic relation to the empire, he makes her personally 10 In order to distinguish between the historical figure and the character within the play, I follow the play in referring to the fictional character by his first name. 11 In the original it says, “[t]rue British rule will vastly benefit both Britain and India. My whole object in all my writings is to impress upon the British people, that instead of a disastrous explosion of the British Indian Empire, as must be the result of the present dishonourable un-British system of government, there is a great and glorious future for Britain and India to an extent unconceivable at present, if the British people will awaken to their duty, will be true to their British instincts of fair play and justice, and will insist upon the ‘faithful and conscientious fulfilment’ of all their great and solemn promises and pledges” (Naoroji viii). Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 221 responsible for “swallowing entire countries”. The Empress , however, rejects this interpretation. Firstly, Dadabhai’s idea of the queen clashes with the play’s insistence on her being far more susceptible to a critique of injustices than the majority of its English characters. The play does not blame her personal attitudes for the political situation, but, as the analysis will show further on, rather portrays her as powerless in changing the system. Secondly, Dadabhai himself realises the naivety of his position in the end: “I believed in British fairness but actually it’s a myth. John Bull is nothing more than an opium peddler, a slave trader and a violent thug.” (121) In replacing the queen as the sole culprit by British everyman John Bull, he acknowledges the broad basis and the systematic character of imperialist self-interest. As the play presents Dadabhai’s views and gradually corrects them, it supports Rani’s disillusioned verdict: “So much for English fair play.” (105) In doing so, it rejects both historical and contemporary defences of empire that play down the structural violence to a few scattered problems of individual practices while claiming the virtue of the enterprise as a whole. Through the combination of historical allusions and their free fictionalisation, the play thus positions itself against nostalgic memories of the empire. To a certain extent this contradicts Benjamin Poore, who argues that the “modern theatre of empire” tends to avoid “definitive statements, the polemical certainties of the ‘thesis play’” (60). Gupta’s personal view - “I do actually feel quite angry [….] when I hear apologists say, oh do you know what, the empire wasn’t that bad” (Gupta, “Interview”) - determines much of the depiction. However, in accord with Poore’s claim, the play does not limit its discussion of the imperial past to those aspects it finds in need of critique. While its verdict on the empire’s political-economic dimension is very clear indeed, it is less definite in its discussion of the cross-cultural relations on the individual level. Here, the play contrasts different versions. Whereas most instances of British-Indian contact it depicts give evidence of discrimination and prejudice, The Empress also finds a model for contemporary multicultural relations in the imperial past. Despite its emphasis on historical revision, the play refrains from a one-dimensional treatment of its chosen historical moment. 5. Past and Present Discriminations Beyond its interest in the large-scale political and economic dynamics of the empire, the play presents its setting as a microcosm of a multicultural society. Notwithstanding the historical time frame, the play’s fictional reworking of British-Indian relations locates it within contemporary discourses surrounding race, ethnicity, and cultural difference in Britain. Through the blurred tempo- 222 Lisa Schwander rality of its neo-Victorian mode, The Empress draws attention to the continuity of racist thought and its impact, showing how the “empty rhetoric of a post-racial present” (Redclift 586) serves to hide an ongoing discrimination on revised grounds. The idea of a post-racial age where ‘race’ is no longer a significant factor of social life has recently gained currency. Sociological research clearly points to the flaws in this position. By narrowly defining racism in terms of biological or genetic arguments about ‘race’, post-race advocates associate racism “solely with the crimes of Nazism or Apartheid” (Lentin 1280) of the past. In doing so, they discursively disconnect the very forms of demarcation and discriminatory practices from racism that have become its dominant mode today (cf. ibid.). In addition to biological racism, a new phenomenon emerged in association with the waves of migration occurring in the 1950s and 60s: [T]hese earlier forms have been powerfully transformed by what people normally call a new form of ‘cultural racism’. That is to say, the differences in culture, in ways of life, in systems of belief, in ethnic identity and tradition, now matter more than anything that can be traced to specifically genetic or biological forms of racism. (Hall 339) Informed by these insights regarding “ racisms in the plural” (ibid. 338, emphasis in original), the play juxtaposes different forms of racial or ethnic discrimination. When Lady Sarah expresses her conviction that “Indian blood is thinner than the English” (55), she reflects an attitude of 19 th -century scientific racism, which based a classification of humans into different groups on supposedly biological differences. The play here evokes a position that 21 st -century society tends to associate primarily with errors of the past and is confident to have, on the whole, overcome. Indeed, in its particularly condescending dismissal of influential 19 th -century thoughts, Queen Victoria’s answer, “Is that a biological fact Lady Sarah? Surely we all have the same corpuscles and blood cells. We share all the same human physiology do we not ? ” (55, my emphasis), seems informed by precisely this 21 st -century self-confidence. Through the historical voice of Victoria, the play introduces a position which parallels the superiority claimed by a supposedly post-racial 21 st century considering its own attitude to be diametrically opposed to the overt racism dominating biological arguments of difference. However, The Empress immediately points to the limits of the dichotomy thus evoked when it complements its discussion of biological racism with discourses on cultural difference and draws attention to the parallels between the two, defying narrow conceptions of racism that underlie the idea of a post-racial present. Through some of its characters, The Empress enacts an absolutist understanding of culture that promotes fixed ideas about a given community’s way of thinking and behaving. Showing how this can serve as a basis of discrimination, Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 223 the play contrasts genetic arguments with more subtle forms of exclusion. With these instances of cultural racism, the play anachronistically transports the dominant form of late 20 th -/ 21 st -century racism into the 19 th century. A statement on Indians which Rani reads out to Dadabhai illustrates this point: RANI . ‘There are at this moment estimated twenty-six Indian students of law attending our universities across the country. Groups of uncontrollable raw youth lacking self-control are roaming the streets at night […].’ DADABHAI . It is quite an epidemic. RANI . Dada? DADABHAI . Overrun by twenty-six young Indians. How awful. It’s like the Vikings all over again. (104 f.) Associating Indians with undesirable behaviour patterns, the statement constructs alterity as a threat to the dominant culture and echoes arguments of contemporary anti-immigration policies. Dadabhai’s ironic reference to the Vikings grotesquely stylises immigration as a violent invasion. The play exposes the absurdity of the underlying logic through dramatic irony: the reference to law students connects the “raw youth” to Gandhi, who comes to England in order to become a lawyer at the beginning of the play. Both in his historical association with pacifist resistance and in the specific context of the play, the young man who promised his mother “not to partake of meat, wine or women” (26) could not be more contrary to the “uncontrollable” crowd. The ideas expressed about Indian culture appear as groundless prejudice - and turn out to be just as arbitrary as Lady Sarah’s biological reasoning. The passage demonstrates that racism does not have to rely on genetic arguments in order to qualify as such. In presenting racist attitudes primarily associated with the past side by side with contemporary discourses, The Empress constructs a proximity of the two ages’ treatment of diversity, where different shapes of exclusion cannot hide the parallels at work. The central constituent of racism, its construction of a fundamental division between humans, prevails, even if the “signifier of difference” (Lentin 1281) changes towards a cultural argument. However, the play does not limit its critical review of multicultural relations to instances of explicit animosity towards the other culture. Celebrating cultural difference is presented as equally problematic. Exposing how those praised for their supposed otherness are reduced to stereotypical notions of their respective culture’s ‘traditional’ values, The Empress makes a point that resembles Gupta’s argument for rejecting the label ‘British Asian’ writers. The play demonstrates how insistence “on conformity to ‘authentic’ or ‘traditional’ group behaviour” perpetuates “thinking in terms of bounded groups” (Redclift 586) and ultimately functions as a mechanism of exclusion, although it seems to appreciate differ- 224 Lisa Schwander ence. Graham Huggan contextualises the hype around concepts such as ‘authenticity’ or ‘marginality’ within a Western consumption of the exotic, which he identifies as a central factor within the literary field. He points out how these terms have become commodities attributed with a cultural value surrounding the exotic (cf. Huggan xvi). In a similar vein, The Empress foregrounds the concept of cultural ‘authenticity’ and traces its celebration back to a Western desire for an exciting otherness. The play interrogates the dynamics surrounding the Western longing for an ‘authentic’ experience of another culture through the interaction between the servants and their employers. Abdul’s and Rani’s tasks consist primarily in enacting what the English characters consider as authentic ‘Indian’ behaviour: they have to cook Indian curry, and Rani has to change her English dress to a sari. The play mockingly observes the English fascination with the ‘authentic’ when the simple fact that Rani is the one who prepares the curry elevates it above anything prepared by “poor old cook” (71). Being English, the cook tried as hard as she could but “never succeeded in creating anything as authentic as this” (ibid.). ‘Authenticity’ itself enhances the value of the dish; as a label it serves as a marker of quality. The play does not only ridicule the Western search for the ‘authentic’, but it questions the entire notion of a cultural authenticity. When Rani’s employer Lord Oakham reduces her cultural background to curry and Sari, he could hardly rely on more clichéd Western ideas about India: curry provides a prime example of “gastronomic clichés strewn across Western writing about India” (Huggan 60), and the sari-dressed woman, mediated through numerous Bollywood movies, dominates the Western imagination of the exotic Indian beauty. 12 Ironically associating an ‘authentic’ India with these clichés, The Empress draws attention to a concept of cultural authenticity that leaves no room for the radically unfamiliar. Lord Oakham’s utterances give further evidence of a re-interpretation of ‘authenticity’ that defies the true sense of the term. In asking Rani to get “dressed as an Indian woman” (72), he demonstrates firstly that he assumes the existence of a single and homogeneous India and denies the differentiated version of Indian culture Gupta carefully constructs. Secondly, he shows that he will only accept Rani as ‘authentic’ when her appearance conforms to his ideas of what an ‘Indian’ woman should look like. Rani’s background does not suffice; he does not appreciate her as ‘authentic’ by herself, but relies on the superficial criteria of her clothing. Similarly, the version 12 The generalising tendency of these expectations becomes additionally pronounced through the contrast which the differentiated descriptions in the dramatis personae provide. Rani is listed not as Indian, but as Bengali ayah and Dadabhai as Parsi (14). Gupta here positions herself against reductionist notions about Indian culture and instead emphasises the cultural diversity of the play’s characters. Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 225 of curry he judges ‘authentic’ has to conform to his nostalgic memories of a childhood spent in India. The play points towards his desire for an ‘otherness’ whose contrast to Lord Oakham’s own culture generates excitement but which crucially remains within the parameters of his preconceptions, thus providing a domesticated form of ‘otherness’. 13 His insistence on ‘authenticity’ appears as a self-serving strategy linked to what Huggan calls “consuming India” (58) in postcolonial culture. Rani’s enforced enactment of Lord Oakham’s specific ideas about Indian ‘otherness’ provides him with a living tableau of his exoticist fantasies, whose reconciliation of the other with the familiar is precisely what renders it easy to consume and digest for a Western spectator. The Empress symbolically enacts this process when Lord Oakham consumes first the curry and later, in an act of sexual abuse, Rani’s fetishised exotic body. In showing how a praise of authenticity and a celebration of difference is not necessarily a sign of openness towards another culture but can serve to turn it into an article of consumption, the play simultaneously comments on the broader functionalisation of India within British culture. Complementing its rejection of the idea that a genuine interest in foreign cultures guides Western celebrations of difference, the play explicitly associates such seemingly open-minded stances with an exclusionist limitation of Englishness. Rani’s enforced replacement of her dress with a sari becomes highly symbolic: trying on the dress in an earlier scene, she asks enthusiastically, “Do I look English? ” and “ swishes around the room in delight ” (68). Despite her ordeals in England, the dress provokes a temporary feeling of belonging. In taking the dress from her, Lord Oakham quite literally strips her of her Englishness. Presenting his over-emphasis on cultural difference as just another way of exclusion, The Empress draws attention to contemporary forms of discrimination that often appear “more coded, more nuanced and more oblique” (Redclift 586), reminding us once again that racial discrimination “may be presented in the guise of equality, but it remains an unrelenting feature of our twenty-firstcentury times” (ibid. 586 f.). 13 The play foregrounds a notion of authenticity that Wang, building on MacCannell’s famous concept of ‘staged authenticity’ (MacCannell 98), describes as ‘symbolic authenticity’ (Wang 355 f.) in the field of touristic research. The term expresses that tourists search for a ‘real’ experience of local life, while they simultaneously wish to see exactly what they have heard and read about, considering ‘authentic’ only what confirms their own preconceptions about the respective culture (cf. ibid.). Symbolic authenticity in the field of tourism hence functions as a prime example of an exoticist approach to other cultures, understood as “an aestheticising process through which the cultural other is translated, relayed back through the familiar” (Huggan ix). 226 Lisa Schwander 6. A Diverse Nation With its focus on exploitation, oppression and discrimination, The Empress provides a pessimistic outlook on the empire as a contact zone. However, in the relationship between Abdul Karim and Queen Victoria, it presents a different version of cross-cultural contact - one that replaces a hostile or superficial approach to another culture with a real engagement. The play enacts a learning process during which Queen Victoria’s treatment of Abdul becomes increasingly respectful and appreciative. When she hears Abdul’s complaint about how she first behaved towards him, “Your Majesty treats me as one would an exotic pet” (75), she appoints him as her teacher (77). Not only does she take him seriously as an intellectual equal, but when she allows Abdul to correct her false ideas, she also shows an interest in Indian culture that strikingly differs from Lord Oakham’s superficial self-serving approach. Abdul appreciates this when he reflects after her death: “She was a great woman. So different from the people that surround her […].” (132) The play endows its version of Queen Victoria with characteristics particularly beneficial for a positive cross-cultural relationship. Her modern rejection of biological racism combines with her awareness of ethnicity she displays when making Salisbury apologise for calling Dadabhai “black” (82). 14 Although the play shows the political body she leads to be fundamentally mismanaged, it turns Queen Victoria herself into a model for cross-cultural relations. In doing so, Gupta joins a wider biographical project that focuses on documents surrounding Abdul Karim’s stay in England in order to distance the queen from intolerant ideas of race and ethnicity. 15 The play’s depiction of Victoria’s quarrel with the royal household when she wants to take her munshi to a summer outing, for instance, as well as her rejection of 14 Up to the 1980s, minorities of non-European descent were generally referred to as ‘black’. ‘Black’ ceased to be the official umbrella term in 1988, when the Commission for Racial Equality replaced it as an “ethnic monitoring category” with a more differentiated terminology (Modood 860). 15 In her biography of Queen Victoria, Susan Kingsley Kent emphasises that “Victoria and Albert despised this kind of racial hatred” (72) and describes the queen’s insistence on religious tolerance. Perhaps the most drastic expression of this phenomenon is Shrabani Basu’s Victoria and Abdul. The True Story of the Queen’s Closest Confidant , which centres on the relationship between Victoria and her Indian servant, depicting it as a “fairytale” (16). Victoria and Abdul is currently being adapted into a film version and in an interview Basu and her interviewer explicitly contextualised its specific interest within 21 st -century politics: “The movie will depict a Muslim man enjoying an important position in the British monarchy. It’s interesting that it will be released following Brexit. / Absolutely! The fact that there was a Muslim at the heart of the British administration at the height of the Empire is something that is hugely significant. His treatment afterwards at the hand of the Establishment still has relevance today” (Manda). Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 227 racist comments, correlate with her biographical depiction (Bartley 259; Hibbert 451 f.). Emphasising the central place of Queen Victoria in the neo-Victorian project, Laurie Langbauer draws on the research of Margaret Homans and Adrienne Munich to show that Queen Victoria functioned as a model for the formation of individual and cultural identity, both in her own time and in later eras, and claims that the queen holds up a “mirror” to each generation writing about her (213). It seems that the contemporary engagement with Victoria, in its appropriation of her, shows us a new reflection in the mirror: that of an interconnected world in search of historical models for cross-cultural contact. The play’s overall treatment of Queen Victoria suggests a high extent of self-awareness. The multicultural version of the queen stands side by side with the very different version the play evokes when it shows her as complicit in colonial exploitation. By denying a one-sided interpretation of the character, the play avoids a reductionist reading of the past. Simultaneously, it reflects on the ways in which different takes on the Victorian era provoke different images of the monarch. When Rani finds that “[i]t’s funny to think that when I arrived, I just wanted to meet the Queen” (117), her disillusioned view on England allows her to review her ideas about the queen with critical distance. The audience recognises her initial awe for Victoria as a repercussion of her hope for a good future in the country. Illustrating how Queen Victoria provides a surface for projections from various contexts, The Empress also reflects on its own employment of her for a distinct political project surrounding multicultural Britain. In turning the queen into an icon of intercultural relations, the play exploits her central position within conceptions of Victorian Englishness to assert the existence of an Asian dimension at the heart of the nation. Advertised on the blurb as “bring[ing] a hidden part of British history gloriously to life” and described as an “attempt to fill in history’s blank and give voice to the marginalized” (Poore 30), the play has received much attention for its challenge to dominant historical representations. However, the specifics of this historical revision deserve attention: through the focus on British-Asian relations, The Empress employs history to advocate a multicultural understanding of Britishness, exploiting both its fictionality and its reference to a historical basis for this argument. The friendship of Queen Victoria and Abdul Karim being well documented, the play claims to be historically truthful when it inscribes an Asian character into the political centre of Victorian Britain. On the other hand, The Empress foregrounds the potential of its fictionality in order to promote such an inclusive concept of British national history. Critics of the neo-Victorian field have drawn attention to the inherent focus on Britain that the field’s name suggests and pointed to the problematic implications of extending the term to 228 Lisa Schwander a more global perspective (cf. Llewellyn / Heilmann 39). The Empress, however, plays with its own genre when it re-interprets this British-centeredness implied by the genre’s name. Beginning in the year of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee and ending with her death in 1901, the play’s chronology firmly roots it within core events of Victorianism and positively establishes non-white voices within the neo-Victorian project. The play further develops this dimension by doubling the signifier ‘Empress’ in the title of the play. In addition to the obvious reference to Queen Victoria, Hari’s comments, ”[t]o me, you are an Empress” and “Rani - your name means ‘Queen’” (51), also associate the title with Rani. The play presents Rani as an alternative queen to Victoria, again underlining the centrality of a multicultural dimension to British history. Significantly, the last scene shows Rani staying in England with Hari and her daughter after Queen Victoria has died. The future clearly belongs to the queen from the Indian subcontinent. Highlighting the deep historical roots of British-Asian connections through the genre of neo-Victorian drama, the play works against what Gilroy describes as the “additional catastrophe” of the empire’s nostalgic romanticisation: “the error of imagining that postcolonial people are only unwanted alien intruders without any substantive historical, political, or cultural connections to the collective life of their fellow subjects” (90). History, in the play’s version, situates them at the very centre of the nation. 7. Conclusion Characteristic of Gupta’s social investigative approach, The Empress foregrounds issues of global (in)justice, cultural diversity and colonial legacies in its depiction of the British Empire. In an exemplary fashion, the play interweaves the different dimensions of the social debates surrounding the empire in the first two decades of the new millennium. Through fictional means, it arrives at an interpretation of Britain’s imperial past that rejects a glorifying memory and discloses self-interest as the policies’ underlying motive. With its focus on the empire as a Western country’s economic exploitation of other parts of the world, it complements Gupta’s critique of a globalised economy in her contemporary plays with a historical parallel. In exploring the connection between the empire and present-day multicultural Britain, The Empress displays an interest characteristic of the 21 st -century debate about the nation’s imperial past. By including British Asians in national history, it answers the call for a re-engagement with history to the end of an inclusive understanding of Britishness. It highlights continuities between past and present by focussing on racial or ethnic discrimination. This discussion has emphasised the importance of Queen Victoria for the play’s interest in cross-cultural relationships. Through- Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 229 out the play, the contradictions between her personal approach to the cultural ‘other’ and the country’s official policies stay intact: her private attitude does not change the large-scale politics. Without softening its critique of the empire as a global player, The Empress presents a surprisingly progressive Queen Victoria and manages to accommodate both interpretations, avoiding a one-sided treatment of its subject. The play’s close engagement with documented history supports its claim to a factual basis and this very factuality gives weight to its stance in contemporary debates. Simultaneously, The Empress shows an awareness of its own act of interpreting history and refrains from a naïve belief in showing “what actually happened”. The Empress demonstrates that the empire still has something to say to a 21 st -century world - both in inviting us to think about what our interpretations of history imply about us and in drawing attention to the ways in which structures formed during the country’s imperial past still lie hidden under the surface of contemporary British society. Far from being escapist, the turn to the past makes The Empress just as political as those of Gupta’s plays that directly confront the contemporary moment. The play specifically draws on the potential of the dramatic genre to intervene in the discussion about the imperial past. It effectively uses the additional visual dimension of the genre to provide an easy access to the Victorian age. The re-creation of the 19 th -century world in front of the spectators’ eyes enables the audience to re-experience the characters’ difficulties and to immerse themselves in the bygone period. Through visual evidence of an unjust system on stage - its effects showing in the emaciated bodies of the lascars, for example - the play appeals directly to the audience’s emotions. Simultaneously, the characters’ speech contextualises and evaluates the visual scenario, guiding the spectators’ interpretation. However, gaps between the characters’ declared intentions and the implications of their actions also challenge the audience to look behind a glossy rhetoric of progress and fairness and take a critical distance to the explanations offered. Thus combining an educational and an entertaining dimension, theatre becomes an effective means to make its audience think about the past and its present-day consequences and to invite a critical re-evaluation of ready-made interpretations. Bibliography Primary Sources Gupta, Tanika. The Empress . London: Oberon Books, 2013. —. White Boy . London: Oberon Books, 2008. 230 Lisa Schwander —. Sugar Mummies . London: Oberon Books, 2006. —. Gladiator Games . London: Oberon Books, 2005. —. Fragile Land . London: Oberon Books, 2003. —. Sanctuary . London: Oberon Books, 2002. —. The Waiting Room . London: Faber and Faber, 2000. Secondary Sources Bartley, Paula. Queen Victoria . London, New York: Routledge, 2016. Basu, Shrabani. Victoria & Abdul: The True Story of the Queen’s Closest Confidant . Stroud: History Press, 2010. Billingham, Peter. At the Sharp End: Uncovering the Work of Five Contemporary Dramatists. London: Methuen Drama, 2007. Boehm-Schnitker, Nadine and Susanne Gruss. “Introduction: Fashioning the Neo- Victorian - Neo-Victorian Fashions.” Neo-Victorian Literature and Culture: Immersions and Revisitations . Eds. Nadine Boehm-Schnitker and Susanne Gruss. London, New York: Routledge, 2014. 1-17. Botham, Paola. “The Twenty-First-Century History Play.” Twenty-First Century Drama: What Happens Now . Eds. Siân Adiseshiah and Louise LePage. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. 81-103. Buchenau, Barbara and Virginia Richter. “Introduction: How to Do Things with Empires.” Post-Empire Imaginaries? Anglophone Literature, History, and the Demise of Empires . Eds. Barbara Buchenau, Virginia Richter and Marijke Denger. Leiden: Brill Rodopi, 2015. xiii-xxxvi. Buettner, Elizabeth. “Cemeteries, Public Memory and Raj Nostalgia in Postcolonial Britain and India.” History and Memory 18.1 (2006): 5-42. —. “‘Setting the Record Straight’? : Imperial History in Postcolonial British Public Culture.” Hybrid Cultures - Nervous States: Britain and Germany in a (Post)Colonial World . Eds. Ulrike Lindner et al. Amsterdam, New York: Rodopi, 2010. 89-104. Chaudhuri, Amit. “The Real Meaning of Rhodes Must Fall.” The Guardian. 16 March 2016. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ uk-news/ 2016/ mar/ 16/ the-real-meaning-of-rhodes-must-fall. Accessed on 5 January 2017. Dahlgreen, Will. “The British Empire Is ‘Something to Be Proud Of.’” YouGov . 26 July 2014. https: / / yougov.co.uk/ news/ 2014/ 07/ 26/ britain-proud-its-empire/ . Accessed on 28 November 2016. —. “Rhodes Must Not Fall.” YouGov . 18 January 2016. https: / / yougov.co.uk/ news/ 2016/ 01/ 18/ rhodes-must-not-fall/ . Accessed on 28 November 2016. Gilroy, Paul. Postcolonial Melancholia . New York: Columbia UP , 2005. Gott, Richard. “Let’s End the Myths of Britain’s Imperial Past.” The Guardian. 19 October 2011. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ books/ 2011/ oct/ 19/ end-myths-britains-imperial-past. Accessed on 4 March 2016. Re-Visiting the British Empire in Tanika Gupta’s The Empress (2013) 231 Göttsche, Dirk. “Hans Christoph Buch’s Sansibar Blues and the Fascination of Cross-Cultural Experience in Contemporary German Historical Novels about Colonialism.” German Life and Letters 65.1 (2012): 127-46. Griffin, Gabriele. “Tanika Gupta.” The Methuen Drama Guide to Contemporary British Playwrights . Eds. Martin Middeke, Peter Paul Schnierer and Aleks Sierz. London: Methuen Drama, 2011. 223-42. Gupta, Tanika. “Tanika Gupta, Interview The Empress, Royal Shakespeare Company.” YouTube. 26 March 2013. https: / / www.youtube.com/ watch? v=IyXl-jUXPYs. Accessed on 10 October 2016. 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Kohlke, Marie-Luise and Christian Gutleben. “Introduction: Bearing after-Witness to the Nineteenth Century.” Neo-Victorian Tropes of Trauma: The Politics of Bearing After-Witness to Nineteenth-Century Suffering . Eds. Marie-Luise Kohlke and Christian Gutleben. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2010. 1-34. Langbauer, Laurie. “Queen Victoria and Me.” Victorian Afterlife: Postmodern Culture Rewrites the Nineteenth Century . Eds. John Kucich and Dianne F. Sadoff. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2000. 211-33. Lentin, Alana. “Post-Race, Post Politics: The Paradoxical Rise of Culture after Multiculturalism.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 37.8 (2014): 1268-85. Llewellyn, Mark and Ann Heilmann. “The Victorians Now: Global Reflections on Neo-Victorianism.” Critical Quarterly 55.1 (2013): 24-42. Locke, Hew. “Empire.” Tate . n. d. http: / / www.tate.org.uk/ artist-empire-audio/ restoration. Accessed on 5 February 2016. MacCannell, Dean. The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class . 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Poverty and Un-British Rule in India . New Delhi, India: Commonwealth Publishers, 1988 [1901]. Olusoga, David. “Wake up, Britain: Should the Empire Really Be a Source of Pride? ” The Guardian. 23 January 2016. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ commentisfree/ 2016/ jan/ 23/ britain-empire-pride-poll. Accessed on 5 September 2016. Poore, Benjamin. Theatre and Empire . London, New York: Palgrave, 2016. Redclift, Victoria. “New Racisms, New Racial Subjects? The Neo-Liberal Moment and the Racial Landscape of Contemporary Britain.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 37.4 (2014): 577-88. Richards, Jeffrey. “Imperial Heroes for a Post-Imperial Age: Films and the End of Empire.” British Culture and the End of Empire . Ed. Stuart Ward. Manchester: Manchester UP , 2001. 128-44. Rosaldo, Renato. “Imperialist Nostalgia.” Representations 26 (1989): 107-22. Rushdie, Salman. “Outside the Whale [1984].” Imaginary Homelands. Essays and Criticism 1981-1991 . London: Granta Books, 1991. 87-101. Shiller, Dana. “The Redemptive Past in the Neo-Victorian Novel.” Studies in the Novel 29.4 (1997): 538-60. Starck, Kathleen. “‘They Call Me an ‘Asian Writer’ as Well’ - Tanika Gupta’s Sanctuary, Skeleton and Inside Out.” Alternatives within the Mainstream: British Black and Asian Theatres . Ed. Dimple Godiwala. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2006. 348-63. Visram, Rozina. Asians in Britain: 400 Years of History . London: Pluto, 2002. Wang, Ning. “Rethinking Authenticity in Tourism Experience.” Annals of Tourism Research 26.2 (1999): 349-70. Ward, Stuart (ed.). British Culture and the End of Empire . Manchester: Manchester UP , 2001. Defusing Stereotypes with Comedy: Conflicting Afro-Caribbean British Identities and Urban Street Culture in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) Kerstin Frank 1. Black British Identities and Urban Estates The integration and the evolving new identities of immigrants in Britain have been a subject of social, political, and cultural controversies since the MV Empire Windrush arrived in London in 1948, and the debates continue and change with every new generation, as Peter Paul Schnierer’s contribution to this book shows. In David Cameron’s first speech as prime minister in 2011 in Munich, in which he famously declared state multiculturalism to have failed, he connects the problem of terrorism to a lack of identity of immigrants’ children and emphasises the need for “a clear sense of shared national identity, open to everyone”, instead of allowing “different cultures to live separate lives, apart from each other and the mainstream” (Cameron). The topic of multicultural identity is thus firmly placed on the map as one of the biggest challenges of British society in the 21 st century. This essay addresses the debates about cultural identities within immigrant communities, in particular the Afro-Caribbean or black British communities living in urban estates, and shows how black British theatre, specifically Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007), stages such debates and the stereotypes attached to these identities and urban spaces. The term ‘black British’, here used in the more narrow sense of Afro- Caribbean, has been employed with different denotations over time. During the first waves of immigration in the 20 th century, it was generally used to include Asian people and cultures. Up to the 1980s, the social and political marginalisation of immigrants’ cultures provoked them into a “defensive collective identity” (Hall, “Old and New”, 148). The 1980s saw a break in this politically motivated unity, a rising self-consciousness and self-questioning within the movement as well as in Black Cultural Studies (cf. Procter 6). The movement diversified in the 1990s, placing more emphasis on the hitherto suppressed differences between cultural influences and generations of immigrants and their specific identities instead of lumping them together in contrast to ‘white’ British culture. In the wake of this growing sense of difference and specific identities, the term ‘black British’ has been used increasingly to denote only Afro-Caribbean, not Asian, 234 Kerstin Frank cultures (cf. Brewer / Goddard / Osborne 8 f.; Lindner 211). 1 Of course, the term itself has frequently been criticised, 2 but it is still widely used, and communal efforts and collaborations of black British writers are still perceived as necessary in the face of the persisting “low representation of black artists’ work across all of Britain’s cultural institutions” (Brewer / Goddard / Osborne 5). In the media, platforms and events serve to make the cultural history and cultural contributions of Afro-Caribbean immigrants and their descendants accessible and visible to the public, e. g. the annual Black History Month in London, a week of debates at the National Theatre in 2013 focusing on the contributions of black artists to British Drama (cf. Harewood), and the “Black and British Season” on BBC television and radio in November 2016. Thus, black Britishness, or the cultural identities of Afro-Caribbean immigrants and their families in Britain, remains a virulent topic in public debates, in the media and in the arts, but with a heightened sense of self-reflexivity and wariness of simplification. Stuart Hall, one of the primary theorists in this field, has repeatedly emphasised the importance to recognise “that ‘black’ is essentially a politically and culturally constructed category” (“Ethnicities”, 443, emphasis in original). In his view, identities are “constituted within, not outside representation” and “constructed through, not outside, difference” (“Who Needs”, 4). Identity is thus always in flux, in a process of construction in which historical and cultural roots do play a role but are subject to the dynamics of selection and transformation. Hall describes this process as shaped by two vectors: “the vector of similarity and continuity: and the vector of difference and rupture. […] The one gives us some grounding in, some continuity with, the past. The second reminds us that what we share is precisely the experience of profound discontinuity.” (Hall, “Diaspora”, 395) The acceptance and celebration of this complexity and of the constant re-adjusting of continuity and rupture is the main theme of Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! , as will be shown in the analysis. The play highlights the different models of identity that present themselves to young people of African or Caribbean descent living in British urban estates: alternative to - and conflicting with - the cultures of origins of these young people’s parents (what Stuart Hall calls ‘the past’), ideas of a young ‘black’ urban lifestyle have developed and solidified into a model of ‘street identity’ in its own right. Arguably, this model to some 1 This development is often manifested in the addition of “and Asian”, which shows that Asian cultures are not implied in the term ‘black British’, e. g. in the title of the Cambridge Companion to British Black and Asian Literature (1945-2010) edited by Deirdre Osborne. 2 For example, Mike Phillips takes issue with the term for its use of skin colour as a category of classification in the field of cultural productions, which in his view determines and delimits their mode of reception (28). Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 235 extent is an import from the U. S., where ‘ghetto’ has been appropriated as a lifestyle concept much earlier. 3 This phenomenon is by now also common in Great Britain. In an article published in The Guardian , British-born, Oxford-educated novelist Diran Adebayo describes this trend of “romancing the street” in his own attempts to blend in with a stylised black street culture: My clothes got baggier, my music gangsta rappier; my social circle changed, my talk became increasingly peppered with black London slang, and my grammar went into a decline. And it worked. I felt happier, more rooted than I had felt for a while. And I was not alone. Most youngish black westerners I meet, the suburbanites and the trainee doctors as much as anyone, will swiftly drop a bit of ‘street’ on you to establish their authenticity. (Adebayo) 4 This is, of course, a pseudo-authenticity that does not solve a young person’s identity crisis but adds a third, strangely manufactured idea of identity to the competing African or Caribbean family heritage and vague notions of white ‘Britishness’. Stereotypes about street culture are addressed in plays in various, often satirical ways. In Duncan Macmillan’s Monster (2007), the black teacher Tom calls his white problem pupil Darryl out on Darryl’s exaggerated use of obscure street slang that makes him sound “like he’s straight outta Compton”: 5 “You think you’ll impress me by talking to that way? Because I’m black.” Darryl retorts, “you ain’t black” (scene 1), and Tom’s girlfriend later comments: “Just, you’re not really [black], are you? […] / just/ you’re not very/ street./ Are you though? ” (scene 2) For her, the idea of being ‘black’ is closely connected to the idea of ‘street’, which, however, is practised by Tom’s white pupil, not by Tom himself. In the U. K., this ‘ghetto’ or ‘street’ lifestyle is particularly associated with urban estates. Council estates have been a subject of much social and political debate, 6 and to a large extent they inform the spatial stereotype of how immigrants’ lives are perceived, conjuring up images of bleak, concrete mass housing, gang violence, drugs, hopelessness, and poverty. Ben Campkin, who analyses the politics of representation behind these stereotypes, emphasises that 3 For several articles about African-American ‘street’ culture and its export to Europe, cf. Raphael-Hernandez (ed). 4 Joseph Harker makes similar claims in his article “Rap Culture Has Hijacked Our Identity”. 5 This is the title of an album by the African-American Hip Hop Band NWA (Niggers With Attitudes) from 1988. 6 A case in point are the debates about the Aylesbury estate, which “has been at the centre of Britain’s unresolved arguments about class segregation in cities [and] about whether architecture can cause social dysfunction” (Beckett). Tony Blair chose this social problem as the topic for his first speech as prime minister (cf. Campkin 97). 236 Kerstin Frank such estates “have been depicted through a generalised iconography of the dysfunctional ‘sink estate’” (16). In a film in which the architect Oscar Newman visits the Aylesbury estate, confirming all of the stereotypes mentioned above, the voiceover asks: “One wonders, what happens to the children who grow up here? Do they ever really develop any sense of pride? Any sense of self ? ” (Campkin 89) Of course, as Campkin shows, films like this one with its “foregone conclusion” (88) perpetuate and reinforce the image of the ‘sink estates’ which poses such a challenge to the pride of their inhabitants. As Katie Beswick puts it, “the council estate has become an emblematic place of criminality, violence and the anti-social ‘other’” (100). Thus, dystopian images of the places which represent British failures at integration and multiculturalism coincide with the birthplaces of cultural role models for a young, urban, ghetto attitude. The latter provides a positive sense of belonging and identity for underprivileged young inhabitants of estates, but it tends to disconnect them from their Afro-Caribbean cultural roots (cf. Adebayo). It also inhibits their (already slim) chances of working their way into a British middle-class lifestyle which requires an education and the acceptance of certain standards of behaviour and language. The stereotypes connected with estate street culture pose a variety of problems for authors and filmmakers who address the topic of contemporary black British identity: while still the reality for a great number of immigrants and their children, and thus a theme and a social space essential to black British experiences, the estate trope is also clichéd and overused. It is often criticised by immigrant communities as misrepresenting reality and damaging their public image even further. 7 Katie Beswick therefore identifies “a real need for oppositional narratives which cut across the dominant discourse of the council estate as dreadful enclosure” (102). In the field of black British theatre, the problem of the ‘ghetto image’ has been discussed with great vigour. The beginning of the new millennium saw a “new black renaissance” in British theatre (Newland / Norfolk / Kwei-Armah 2), 8 and the West End run of Kwame Kwei-Armah’s Elmina’s Kitchen in 2005 was perceived as a significant breakthrough (cf. Brewer / Goddard / Osborne 5; Lindner 211-2). However, playwrights and critics also saw the danger of ‘ghettoisation’, 7 A famous example concerning an Asian immigrant community is Monica Ali’s novel Brick Lane . It drew sharp criticism from the Bangladeshi community, which saw itself as misrepresented and transformed into a negative stereotype (cf. Newland 235). Interestingly, the novel itself satirically depicts how, after a riot, journalists swarm the estate, trying to sustain their already existing mental images with visual material and stories of hardship, large immigrant families penned up in small flats, gangs and drug abuse (cf. Ali 532 f.). 8 Cf. also Peacock (“Social and Political”, 147) and Aleks Sierz: “[O]ne of the success stories of the decade was the greater visibility of black playwrights” ( Rewriting , 145). Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 237 with certain producers and editors encouraging black writers to remain within the increasingly stereotypical images of the urban ghetto (cf. Newland / Norfolk / Kwei-Armah 3). Perhaps more than other cultural fields, black British theatre has been seen to limit itself to representations of the urban estate youth culture mentioned above, including violence, drugs, hoodies, and specific forms of language use. 9 Examples include Kwei-Armah’s Elmina’s Kitchen (2003) and Fix Up (2004) as well as Roy Williams’ The Gift (2000), Fallout (2003), and Little Sweet Thing (2005). Among these texts, Fallout possibly displays the most prototypical depiction of street language and violence. As Merle Tönnies points out: “ Fallout indeed follows the general social discussion in Britain and shows violence to be inherently linked with black masculinity […].” (73) The debate about such stereotypes and the ‘ghettoisation’ of black British plays gained full force in 2010, when Lindsay Johns claimed in the Evening Standard that the overwhelming majority of black British theatre over the past decade - say, 92.3 FM (2006) or Random (2008) - can be categorised as being about guns, drugs and council estates. In 2010, the theatre-going public is still being presented with the Theatre of the Ghetto. […] [B]lack British theatre is languishing in an intellectually vapid, almost pre-literate cacophony of expletives, incoherent street babble and plot which revolve around the clichéd staples of hoodies, guns and drugs. ( Johns) These sweeping generalisations were inspired by the title of Bola Agbaje’s Off the Endz (2010), which Johns claimed he was not going to watch because the ‘z’ in its title for him was foreboding another example of these over-used clichés. This is somewhat ironic because in this play, Agbaje moves away from the confines of the typical estate play. One might even say that she had got this out of her system in her earlier Gone Too Far! , which confronts these clichés headon and with a good deal of parody and irony. This playfulness was frequently overlooked by reviewers and critics, who tend to focus on questions of cultural identity. 10 The following analysis will show how Agbaje’s humour defuses any clichéd and essentialist notions of such identities and parodies the stereotypes of the estate play. 9 Of course, however, estate plays are not exclusively written by black authors; a case in point is Leo Butler’s Redundant (2001). Beswick provides a list of estate plays performed at the Royal Court (cf. 102), but she criticises that “too often the theatre’s work focuses on representations of existing dominant narratives surrounding lack, criminality and violence rather than providing a space where these representations can be troubled” (110). 10 One example is Ekumah’s analysis: “Agbaje’s play introduces a new element into the well-known formula of gun / knife crime and ‘black on black violence’ by providing and African diasporic cultural perspective on an often misunderstood, disenfranchised and under-represented minority.” (182) Cf. also Goddard, who describes Agbaje’s plays as “socially realist explorations of black experiences in urban London” (17). 238 Kerstin Frank 2. Characters and Cultural Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! With her first play Gone Too Far! , Bola Agbaje (born in 1981) achieved instant recognition and ensured herself a place among the “new millennial prominence of British Nigerian cultural presence on the stage” (Brewer / Goddard / Osborne 8). It was performed in the 2007 Young Writer Festival and at the Royal Court Theatre in the same year. In 2008, the play won the ‘Laurence Olivier Award for Outstanding Achievement in an Affiliated Theatre’, and Bola Agbaje was nominated for the ‘Evening Standard Most Promising Playwright of the Year’. After years of “Caribbean hegemony” among black British playwrights, Agbaje is hailed as contributing “a specific West African experience in Britain into the debate of what it means to be British” (Ekumah 180). The play is centred around questions of cultural identity and shows a range of young urban estate-dwellers of African, Caribbean, or mixed origin who struggle with different offers and pressures of group identification. As Stuart Hall points out, [i]n common sense language, identification is constructed on the back of a recognition of some common origin or shared characteristics with another person or group, or with an ideal, and with the natural closure of solidarity and allegiance established on this foundation (Hall, “Who Needs”, 2). The characters in the play share this simple view of identification and feel the need to subscribe to such ideals or allegiances, but are torn between different possibilities and role models. In the course of the play, they are confronted with the painful but liberating experience that the individual way to a ‘fitting’ cultural identity is not a once-off choice between different versions, but a work in progress. What emerges is a concept of identification as a construction, a process never completed […]. Though not without its determinate conditions of existence, including the material and symbolic resources required to sustain it, identification is in the end conditional, lodged in contingency. […] Identification is, then, a process of articulation, a suturing, an over-determination not a subsumption. […] And since as a process it operates across difference, it entails discursive work, the binding and marking of symbolic boundaries, the production of ‘frontier-effects’. (ibid. 2 f.) The following analysis shows how, on the levels of character constellation, language, symbolic fashion choices, and space, Gone Too Far! destabilises the previous common-sense, ‘naturalising’ view of identification and introduces the more contingent, shifting, discursive view of it expressed by Hall. The play Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 239 thus contributes to debates about cultural identity on a thematic level. At the same time, it engages with the clichés of ‘ghetto theatre’ and estate plays on an intertextual level, humorously subverting them and employing them to promote this discursive view of identification and cultural identities. The play is structured around two central characters, the brothers Yemi and Ikudayisi. Ikudayisi, the older one, has grown up in Nigeria and only arrived in England recently. Yemi was born and bred in the urban estate that is the setting of the play. From the first scene, which shows them doing physical exercises as a punishment set by their mother, the brothers quarrel and bicker about the differences caused by their separate upbringing. Their main bones of contention are the question of respect for one’s elders (or Yemi’s lack thereof), Ikudayisi’s tendency to switch between English and Yoruba (which Yemi does not understand), and Ikudayisi’s attempts to interest Yemi in the Nigerian culture and language, which Yemi considers “backward” and primitive (Agbaje, Gone Too Far! , 331 f.). 11 The contrasts between the brothers appear in a different light when they are confronted with several members of a local gang whom Yemi is acquainted with: Armani, an aggressive, troublemaking girl with a white mother and Caribbean father, treats Africans with contempt and ridicule and briefly unites the brothers in their shared amusement at her attitude (310). In fact, many of her stereotypes echo Yemi’s dismissive remarks about Nigeria, but he shows solidarity with his brother and his country of origin and is far from flattered when she pronounces that “Yemi don’t look African” (303) and elaborates: “You should be happy you don’t look like dem. Be grateful you don’t have big lips and big nose. […] You’re lucky you’re not black black.” (304) Another character who unsettles the balance of Yemi’s and Ikudayisi’s differences is Blazer. He is from Nigeria and proud of his origins, his language, and Nigerian values. He is feared and respected on the estate, which he has achieved by reacting violently to any anti-African ridicule: “Gone are the days when mans take the piss out of this African! Cos I run this estate now.” (340) When Blazer requests him to appreciate his roots and respect his older brother, Yemi starts to rethink his studied dismissal of Nigerian traditions. For Ekumah, the character of Blazer “points to a cultural shift within African diasporic communities, where the dominant Caribbean hegemony is giving way to a new African experience” (184). The characters Armani and Blazer, however, not only complicate the perceived oppositions between the brothers, i. e. the recent immigrant and the second-generation immigrant, but also reveal inconsistencies within their own cultural identities, which they promote with so much vigour: Blazer does not 11 In the following, references to Gone Too Far! will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. 240 Kerstin Frank use his Nigerian name but this “street name” and mostly associates with people from Caribbean descent (323). Besides, while his emphasis on respect and cultural roots seems to make him an eligible moral role model, his readiness to use violence and his suppression of his gang members (342) run counter to his positive values (cf. Goddard 163). He is thus a mixed character, awkwardly suspended between negative cliché and success story. Armani, in her turn, sports an exaggerated Jamaican identity and anti-African racism, but in fact (at least in her old friend Paris’ version of the story) she grew up with her white English mother and beans on toast (328). Paris, who becomes annoyed with Armani’s constant aggressiveness, confronts her with this: You don’t know what to identify yourself with. Should you be on the white side, should you be on the black side - you don’t know . You try and act like you’re blacker dan anybody else, but then you contradict yourself cos you go on like it’s a bad thing for me to look black, or anyone else at that. (327, emphasis in original) During this fight, these contradictions are pursued in all their paradoxical implications, particularly concerning charges of racism: Armani justifies her radical anti-African racism by saying that Africans sold her ancestors to the West Indies as slaves, but when Paris points out that it was white people who were running the slave trade, she calls her an anti-white racist and accuses her of being jealous of her lighter skin (324-6). This playful, partly satirical treatment of the topic of racism has parallels to an earlier play that also subverted the stereotypes of estate plays, namely Urban Afro Saxons (2003) by Kofi Agyemang and Patricia Elcock, which Deirdre Osborne calls an “unrecognised landmark in British theatre history” (“Introduction”). This play also confronts different forms of racism, particularly between established, second-generation immigrants and newly arrived immigrants. In Urban Afro Saxons , Patsy, a very opinionated, self-assured woman, is a second-generation immigrant, which is established in a rather awkward dialogue between her son and a white neighbour from the estate: JERMAINE . She’s Jamaican. TANYA . What, was she born there? JERMAINE . No. Dalston. TANYA . Oh, right. JERMAINE . She ain’t English. TANYA . Then what is she? JERMAINE . She’s my Mum. (scene 3) Patsy, who has strong opinions and does not mince her words, is complaining about recent immigrants to Britain when another black character confronts her: Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 241 DENNIS . How did you get to be such a racist? PATSY . How can I be racist? I’m black. SCOTT . You wanna hear some of the shit I’ve had off black people since I’ve been with Amanda. (scene 6) Scott is white and married to Amanda, who is black. This couple reverses stereotypes as Scott is much more easygoing, down-to-earth, and content with their living situation than his black wife, who looks down on the other residents on the estate and desperately wants to move. Urban Afro Saxons thus confronts and subverts stereotypical dichotomies, often to comical effect. Agbaje employs similar techniques in Gone Too Far! , staging debates among different characters who at first glance seem to represent certain social groups but who assert their individuality in these debates, refusing to conform to simple expectations. Gender stereotypes are also questioned implicitly: in contrast to general ideas about “black youth culture, with its males jockeying for position and respect” (Sierz, Rewriting , 146), most male teenagers in the play are keen to keep the peace within and outside of their gang, while the most aggressive character by far is Armani, a girl. Lynette Goddard emphasises the representative functions of the characters in the play: Agbaje’s portrayal of a series of character types recalls contemporary stereotypes about young black people in Britain - the confused mixed-race girl, Caribbean (-identified) youth as ill-educated, disenfranchised, from dysfunctional homes, and so on. These issues are more complex than the humorous caricatures in the play allow for and Agbaje both endorses and problematises ideas of a split between African and Caribbean youth in which the former are presented as studious and respectful and the latter as disrespectful and recalcitrant. (163) It seems, however, that the critic herself too easily attaches labels to the characters and neglects the ways in which their obvious roles or group identities are questioned and destabilised within the text in a “deliberate defiance of stereotypes” (Sierz, “Introduction”, xiii). In particular, what Goddard sees as a conflict between African and Caribbean is also in part a conflict between urban street culture as described above (which is partly influenced by Caribbean culture) and African, in this case Nigerian, cultural values. It is not the opposition between Caribbean and African origins that is played out here; on the contrary, these origins are revealed to be very fragile and, for instance in Armani’s case, largely assumed or invented. Both for Yemi and Armani, who clash most violently about questions of African vs. Caribbean primacy, their respective roots are very vague and far removed, and the identity that most informs their behaviour and moral values is urban street culture as shaped by the estate. However, Agbaje’s 242 Kerstin Frank characters do not fully conform to the stereotypes connected with these origins, particularly in the reluctance of most characters to actually engage in a fight. De-escalation, not aggression, is the main concern of most characters here. It is interesting that the characters themselves are aware of the clichés of urban street culture and, although embracing them, occasionally make fun of them: When Armani threatens Yemi with her boyfriend’s revenge (“Mans don’t lay their hands on me and live to see the next day, you know”, 305) he just mocks her big talk: “Ohhh, gangsta now, is it? “ (307, emphasis in original) 3. Language The use of language plays an important role in the way the text presents cultural identities and destabilises clear-cut oppositions. The teenagers who grew up on the estate all use an “urban street talk heavily influenced by a Caribbean British culture”, but “modified for clarity for the stage” (Ekumah 185). In black British theatre, the use of Jamaican Patois as well as of different kinds of street slang has been established as a characteristic feature within the last decades as part of a growing self-assurance and sense of pride in specific cultural and linguistic heritages (cf. Lindner 214). In Gone Too Far! , different kinds of language use and debates about language underscore the ways in which the play renders problematic simple ideas of cultural identity. Particularly in the case of Ikudayisi, his use of language is significant: although he is generally presented as someone who is at one with himself and proud of his Nigerian background, switching back and forth between Yoruba and English (with an African accent) and lecturing his brother about his need for roots, he puts on a contrived American accent when speaking to people outside his family (cf. 294-5, 333). He thus enacts a stereotype of his own, an imported idea about how people speak English in the Western world, and shows a desire to blend in and adapt, which stands out curiously among the British-Caribbean street slang of this urban estate. The Yoruba language has an interesting status in the play. It is a topic of frequent discussion between the two brothers, as Yemi at first takes offence at Ikudayisi’s frequent use of it (“I hate it when you speak dat language”, 302) and the latter tries to convince Yemi to learn it. In their interaction with other estate teenagers, however, Yemi recognises that speaking a language that others do not know is in fact a means of empowerment and independence: Armani is considerably enraged when Ikudayisi calls her names which she does not understand, and Blazer, Yemi’s role model, chats with Ikudayisi in Yoruba, excluding Yemi, and advises Yemi to learn it, too (cf. 338). While the printed version of the play gives translations for the Yoruba sentences, the audience of the performances was put in a position to understand this sense of exclusion Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 243 when confronted with the Yoruba conversations on stage (cf. Goddard 161; Ekumah 193, FN 4). Yemi becomes interested in learning Yoruba and wants to know the meaning of his and Ikudayisi’s names, but his reaction when he learns it shows how deeply engrained he is in individualistic, authority-defying ways of thinking that are associated with contemporary Western upbringing: instead of accepting his name (“God suit you”, 344) as a part of his identity given to him by the authorities in his culture of origin, he decides that he prefers Ikudayisi’s name (“Death spared me”, ibid.) and questions both his parents’ decisions and his elder brother’s superiority. Yemi, however, is not the first generation of his family who is ‘Westernised’, as he says about his mother: “She don’t care bout speaking African either. […] Don’t you hear, when she is on the phone she acts more English than me? ” (312) Here, the play subverts stereotypical expectations that first-generation immigrants try to defend and maintain their original culture against the second generation, which tries to fit into their country of birth. The different linguistic and cultural performances of identity by Yemi and Ikudayisi determine the reactions of two policemen to them who intervene in a physical quarrel between the brothers. While the police take a paternal, friendly stance towards the polite, African-looking Ikudayisi, they are alternately offended and amused by Yemi’s disrespectful back-slapping and street slang: POLICE OFFICER 1. Kids find it so hard to speak English nowadays. POLICE OFFICER 2. All that seems to come out their mouths is bumba clat this, bumba clat that, and innit man, yeah man. (346) They are convinced that Yemi must be Jamaican due to his street language (cf. 347), but their condescending attitude towards his faulty grammar and his accent is somewhat subverted by the fact that their own use of English, although closer to the standard than Yemi’s, also contains ungrammatical constructions (“He don’t act African”, 349). The linguistic contrast between police and black British estate dwellers, a typical feature in black British estate plays (cf. for example Sierz, Rewriting , 147 about Williams’ Fallout ), is thus alluded to, but also relativised. The encounter shows how identity markers, in this case predominantly linguistic ones, are read and acted on by other people, and how far such an interpretation can be off the mark: in this case, the policemen refuse to believe that the two young men are in fact brothers. Gone Too Far! constantly exposes language as something that, although vital for the identification of self and others, is unstable, flexible, self-styled, and artificial and can be chosen or at least modified at will. This point often comes across in humorous ways: in Armani’s exaggerated street slang, she corroborates her cultural identity both in content and in linguistic form: “Nah, later, I’m from yard , bruv.” (304) She is trying to say that she 244 Kerstin Frank is Jamaican, as expressed in the term ‘yardie’, but Ikudayisi does not understand this implication and asks, amused, “D’backyard? ” (305) Although the most recent newcomer, Ikudayisi exposes her insincere, artificial use of language that springs from her need to be part of the estate’s street culture. Her whole slang can be assumed to be put on of her own accord to blend in with her peers, since she was raised by her white, English mother. 4. Clothes and Hairstyles as Cultural Markers In addition to her street slang, other aspects of Armani’s cultural identity seem to be emulated, as her friend Paris reveals: How would you know about the black-hair shops if I didn’t take you there? Cos your mum never knew what to do with your hair. You were walking around with a picky Afro until the day I met you ! […] And who taught you about the dance moves that they did in Jamaica, cos […] you ain’t never been there […]. (328, emphasis in original) The Afro, historically seen as “marking a liberating rupture” and as a means of distancing oneself from white-dominated ideals of beauty, followed by its “eventual disappearance into the mainstream” (Mercer 104, 105), here reveals Armani’s (and her white mother’s) lack of expertise in up-to-date black British style politics, i. e. a lacking connection between her ‘nature’ (as she likes to see it) as (half-)Caribbean and the ‘culture’ that goes with it. Her hairstyle and other cultural habits show her to be estranged from this part of her heritage, a fact which accounts for her aggressive flaunting of her ‘yardie’ identity as an act of compensation and self-assurance. Apart from hairstyle, clothes are of course important identity markers, especially in street culture. A central role is accorded to the hooded jumper: the hoodie has become a popular signifier of youth culture, crime, and deprived adolescents in political and social debates, particularly since David Cameron in his “‘hug a hoodie’ call” criticised a shopping centre’s ban on hoods and the negative stigma attached to hoodies, claiming that “hoodies are more defensive than offensive” (Hinsliff; cf. also Goddard 160). In urban estate plays, hoodies also feature prominently. Lindsay John’s provocative article about the ghetto-image of black British theatre is fronted by a picture of Bola Agbaje with the caption: “Hoodie drama: playwright Bola Agbaje, who wrote Off The Endz”. ‘Hoodie drama’ thus becomes a synonym for clichéd black ghetto theatre in which hooded characters deal drugs and attack each other with knifes and ungrammatical street language. A prototypical example of a hooded character radiating menace can be found in Little Sweet Thing (2005) by Roy Williams, in which such a youngster appears several times to draw the main character back into a world of Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 245 street violence and crime. D. Keith Peacock summarises its function: “The Hood represents the inevitability of the black teenagers’ surrender to the subculture of sex, drugs, violence and crime.” (“Black British Drama”, 58) Parallel to this establishing of the hood as a sign for black ghetto drama, plays early on started to employ it in parodistic ways. The above-mentioned play Urban Afro Saxons is set in the playground of an urban estate, where the residents assemble during a long night of waiting while the police are keeping everyone out of their flats due to a siege situation. While the ordinary residents chat, bicker, flirt, and have a picnic while they wait, some hooded figures repeatedly cross the stage without saying or doing anything. This might be seen as a hidden threat, an indication of the more sinister aspects of the residents’ everyday life. In the context of the play’s mood and tone, however, it rather appears as a humorous undermining of stereotypical expectations. Gone Too Far! also brings up the stereotypes connected with the hood: when Yemi and Ikudayisi go to a shop to buy milk for their mother, the shopkeeper refuses entry to Yemi if he does not take off his hood. Yemi blows this up into a major issue, combining complaints about discrimination and racism with a number of highly discriminating remarks against the Bangladeshi, Muslim shopkeeper to a comical effect: “Just cos I got a hood on my head don’t mean I’m tryna rob nobody. Same ways I know just cos you’re Indian don’t mean you’re a BOMBER ! ” (297, emphasis in original) When the shopkeeper, terrified, locks his doors against them, Yemi unleashes his full fury at him: “That’s what I can’t stand bout you Indians! Smelling of curry, coming over here, taking up all the corner shops, and man can’t buy nothing.” (298) This scene, just as the one in which Armani and Paris fight about who is the racist, raises the clashing of stereotypes, misinformation, and ‘othering’ to absurd and comical heights. Throughout Gone Too Far! , Agbaje employs symbolic clothes to mark and undermine ideas about cultural identity. Yemi owns a pair of Nike trainers that Ikudayisi tries on in the first scene and continues to wear while they are roaming the estate. These trainers represent the urban street culture that Ikudayisi on the one hand criticises, on the other hand admires, as transpires when he calls himself “fine boy” and “[c]ool guy” while trying them on (293). Later in the play, Ikudayisi runs into Flamer, a member of Blazer’s gang, who threatens him with a knife and makes him hand over the trainers (358). This causes a fight between Yemi and Razer in the next scene, as Yemi mistakenly thinks it was Razer who took the trainers, and Ikudayisi is hurt during the fight. This violence, part of the clichéd conventions of black ghetto theatre, here has an unexpected, radically cathartic effect on everyone involved. Razer is mortified, and Yemi, discovering how fond he is of his brother, makes his peace with him, as is made clear in the last scene, which shows the brothers dressing for a family party. Yemi appears to 246 Kerstin Frank have found his roots now, as he answers in the affirmative when Ikudayisi asks him “I guess you now know what’s important, right? ” (370) He professes his newly found, happily hybrid cultural identity by wearing a traditional Nigerian hat instead of a basketball cap, but in combination with his trainers, which represent the Western urban street culture that he is now able to celebrate side by side with his Nigerian origins (370). As Michael Billington puts it in his review, this last scene “implies that it is possible both to acknowledge one’s origins and assimilate to urban, westernised culture. It is this notion of the potential for dual identity that gives the play its ray of hope.” Aleks Sierz, too, calls it “an optimistic glimpse of hybrid black British identity” ( Rewriting , 149). This optimism, cultural eclecticism and pride is certainly one aspect of this scene. However, the scene’s harmonious, hopeful solution appears rather abrupt, simple, and overstated, particularly when Yemi starts singing a patriotic Nigerian song to go with the hat. Of course, such an ending fits in well with the genre of comedy, but considering the play’s combination of comedy and parody, it can also be seen to contain a parodistic element: Just as the play confronts its audience with its own stereotypes about urban black street culture, its too-simple ending presents one with the uneasy sense that there is no simple solution to the complex questions of cultural identity. It becomes clear that a functioning social multiculturalism cannot be achieved by one simple act of celebrating cultural hybridity, but only through a long and painful process. The sense that the ending sets out to question any simple solutions is heightened by the fact that throughout the play, the symbolic use of clothing is more subtle and complex and adds to the playful destabilisation and questioning of seemingly fixed markers of identity. “Individual identity is shown to be unstable, shifting; something that you can put on and off - like a baseball cap or traditional African attire - or something you can’t shake off, like skin colour or the culture of your parents.” (Sierz, “Introduction”, xiv) That it does not suffice to combine cultural items from England and one’s country of origin to achieve a stable, safe, hybrid identity becomes clear in the scene with the shopkeeper, who sports an England shirt and a headscarf, decorates his shop with English flags and plays “Islamic music” (293). This blending of cultures does not help him, however, when Yemi confronts him with his stereotypes, and the man’s fear of being called a terrorist quickly drives him into a panic (cf. 297). In scenes like this, Agbaje combines parody of urban estate plays with the exaggerations of social comedy to a humorous effect, but also with an element of social criticism, showing the ways in which individual efforts to embrace a new culture while being true to their own cultural roots are frustrated by the one-dimensional, simplistic approaches of others. In the character of Yemi, it becomes obvious that his particular brand of ‘othering’ in this scene springs Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 247 from his own cultural fragmentation and insecurity, combined with a youthful tendency to defy authorities and assert his own power in the face of obstacles and rules. 5. Setting and Genre The previous analysis shows how Gone Too Far! employs character constellation, language, and clothing to negotiate questions of cultural identity and to destabilise both cultural stereotypes and the conventions of the urban estate play. Another element that contributes to this effect is the use of space. On the one hand, the setting seems to correspond to expectations regarding this type of play: “It is run-down, with graffiti all over the walls. It is the scene of a typical south London estate with rows of flats.” (293) 12 On the other hand, the way in which the main characters move within this space runs counter to the clichéd ideas of gangs roaming the estate, looking for trouble, practically living in the streets over which they rule. The play begins and ends with a scene in the brother’s bedroom, with the presence of the off-stage mother, not taken quite seriously, but still an authority figure. Her presence is continued implicitly as in the scenes in between, the brothers walk around in the estate on an errand for their mother to buy milk. This harmless task drives the movement of Yemi and Ikudayisi across the estate and ensures that they are bound for home, tied to their roots and family (if one wants to push the symbolic level even further, the milk underlines their bond to their mother). The bond remains even though they are delayed and wander off course due to various encounters in what Sierz calls their “odyssey across the metropolis” ( Rewriting , 149), but which is more accurately an odyssey across the estate. This estate is thus not essentially a threatening space. Shaped by the power structures of gangs vying for dominance, it is nevertheless predominantly a space that contains a home and family at its centre and allows for free, random movement and encounters which may involve confrontations but are rarely perilous. The conflict that finally escalates between Yemi and Razer appears as one that is not simply part of street life and an inevitable way of communicating amongst aggressive teenagers in a gun-and-drug milieu, but something that has been built up by the provocations of Armani and the need of Yemi to assert his fearlessness, but which all of the other characters have been trying to avoid at all costs. In her analysis of Agbaje’s Off the Endz , Katie Beswick claims that the play’s space, i. e. the urban estate, “produces the characters and their behaviour” (108) in the tradition of what she alternately calls “social realism” (98) and “dramatic naturalism” (108). 12 For a description of the set design in the original production, cf. Goddard (160). 248 Kerstin Frank At first glance, the same might be said about Gone Too Far! , but as with the seemingly clear-cut identities of the characters themselves, the dramatic space becomes less defined in the course of the play, and more open to be shaped by the characters’ movements and behaviour. For example, the shop which Yemi is not allowed to enter is not in fact a site of discriminating spatial exclusion, but a place that Yemi bars for himself by his comical-aggressive behaviour. Gone Too Far! thus combines characteristics of estate plays with social comedy (cf. Goddard 155), occasionally veering towards parody of urban street lifestyle and the clichés associates with black British street plays. 13 It engages with such clichés directly, exaggerating them for comic effect, but also undermining them. If the ways in which the main theme of cultural identity is addressed sometimes seem a little too obvious and, as one reviewer notes, “each scene too patently makes a point” (Billington), this is part of the comedy effect, but also linked to the fact that the play deals with teenagers, who are not the most subtle of age groups. The directness and sometimes naiveté with which they address the main themes of the play works to confront sensitive social issues directly, sometimes simply has a comic effect, and radiates a “freshness and energy” (Sierz, Rewriting , 149) that produces an overall message of optimism: the characters are young and troubled by questions of identity, but at least they ask the right questions and assert their right to find their own individual answers. They struggle with issues of coolness and peer pressure, but drugs do not play a role at all, and violence is mostly reduced to a vague threat, so that it surprises and shocks everyone when someone actually gets hurt. 6. Conclusion Debating the state of black British theatre in a The Guardian interview in 2003, Kwame Kwei-Armah and Courttia Newland agreed that the black writing community needs to communicate and cooperate so that those who have made it into the mainstream can help others who are still struggling. While Newland emphasised racism as a topic that is still prevalent and must be addressed, Kwei-Armah proposed a shift towards the topics of cultural identity and assimilation: At the moment, I feel that very few writers tackle the notion of assimilation in a political way. But I think this will be the new theme, that will probably supersede our current street - or whatever you want to call it - writing. The question of cultural 13 Lynette Goddard draws a parallel between Gone Too Far! and “the satirical traditions of African playwriting that use humour, irony and comic characterisation as accessible forms of social critique” (159). Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 249 assimilation, of who you are and what you are, is particularly important for the next generation, some of whom haven’t been home, to the West Indies or to Africa - people whose skin is black, but actually everything else about them is European. (Kwei- Armah et al. 3 f.) His phrase “our current street […] writing” hints at the conventions and clichés of black British estate drama that Gone Too Far! addresses and playfully subverts. In this play, Bola Agbaje picks up the theme of cultural assimilation that Kwei-Armah promotes, albeit not in a way that supersedes ‘street’ writing, but that incorporates and transforms it. The play implies that urban estates are still the reality for many immigrants and their descendants and thus cannot simply be abandoned as a theme just because they are now associated with certain clichéd themes and conventions. Instead, the shortcomings and dangers of these clichés are exposed in a playful, satirical manner. This is the genre-specific contribution of Agbaje’s play to social debates about immigrants, cultural identities, and urban estates: because it satirically works with both social and generic clichés, it acknowledges social challenges but at the same time defuses and ridicules stereotypes and black-and-white thinking. The great forte of social comedy when dealing with social problems is its lightness and humour, which avoids the impression of moral preaching and appeals to a wide and diverse audience. Underneath the comedy and exaggeration, however, this play confronts the audience with its own habitual assumptions and expectations as it seems to conform to them on the surface while playing with them and subverting them in a number of ways. These strategies become all the more apparent when one compares the play to its film version from 2013, also called Gone Too Far! . The film departs radically from the play in several of the main points discussed above, particularly regarding character constellation, clothes, and space, but also concerning the attitude to violence. The changes emphasise the comedy and the humour, with exaggerated characters, slapstick, and funny dialogues. However, it also presents more fixed, static stereotypes and, on the whole, shows less of the carefully constructed destabilisation of preconceived notions and binary oppositions that inform the play’s negotiation of cultural identities. This deeper level of the play, which sets it apart from the film, implicitly refers to Stuart Hall’s two vectors of cultural identity mentioned above: Gone Too Far! shows the processes and challenges of both similarity / continuity and difference / rupture in an individual’s position to his / her cultural past. Here, however, this struggle not only refers to the cultural past in the sense of the parents’ origins, but also to cultural stereotypes of the present, i. e. of identity models that young, urban street culture has to offer. Agbaje’s play shows these models to be strongly connected to Caribbean (or, in Armani’s case, pseudo- 250 Kerstin Frank Caribbean) influences, which makes it difficult for teenagers of African descent to fit in while remaining true to their own cultural past. Yemi, who has adopted this street culture without question, comes to challenge its ideological implications when it directly attacks his family’s cultural heritage as represented by his brother. Thus, the characters all in their own ways learn to see models of cultural identity as constructed and as flexible, asserting their individual power to shape and transform them, based on their own individual value systems as well as the influences of their parents’ cultures of origin. The play shifts debates of black British identity away from the binary opposition of African or Caribbean roots vs. (white) British cultural ideas to a more open acknowledgment of different models of identity on offer in youth culture. In Agbaje’s plays following Gone Too Far! , she remains true to the topic of cultural identities, but ventures beyond the confines of urban estate street life and explores different facets of the topic, from the struggle of illegal immigrants ( Detaining Justice , 2009) to questions of self-representation in the social media ( Playing the Game , 2010) and the disillusionment of an immigrant who returns to his country of origin ( Belong , 2012). Off the Endz (2010), the play whose title triggered Lindsay Johns’ derisive article about the ghettoisation of black British theatre, can be seen as a sequel of sorts to Gone Too Far! , not with the same characters, but with characters who are a bit older than Yemi and his peer group, who have jobs and are about to start families, and want to move out of the estate and up the social ladder. What holds them back is not the ideal and ‘coolness’ of street culture, but the temptations of consumerism that offer themselves to those with an income in the form of luxury articles and easy credit. The pressures and too high expectations of this newly accessible lifestyle ironically lead some of the main characters back to the drugs and violence of the life they are trying to leave behind, this time for their material profit, not for their offers of identity. The play thus shows a stage of young adulthood which opens up more choices of identity but at the same time limits such choices because the characters have to take responsibility for themselves and for their children. Off the Endz has been criticised for remaining too close to stereotypical notions of the urban estate, which is presented as “a metaphorical enclosure where the behaviour of the past is repeated and inhabitants are trapped in an endless cycle, predetermined by their social status, race and location” (Beswick 107). However, this critique neglects the play’s generic properties as a comedy with its specific possibilities and limitations, which run counter to what Beswick calls the “dramatic naturalism” (108) of the play. These debates show how prevalent the clichés of urban estate plays and ‘street’ identities are in connection to current black British theatre and how playwrights operate under the pressure to situate themselves in the field of Afro-Caribbean British Identities in Bola Agbaje’s Gone Too Far! (2007) 251 these expectations. The examples discussed in this essay, however, reveal that young writers are well up to the task of engaging with, defusing, and transcending such preconceived notions and that comedy and parody are highly effective tools in doing so, which have the additional bonus of being accessible and appealing to a wide audience, not least including those for whom the urban estate is not just a cliché but a reality and a source of various identities and social roles. Bibliography Primary Sources Agbaje, Bola. Belong . London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2012. —. Off the Endz . London et al.: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2010. —. Playing the Game . 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Johns, Lindsay. “Black Theatre Is Blighted by Its Ghetto Mentality.” London Evening Standard . 9 February 2010. http: / / www.standard.co.uk/ news/ black-theatre-is-blighted-by-its-ghetto-mentality-6709941.html. Accessed on 20 February 2017. Lindner, Oliver. “ Black British Drama : Kwame Kwei-Armah.” Das englische Drama der Gegenwart: Kategorien - Entwicklungen - Modellinterpretationen . Ed. Merle Tönnies. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2010. 211-27. Mercer, Kobena. “Black Hair / Style Politics.” Welcome to the Jungle: New Positions in Black Cultural Studies . New York, London: Routledge, 1994. 97-130. Newland, Courttia, Mark Norfolk and Kwame Kwei-Armah. “Three Young Writers on Black British Theatre.” The Guardian . 6 October 2003. https: / / www.theguardian.com/ stage/ 2003/ oct/ 06/ theatre.race. Accessed on 2 February 2017. Newland, Paul. The Cultural Construction of London’s East End: Urban Iconography, Modernity and the Spatialisation of Englishenss . Amsterdam, New York: Rodopi, 2008. Osborne, Deirdre (ed.). The Cambridge Companion to British Black and Asian Literature (1945-2010) . Cambridge: Cambridge UP , 2016. —. “Introduction to Urban Afro Saxons .” Hidden Gems Vol. II . Ed. Deirdre Osborne. London: Oberon Books, 2012. ebook. Peacock, D. Keith. “The Social and Political Context of Black British Theatre: The 2000s.” Modern and Contemporary Black British Drama . Eds. Mary F. Brewer, Lynette Goddard and Deirdre Osborne. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. 147-60. —. “Black British Drama and the Politics of Identity.” A Concise Companion to Contemporary British and Irish Drama . Eds. Nadine Holdsworth and Mary Luckhurst. Malden et al.: Blackwell, 2008. 48-65. Phillips, Mike. “Foreword: Migration, Modernity and English Writing - Reflections on Migrant Identity and Canon Formation.” A Black British Canon? Eds. Gail Low and Marianne Wynne-Davies. Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. 13-34. Procter, James. Dwelling Places: Postwar Black British Writing . Manchester, New York: Manchester UP , 2003. Raphael-Hernandez, Heike (ed.). Blackening Europe: The African-American Presence . New York: Routledge, 2004. Sierz, Aleks. Rewriting the Nation: British Theatre Today . London: Methuen Drama, 2011. —. “Introduction.” The Methuen Drama Book of Twenty-First Century British Plays . Ed. Aleks Sierz. London et al.: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama, 2010. vii-xviii. Tönnies, Merle. “Forms and Functions of Violence in Contemporary Black British Drama.” Anglistentag 2005 Bamberg Proceedings . Eds. Christoph Houswitschka, Gabriele Knappe and Anja Müller. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2006. 69-77. Apple Stores and Jihadi Brides: Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and the Role of Religion in Contemporary British Society Abir Al-Laham 1. Religion, Politics, and the Media In 2010, The Guardian critic Michael Billington lamented the loss of religion as a subject in British theatre. Instead, “we get plenty of sex in the theatre. Politics too. Religion, however, rarely surfaces in modern drama.” (Billington) Little did he know that a few years after the publication of the article, religion would make a comeback on the stage. Indeed, for a long time it had seemed as if religion and religiousness had vanished from public consciousness or at least retreated to the privacy of individual spiritual homes (cf. Hendrich 1). “‘The great secular hope’ was that religion would fade out of the political landscape” (Sherwood), and modern societies would instead rely on the value of economic and technological progress. However, the financial crisis in 2007 and 2008 exposed the “vacuum created in an unalloyed materialism” (Billington), and the increasing political instability in North Africa as well as the Middle East have cast doubt on the potential inherent in the new belief systems. Particularly the 9 / 11 attacks sparked a debate questioning the role that politicised and organised religion plays in contemporary societies, and this debate prompted the theatre to become engaged in the discussion surrounding the subsequent ‘war on terror’ and the invasion of Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003. Since then, the theatrical landscape has seen a focus on documentary drama, presenting overtly political content on stage and aiming to deconstruct prevailing narratives surrounding and justifying far-reaching administrative decisions. Britain’s pledge to the American government to go to war against Iraq has been a subject of extensive discussion in theatre, of which David Hare’s Stuff Happens (2004) and Richard Norton-Taylor’s Chilcot (2016) are just two examples. 1 The ensuing debate centres around the role that the Islamic faith and practice plays in the increasing radicalisation of young Muslims, with the controversy becoming even more apparent as European countries feverishly discuss the re- 1 In her contribution to the present volume, Ariane de Waal provides an overview of post- 9 / 11 political theatre and a close analysis of how terrorism is put on stage in Mark Ravenhill’s Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat (2007). 256 Abir Al-Laham percussions of the war in Syria and the influx of refugees crossing the continent. To this day, this heated debate continues to divide Europe, where leaders have exploited fears of Islamist terrorism and an Islamisation of Western culture to enforce their political agenda, using a polemic of discrimination against the Muslim minority. While the Slovakian prime minister Robert Fico demands a “restriction of the freedom of Muslims in Europe” (Mulhall), Ukip leader Nigel Farage claimed there was “a public concern about immigration partly because people believe there are some Muslims who want to form a fifth column and kill us” (ibid.). The omnipresence of the supposed threat of Islam in the press has undoubtedly put European identities into question. If ‘the other’ is Muslim, where are ‘we’ located on the religious spectrum? In their article on “Media Representations of British Muslims and Hybridised Threats of Identity”, Rusi Jaspal and Marco Cinnirella explore this “central position” that Muslims are given in the British media. According to their research, the medial “hypervisibility” of Muslims is usually set in a negatively connoted context, constructing the image of the Islamic believer as particularly violent and threatening to the Western way of life (cf. Jaspal/ Cinnirella 289). The authors identify this approach as “a common rhetorical strategy to establish rigid, impermeable boundaries delineating the [British] ingroup from the [Muslim] outgroup” (ibid. 294 f.), which is considered a crucial technique for establishing and reassuring the ingroup identity. Supporting the hypothesis of the binary opposition of related terms and concepts introduced by Jaques Derrida (cf. Daniel 143 f.), Rusi Jaspal’s and Marco Cinnirella’s argument emphasises the importance of the semiotic contrast between ‘the West’ and ‘the Muslim world’. Not only do the two opposing terms imply two sets of ideas contradicting each other - ‘the West’ representing democratic principles and progress whereas ‘the Muslim world’ denotes social and technological backwardness - but they are furthermore incomplete without their counterpart (cf. Daniel 144). The one is necessary to define the other, which demands the latter to be clearly assessed, sharply outlined and, finally, rejected for not being ‘us’, but ‘them’. Various public statements on the relationship between Islam and Europe have encouraged such a dichotomy, with numerous headlines revealing hostile attitudes towards the Muslim community. Ukip member Gerard Batten, for example, declared Islam a “death cult”, of which “non-Muslims should have ‘a perfectly rational fear’” (Weaver), while newspaper columnist Katie Hopkins provocatively called for a “‘final solution’ as part of a longer anti-Muslim tirade” on Twitter (“Katie Hopkins Reported to Police”). The New York Times went as far as to release an article titled “Islam and the West at War” (Cohen), which stabilises the widely-held presumption that the Islamic faith and Western values do not concur. Despite the efforts by politicians such as Theresa May, who Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 257 refused to call the Westminster attack in March 2017 an act of “Islamic terrorism” (Stone), to counteract these hostile attitudes, and newspapers such as The Guardian stressing that “Terrorism is not a Religion” (“Guardian’s View on Fear of Islam”), recent polls have shown that “the majority of voters do not believe that Islam is compatible with British values” (Rogers). Already in 2006, the Pew Research Center announced a “great divide” between “Westerners” and “Muslims”, concluding from a survey conducted on how Muslims and Westerners see each other. The results revealed that both sides hold prejudice against each other: While ‘the West’ thinks of Muslims as violent and fanatical, ‘the Muslim world’ perceives ‘the West’ to be selfish and immoral (cf. Pew). The fact that these entities standing against each other do not belong to the same categories, as ‘the West’ refers to a geographical classification, whereas ‘the Muslim world’ derives from a religious affiliation, exposes the popular assumption that Christianity’s role in ‘the West’ is severely diminished. An immense significance, however, is ascribed to Islam as it is largely believed to dominate the societies and communities historically influenced by the Islamic faith (cf. Daniel 151 f.). As a result, this belief is always under scrutiny whenever the public debates the violence in the Middle East, the rights of women from non-British backgrounds and the often-quoted lack of education in British minority groups. Whether this ‘hypervisibility’ of Islam will lead to a reinvention of an overtly Christian society in ‘the West’ is yet to be determined. Considering the social challenges that today’s world is confronted with, Michael Billington is right to call for the role of faith to be reassessed in drama - in fact, many have done so. Plays like Multitudes , written by John Hollingworth and published in 2015, cleverly explore the tensions between Britishness and Islam. Alia Bano made a spectacular debut with her piece Shades (2009), in which she offers rare insight in the life of a young, independent and single Muslim woman in Britain. In this paper, I intend to examine theatre’s involvement in the debate surrounding religion and illustrate the significance of religious beliefs in Britain’s contemporary society in an analysis of Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) as an exemplary play. 2. Stand-Up Strategies and the Appeal of the Absurd Hassan Abdulrazzak is a London-based playwright who is of Iraqi origin and was born in Prague. The author fled Baghdad with his family at the age of eight, when Saddam Husayn became the new president of Iraq. Now a 44-year-old postdoctoral researcher in biology at Imperial College, Abdulrazzak emerged on the theatrical scene with his debut play Baghdad Wedding in 2008, a contribution to the on-going debate about the consequences of the war on Iraq. His 258 Abir Al-Laham play was well received and he was applauded for his fresh theatrical angle on the invasion of Iraq (cf. Henley). From the outset, Abdulrazzak’s view on the war distinguished itself from that of the majority as he chooses to shift the focus away from the political narrative dominating the newspaper headlines and instead to highlight the disruptive effect of the events on the private lives of British Iraqi-born characters: What most people know of my country, in fact of the whole region, is basically what they see on the news: the aftermath of a suicide bombing, grieving mothers, men in pick-up trucks waving guns. The news doesn’t show a couple of 30-somethings sitting in a café talking about books. (Abdulrazzak in Henley) In Baghdad Wedding , Abdulrazzak offers a rare insight into a group that is affected by the war in a more immediate and intimate way, but whose voices are still unheard in the British theatre. The author’s stance is so distinctive because his characters never lose their humorous outlook on life, despite facing disastrous situations. Love, Bombs and Apples continues to incorporate this sense of humour, only this time, the satire is much sharper. The play consists of a compilation of four short monologues, set in different parts of the world: Ramallah, London, Bradford and New York. Each monologue is delivered by a male protagonist who recounts an unusual and unexpected incident. Coming from complicated personal, political and socio-cultural backgrounds, the four protagonists find themselves in conflict with the expectations of their environment whenever they attempt to follow their secret dreams and desires. In a surprising twist, these moments turn out to be life-changing revelations. The titles of their stories, “Love in the Time of Barriers”, “Level 42”, The Apple” and “Landing Strip”, refer to the object or the concept central to the development of the narratives. Having the characters tell their stories by adapting stand-up techniques, Abdulrazzak proves that his dramatic work not only displays an innovative approach to discussing topical political issues on stage, but it also strikes a new stylistic path as his protagonists suggest a relaxed living room atmosphere through continuously breaking the fourth wall. “ OK , this is just between us, but being in prison is just about the best thing that ever happened to me”, is Sajid’s opening phrase in “Level 42”, directly addressing the audience and encouraging them to participate in the storytelling: “If I get off the subject, let me know.” (Abdulrazzak, Love, Bombs and Apples , 23) 2 From the beginning, the characters draw the spectators in by imitating an intimate conversation. Based on a relationship of trust, there are 2 In the following, references to Love, Bombs and Apples will be given as simple page numbers in brackets. Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 259 no topics that are off limits. The stand-up strategy allows a more direct engagement with the audience, as the stand-up comedian traditionally uses his or her own experiences with topical subjects, such as racism and sexism, as artistic material. The fact that Abdulrazzak’s characters are still fictitious maintains the theatricality of his work, but his style is nonetheless strongly influenced by the tradition of stand-up comedy. This choice of genre is effective, as stand-up “depends so much on shared experiences, assumptions, even nuances of language” (Zoglin), which unites the audience and challenges its perceptions of current issues revolving around topics such as race, gender and religion. Characteristically, this kind of performance confronts the spectators with their prejudices against minority groups, which is why stand-up has recently become extremely popular with comedians from a Muslim background, as the Western view on Islam has increased in hostility. The American Muslim comedian Azhar Usman, for instance, opens his show with a joke, playing on the common misconception “of the relationship between Muslims and humour […]: ‘I’m going to do something you’ve never seen a Muslim do before! Smile! ” (Michael 129) The joke is guaranteed to generate laughter, as it “releases the social tension” (ibid. 138) and exposes the discrepancy between stereotype and reality. 3. Holy Spaces Abdulrazzak’s characters are affected by and concerned with the political, racial and religious developments because they directly influence their everyday lives. In Love, Bombs and Apples , the protagonists comment on and analyse their experiences with these topics. Their worlds are defined by elements that the title suggests are inevitable parts of life, inseparably intertwined and at times painfully present: The characters must learn that for them love does not happen without violence and that lust for the forbidden fruit can have fatal consequences. In their world, religion is both the means to find and maintain love, as well as the obstacle that stands in the way; it unites as well as it divides. With the potential to restrict and to liberate it is at its best whenever it enables the characters to cross even the most secured borders. In Abdulrazzak’s dramatic works, religion is omnipresent, even though his characters are usually conflicted about the role it should play in their lives. In general, they are categorically uninterested in religion as a dogmatic principle; none of them strives for a nirvana or a spiritual awakening - the afterlife is of no concern. What motivates them is the instinct to survive in the present moment, the desire to escape a suffocating environment and the need to change the status quo. To them, religion is available in multiple facets: Embedded in everyday routine as a regulative force, 260 Abir Al-Laham it imposes a value system on community members, leaving those who do not abide by the rules marginalised and alienated. On the other hand, it serves as the catalyst that sets a development into motion, empowering the protagonists to challenge prevalent structures. The significance of religion becomes most apparent whenever the protagonists are troubled by their emotional and sensual deficits. “Sex. It’s such a problem, isn’t it? ” are the first words the audience hears, spoken by the “nearly famous” Palestinian theatre actor who fancies a romantic night with Liz, an English woman he meets at the after-show party and whom he calls “Chanel girl”, in reference to the dress she is wearing. (15) His focus on the assumed value of the dress this early in the play already introduces the central role allocated to the meaning of materialism, consumerism and capitalism in the context of contemporary belief systems that Abdulrazzak wittily explores throughout his work. Immediately upon their encounter, the desire for sex arises, but the opportunities for erotic get-togethers are rare in Ramallah, as the actor informs the audience. Besides getting married young or going to a prostitute, the third option is to find a foreign girl. Perhaps someone working for the thousand and one NGO s we have here. But most of them stick to their own. The adventurous ones, who like to dip their fingers in our local dishes so to speak, are harder to find. This one is clearly up for it. (17) Thus, the question remains: Where take her? While the actor shares a household with his large family - which means “taking Chanel girl home is a definite no no” - she “is staying in lodgings run by Franciscan nuns” (18). The living arrangements in the monologue set in Ramallah are representative of the political, cultural and religious background against which the actor operates. On the one hand, these arrangements rely on the family as the smallest social unit acting as the keeper of the group codex. “When your very existence is threatened, you have two options: extinction or breeding” (ibid.), a reasoning that reveals a dynamic empowering family relations and expanding their reach of influence. On the other hand, religious institutions fill in the power vacuum created by the absence of functioning governmental structures: “You might remember [the Palestinian] president Mahmoud Abbas from such capitulations as his condemnation of Hamas while the citizens of Gaza were busy dodging white phosphorus.” (15) The play suggests that in a place like Ramallah, where the administration fails to represent the will and need of its people and the opposing foreign political power threatens and discriminates against the Palestinians, religion and its regulative institutions are bound to gain influence. The Palestinian’s socio-political background relates to the life and reality of the young Muslim in Bradford, who is the protagonist of the monologue “The Apple”. Similarly embedded in a Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 261 community that is deeply affected by political and social events, the character dreams of breaking free from what he considers a wasted and miserable existence. Judging from the first impression the audience gains of his peer group his bitter sentiment may be surprising, as his community appears to be united in its faith, shared rituals and traditions, in which the protagonist readily participates as he regularly and joyfully takes his grandfather to the mosque. However, in both these environments, the communal structures are fundamentally altered as external forces disrupt everyday life. Interestingly enough, in both cases the drastic social and political change is embodied in buildings: The actor’s daily routine is shattered by the wall separating the West Bank, which was completed by the Israeli government in 2003. Similarly, the protagonist from Bradford finds his fate called into question when a Westfield shopping centre is built nearby. Its purpose, he believes, is to compete with the community mosque and the values it is accused of representing: We have a Westfield in Bradford now. Didn’t you know? But get this. I’m the only one that’s figured this out, I swear. I reckon, right, I reckon they put that Westfield in there to pacify us. Stop us doing Jihad. […] No more joining ISIS . (34 ff.) The grounds for his statement is the public misconception about Islam and Muslims that undoubtedly affects the protagonist and his group members. Frustrated with the situation, he sarcastically addresses the audience, asking whether they have already been to a mosque as “Britain is a Muslim country now. They said so on Fox TV . On Fox, they said Bradford is a Muslims-only city now. No whites allowed. I swear they did. It’s madness …” (35) Puzzled by the way mass media depicts his faith and its practitioners, the protagonist clearly looks with consternation at the discrepancy between his self-perception in terms of his religious identity and the portrayal of Muslims as a general threat to Western civilisation - a notion that has indeed fuelled the debate surrounding an allegedly “supremacist religion” and has led to “a normalization of anti-Muslim prejudice in the UK and a rise in anti-Muslim hate crime” (Mulhall). In his mind, the shopping centre serves as an extension of this inequality, as it is directed at the most apparent disadvantage his peers face, mocking the poor prospects for migrant youths who he feels are destined to labour under “zero hour contracts. No, thanks. Loading shelves in Ikea” (36). The actor’s outlook on the future in “Love in the Time of Barriers” is equally grim. Set in a region whose culture is already strongly defined by its religious history, his story about his relationship with the Israeli wall highlights the importance of spirituality as a social unifier as well as a source of conflict and, eventually, segregation. The distinctiveness of the geo-political map lies in the circumstances under which the state of Israel was created and its underlying concept of 262 Abir Al-Laham ethno-nationalism, which, as Friedland explains, “locates the nation’s identity in a group that imagines itself to have a cultural homogeneity and a common descent” (387). Here, religious identity is the essence of nation-building, with Judaism being declared the uniting factor, a principle intrinsic to Israeli law which manifests that “the right to citizenship rests on religious affiliation” (Weissbrod 196). This dynamic implies an alignment of the consciousness of the group affected and usually results in excluding those who do not identify with the ideals established, since whenever “people use religion to define collective identities” (Lichterman 83), anyone who deviates from the norm essentially disrupts the code. As a material object, the wall physically enforces the partition by reducing the space for mobility on both ends; as it stands firmly it allows no trespassing. It functions as “the outskirts of the city” set in “a secluded spot,” which tends to be generally avoided, especially at night (19). Mentally as well as spiritually, the wall indicates the boundaries of imagination as it limits the encounter with and perception of the other on the neighbouring side, not permitting any transcendence into the adjacent alien, potentially hostile, sphere. As a result, the opposing party mutates into a shapeless shadow that has lost all individual quality. The abstraction is a necessary foundation for creating and keeping up the idea of “the enemy” as a generalised concept - of which Liz’s reductive statement, “why can’t human beings just get along? ” is highly emblematic (ibid.). As a result, the two sides are able to erase the ethno-religious diversity and disintegrate the region according to religious affiliation. 4. Sexual Encounters as Acts of Faith Although the wall is unambiguous in its physical presence, its interpretation varies (as is true for most borders) according to the groups involved: While “Israelis like to call it ‘the security border’” (19), Palestinians perceive the division to be a symbol of racial and religious discrimination, with the wall “leaving the irrigation wells on their side” and therefore cutting the Palestinians off from their livelihood (ibid.). The surface of the wall allows each side to project their own experiences onto it, a phenomenon which Keane describes in his essay “On the Materiality of Religion”, attributing a “material autonomy” to objects, as he considers them externalisations of each individual’s set of ideas. Referring to material objects as a manifestation of religious practice is a universal and old technique; in fact, “the material is meaningful in all cultures and of course we know of few, if any, religious practices that can do without the mediation of material objects” (Zick-Varul 450). The wall represents such an object whose religious significance differs according to each visitor’s background and experience. Every new encounter adds a nuance to the perception of the wall, Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 263 sometimes even to the point of ambivalence. The actor’s story is an example of such a transformation, which commences as soon as he and Liz choose the wall as the place for love-making. After aimlessly driving around in his car, Liz “all of a sudden […] asks the magical question: ‘I want to see the Wall. Do you think you could take me there? ’” (19) Relieved to have found the perfect spot for privacy, the protagonist unhesitatingly agrees to her request, unaware of the consequences their visit will have. As a tourist, Liz is drawn to the wall by its notorious image; her interest is of a purely sensationalist nature. The actor’s initial intent, on the other hand, is to find a secure space to satisfy his sexual desire, hoping to avoid the controlling gaze of his community. Their expectations fundamentally influence their view on the wall, modifying the premise under which its usually heavy symbolism is evaluated. Its promise to offer refuge alters its meaning from a sinister place to a magical sanctuary: “Chanel girl is looking up the Wall as we approach it like it’s some kind of holy relic. I have to admit that by moonlight, it looks kind of beautiful.” (ibid.) The remote location combined with the natural spectacle creates a romantic atmosphere and intensifies the air of the surreal, which sets a re-imagining of the political situation in motion. Based on the religious simile, the actor is capable to envision an alternative version to the wall as a tool of imprisonment. It’s like the Wall at that moment had turned into the gates of heaven and I was making love to some beautiful angel sent by God to take away all the frustration, misery and humiliation of the endless pipe dreams. Then suddenly I’m bathed in light and for a moment I think, shit, I really am in heaven. (20) The religious metaphor creates the imaginative space needed to overcome the boundaries imposed on him and it provides the vehicle to carry the solace, hope and assurance that a release from confinement is viable. During the sexual act, the protagonist experiences a cathartic moment and the scene culminates in an empowering epiphany, illustrated by “the common experience of light understood as an expression of divinity” (Friedland 414). The protagonist defies all constraints and resurrects his will to experience life to its full extent in order to “show them that no matter what walls they build, what towers they erect, they can’t stop us from living” (21). Where all political negotiations have failed, religion serves as the catalyst for progress using the wall as a token of the newly discovered belief. In Bradford, the protagonist receives a similar insight into the significance of materialism, only this time in the shape of sensual lust for the products of consumerist ideology. Despite his resentment of the Westfield building, he finds himself irresistibly drawn to its holy halls and the dogma their keepers are sell- 264 Abir Al-Laham ing. His special interest belongs to the Apple store, functioning here to represent the quintessence of consumerist belief in contemporary culture. In an awestruck account of his approach to the iPhone, the protagonist confesses his devoutness: I don’t want to see it straight away, I like to creep up on it … don’t ask me why … it’s like, it’ll be … I won’t enjoy it … not if I see it straight away … I won’t enjoy it … it’ll be horrible … no, I like to creep up on it, little by little … and then I see it all. The Apple Store. Wow. So gorgeous, oh Allah it’s so gorgeous. […] That glass window? I love that glass window … I love it. I could look through it all day long, I swear I could. And the white walls … so white … it’s like … it’s like … (34) Here, the iPhone serves as the projection screen for the protagonist’s desires; the apple alludes to the biblical forbidden fruit, foreboding grave consequences should it be grabbed. Traditionally, the theological story of Adam and Eve is interpreted as a sin of the flesh, implying a sexual aspect in the picking of the fruit, as they become aware and ashamed of their nakedness after eating it (cf. Giordan 228). The protagonist’s advance towards the object of desire is guided by sensuality in a comparable manner: I slide my finger down and I get to that thing across the middle … you know … the fake slider and I touch it with my thumb. I like the feel of my thumb over the fake slider … argghhh, it’s so … it’s so … one day you’ll be mine I think and then I slide it, sometimes gentle, sometimes not, it changes … and you know what happens next? You know? It makes a click sound. (37) Sex, or rather the lack thereof, is a constant variable in Abdulrazzak’s play. It appears as a crucial factor in the attraction of religion and ideologies: The character is more willing to engage in religious communication once the possibility of intercourse is given; in Bradford, the protagonist ponders whether or not he should join ISIS where he has his “choice of Jihadi brides” (37). Treating the iPhone as a sexual object heightens his interest in joining the cult surrounding consumerism. The physical pleasure which the protagonist gains from being able to caress the symbol of his desire materialised in the shape of the iPhone highlights the importance of the body when theorising about the significance of religion in today’s society. The stories in Abdulrazzak’s play propose that all ideologies are incomplete as long as they fail to include the role of sexuality. If they “reconceptualise mind, body and society, not as merely connected, but indeed as deeply interpenetrating” (McGuire 285), belief systems reach their full potential and are able to “connect, in one way or another, to the plausibility structures that are supported by the lived religious experience” (Zick-Varul 449). Consequently, different religions are of equal value provided that they incorporate every component relevant to human existence. In his article for the German Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 265 Federal Agency for Civic Education (Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung), Geert Hendrich emphasises the role of what he calls “substitute religions” and their effect on contemporary religiousness. According to him, the various belief systems, ranging from sports to esotericism, offer a wide spectrum for construction of meaning to their followers. 3 The choice of content is of no relevance as the belief systems are identical in principle: They all promote uniqueness and exclusiveness while promising to deliver unification, direction and security. Thus, it is not surprising that the Apple store reminds the young Muslim of his local mosque. Instantly, he recognises the similarities between the architectural design of the two monuments, as well as the method of religious practice and worship: So we go into the mosque. And it’s big. The main hall, it’s big. Just like the Apple store. And everyone is milling around at first. […] And then it’s sermon time and everybody snaps into line. It’s like at the Apple store when they announce a new iPhone. […] See before you ever step into the Apple store, you probably have watched hours and hours of their sermons on your laptop. You call them ads but I call them sermons. (35) Following his reasoning, the agenda that he assumes behind the building of the Westfield has failed: “They put that Westfield in Bradford to pacify us, so no more lads will go over to Syria. No more joining ISIS . No more jihad. But they are fools, bro. They are big time fools. Because the iPhone, I swear, was meant for jihad.” (36) The protagonist is convinced that building the shopping centre aims at luring individuals away from the appeal of extremist Islam by putting temptations in the form of first world products on display. In his monologue, he exposes the rift between society’s perception of his way of life and his own priorities. Presuming a dichotomy of consumerism and religion by considering consumerist commodities the antithesis to God constitutes “the common approach [which] is to portray [consumerism] as a continuation of the adoration of the Golden Calf, as a misguided quasi-religion” (Zick-Varul 447). To the protagonist’s way of thinking, however, the value systems available to him do not only coexist, but they are intertwined, functioning as support systems complementing each other. His argument that the iPhone was “meant for Jihad”, assuming that the propaganda material released by fundamentalist groups such as ISIS was filmed on this device (36), indicates the influence of globalisation and mass media on contemporary belief, the latter being “so central to consumer culture” (Zick-Varul 450). In a fast-paced environment that insists on constant 3 “Der individuelle Sinnsucher entdeckt oder legt ‘Sinn’ und ‘Orientierung’ in den Pilateskurs ebenso wie in den Fußballverein, in esoterische Pseudo-Wissenschaft ebenso wie in fernöstliche Weisheitslehren” (Hendrich). 266 Abir Al-Laham political and social change - especially in response to immigration - and at the same time provides overall access to alternative teachings, mosaic faiths are on the rise. Since modern believers compose belief systems that consist of recycled fragments from different contexts, all of which claiming to provide the path to enlightenment - as is the case with yoga, healthy nutrition trends and figures from pop culture - it seems as if the traditional faiths do no longer prove sufficient to interpret the developments in the world. 5. Religious Art and the Power of Labels Meanwhile, in London, Sajid, the protagonist of the monologue “Level 42” and “almost published author” of “the definitive post 9 / 11 novel”, draws the same conclusion judging from his own experience with different religious cultures. Abdulrazzak confronts the reader with the issue of politicised religion on the global map by having Sajid recount the stations he had to go through. Having left his country of birth, Pakistan, by the age of nine, he and his family moved to Saudi Arabia where he spent an unhappy childhood: In Pakistan we lived in Lahore and I liked it very much. Poor as certain parts of it were, the place had culture. In Saudi, all we had were mosques and family visits to other Pakistani families. I learnt Arabic. I learnt the Quran. I learnt to hate the Jews. It was a shit kind of childhood in so many different ways. (23) Similar to the conditions in Ramallah, Sajid spent his childhood in an environment dominated by a government that expects its members to internalise a religious doctrine in order to enforce its own political agenda. In the aftermath of the attacks, Sajid, who by now lives in London with his family, observes the fascination surrounding 9 / 11 and, following the trend, he begins “to think about Wahhabism and Bin Laden and terrorism and all that. It seemed like a fun thing to do at the time. Everyone was doing it.” (24) In a striking comparison between his impression of the religiousness of the English society and his past experiences in Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, the protagonist concludes that every community, secular or not, incorporates belief systems and shared rituals in its culture: [E]veryone here was listening to Nirvana. There is something about Kurt Cobain, that to this day, reminds me of Bin Laden […] Despite my extensive research, I’ve been unable to conclusively prove that Cobain was influenced by Wahhabism, a hard core version of Islam. (ibid.) Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 267 Sajid here illustrates the potential inherent in the cult of rock music as a substitute religion to preach intolerance towards followers of competing beliefs by using the example of the forgotten rock band Level 42: As you all know by now I am sure, Wahhabism was invented to purge the Islam of innovations considered to be sinful in the same way that Nirvana tried to purge the rock scene of the corporate image it had acquired in the 80s. To get rid of bands like … Level 42! (ibid.) As an aspect of culture that no longer represented the consumer critical zeitgeist of the 1990s, these musicians were condemned for the values they symbolised by the freshly crowned moral authority and were ultimately deprived of their legitimacy. The protagonist’s discovery is daunting as his childhood trauma of being forced to absorb the prevalent religious doctrine or otherwise facing life as an outsider strongly resonates with him. To Sajid, the fate of Level 42 is not very distinct from his own situation. He already finds himself racially discriminated against as “Sajid Abdul Abdul is just a ridiculous name for many employers” (25), which leaves him with no choice but to live with his parents and numerous siblings in a shady neighbourhood. Scarred by the disadvantages he has to endure due to his descent, he reveals his desire to be accepted into British society when recalling his feelings riding in the van of the police, who arrest him on the suspicion of writing a terror manual: I’ve never been with so many white men before. It was amazing! To the left of me, to the right of me. Shoulder to shoulder. Seventeen years I’ve been in this country and never was I so close to any white man. […] And they were all looking at me with such, such … loving intensity. Yeah, I’d like to think it was loving. (28) The decision to write a novel on terrorism derives from his longing to escape an existence at the margins of society, unemployed (despite a college degree) and alienated. To accomplish his goal, it dawns on him that a reinvention of his persona is necessary. According to the social mirror Sajid faces, which reflects the image of a young man who is merely one out of many Muslims of Pakistani descent living on the poor side of town and therefore faceless, his prospects of receiving the recognition he strives for are poor. As a result, Sajid determines that he has to resort to what he already embodies in the eyes of his environment: As a Muslim, he is bound to have an understanding of terrorism, especially considering the insight he must have gained from the countries he used to live in. Thus, 268 Abir Al-Laham I started to go over my childhood in Saudi. Were there warning signs? Could I have seen the planes coming, so to speak? I decided that yes I could, in retrospect, with hindsight, looking in my rear-window so to speak, yes I could have spotted the signs. (24) Although his thought process reveals that the knowledge he claims to have on the subject is superficial and his analysis of the dynamic of terrorism remains rather vague, Sajid is nevertheless convinced that he would “write [his] masterpiece, the definitive post 9 / 11 novel, the one that all the others would be judged against” (26) and thereby capitalise on his religious background by selling his story. At the core, his hopes for social affiliation lie “in the art world, [where] surely there [are] other criteria by which a man is judged.” (27) Art is the channel through which he attempts to compensate for what he has been deprived of on a social and political level. He chooses the signifier “almost published writer” as an alternative version of himself, although the label lacks completeness and therefore prevents him from being integrated into the artistic circle. In a way, the reinvention of his self is in alignment with Sajid’s life-long struggle for identity - a foreigner in Saudi Arabia as well as in England, his awareness has been shaped by the outsider role, which he, by now, accepts compliantly. His biography consists of fragments: Not only is Sajid almost Saudi and almost English, but he is equally Pakistani merely by memory; the hateful doctrine he was forced to adopt has turned him into an alienated Muslim. He alludes to his fractured identity when he speaks about his father and his failure to keep his restaurant running “because he couldn’t put a menu together that was distinctly Pakistani” (25). With his novel, he finally wants to find his place: “I would be the man to write it. Me, Sajid Abdul Abdul Abdul.” (26) As an author, he could assert his name, finally admitting that he had left out the third Abdul out of embarrassment, and be acknowledged as an individual character. This would all be achieved by using the integral elements of his identity that he cannot shake off, thus engaging in what Leveau describes as “a form of politics from below”. Leveau argues that “social actors who are deprived of their legitimate means of asserting their collective presence, have recourse to the means of expression that are closest to them on a cultural level” (in Jacobson 122). If Sajid’s fractured identity prevents him from belonging to any group, then his only choice is to turn his disadvantage into a strength by drawing on the means of identification available to him. Declaring himself a Muslim novelist from Pakistan and Saudi Arabia and explaining the nature of Islamic terrorism to his readers enables him to affirm his identity. In Abdulrazzak’s earlier play Baghdad Wedding , the protagonist Salim, himself an Iraqi-born Londoner, defends the invasion of Iraq by the Americans Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 269 because he claims that “this war has at least put Iraq on the map” (Abdulrazzak, Baghdad , 32). 9 / 11 had a similar effect on Islam, putting Saudi Wahhabism, the same ideology that deeply affected Sajid, under scrutiny. Finding that his own story is now legitimised through the attention that the Wahhabi subsection of Islam and the region it is practiced in receive, he seizes the opportunity to use his material in a cathartic process of writing down his own scenario of a terror plot in which, interestingly enough, “the terrorists get away, they escape to Pakistan” (ibid. 28), which may indicate a projection of Sajid’s subconscious desire. The story ends with him being released from prison, married to the daughter of his father’s friend and living in a house with a garden in a quiet neighbourhood. Sajid’s dream of making a name for himself as an author is never fulfilled. Instead, he settles for the life that he was always supposed to lead according to his family. The doctrines he encountered and inherited during his transition from one belief system to another turn out to be futile as he learns that he cannot redefine who he is as long as the prerogative of interpretation lies with the social authorities. If the novel is declared a terror manual, Sajid’s attempts to prove them otherwise are all in vain. If anything, the protagonist is merely able to gain his father’s recognition for having survived his time in prison. “’[N]ow you’re a man my son’” (ibid. 23) are the words that Sajid’s father directs at him after his release, designating the meagre outcome of his struggle to find his perfect label. 6. Religion as Social Unifier To Isaac’s way of thinking, this kind of acknowledgement from his family makes up for everything the Jewish New Yorker and protagonist of the final monologue “Landing Strip” sacrifices in order to receive the acceptance and love from his community. Emphasising the role that organised religion plays beyond the nation state, Isaac’s monologue depicts shared religious beliefs that function as the connecting link between family members as shifting grounds for familial relationships. Desperately trying to impress his father, the character is introduced to the audience as the loyal son devoted to his parents’ cause of fighting for and defending the matters of Israel. My job was to welcome every year to our annual conference, students from all over America. We picked up anyone who is heading for a job at Capitol Hill. We went after them and educated them about Zionism. I didn’t do the educating, that was above my pay grade. But my dad, he rocks at it. He never stops fighting for Israel. (42) Isaac does not question the systematic recruiting of future politicians who are trained to pledge their full solidarity with the state of Israel. Instead, he admires 270 Abir Al-Laham his father for his influence and position in the field of politics as he relentlessly goes after everyone who does not share his views - “[w]e even pulled that shit against Jimmy Carter and he’s a former president” (ibid.). Unexpectedly, Isaac’s uncritical beliefs are shaken and his relationship with his family becomes complicated when he introduces Sarah, his liberal Jewish girlfriend, to his parents. As a member of the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, an organisation that actively defends the Zionist cause, his father regards all those as enemies who oppose his agenda. In his point of view, critics of Israeli politics who are from a Jewish background are to be judged the harshest as “they’re traitors in his eyes and he can show them no mercy” (49). The protagonist is deeply affected by his father’s strict views and senses the pressure to imitate his aggressive approach: “My dad, his friends, practically everyone at AIPAC were street fighters in sharp suits. They had this air of manliness, even invincibility. It was dad who taught me boxing.” (41) When Sarah, an activist for Palestinian rights, steps onto the scene, the protagonist finds himself torn between the love he feels for her and his family’s expectations he longs to fulfil: “It’s gonna come down to a choice between Sarah or my family. That’s way too much. […] This will be ugly. Very ugly.” (49) For Isaac, his identity as a family as well as community member is in close correlation to his political and religious denomination. The stakes are high, since contradicting his father’s cause inevitably entails the loss of his social support system and an excruciating sense of isolation. Furthermore, being trapped in his father’s definition of manliness, he struggles to emancipate himself from his role model at the risk of facing disorientation. Isaac’s relationship with Sarah, however, represents an equally desirable alternative to the life offered to him by his family. On the brink of losing Sarah due to the family conflict, he realises that he has “never loved someone as much as I love her” (48). Again, the importance of physicality comes into play and intervenes with the values represented by Isaac’s father, as sexuality and religious convictions constantly interact. When Isaac and Sarah first meet, they “[make] love like primitive humans in a cage” (38). By virtue of their physical closeness, Isaac starts to distance himself from his father’s doctrine and begins to “read up on the conflict. And the more I read, the less sure I [am].” (45) However, as soon as Isaac and Sarah face tensions in their relationship due to the incompatibility of Sarah’s beliefs with his parents’ set of ideas, these penetrate and disrupt their cosmos they have created as a couple. As a result, they lose their intimacy and Isaac observes that their sex life “kinda cooled. After she met my parents, dad especially, yeah, it cooled” (38). Isaac longs to bring back the romance in his relationship and he becomes fixated on his fantasy of Sarah having her pubic hair shaped like a landing strip. When Isaac reveals his thoughts to Sarah, disgust marks her Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 271 reaction: “We’ve been bombing children in Gaza for two weeks and you’re fantasising about turning my cunt into an F16 landing strip? ” (41) Isaac’s request opens up a wide range of significant connotations crystallising the underlying thesis the play conveys right from the outset. Sarah uses the personal pronoun ‘we’ to signify her affiliation with Judaism. As religious identity plays a vital part in Israel’s doctrine and the state’s philosophy demands a sense of association of every Jew, her being born Jewish suffices in order to identify as a coagent in Israel’s war against Gaza and account for their violent deeds. In Sarah’s mind, the landing strip serves as the landing point for a fighter aircraft and she therefore interprets it as a sign of destruction rather than healing, which is what Isaac had in mind when he made the proposal. To Sarah, the sexual act itself is turned into an act of violence, which is why she rejects Isaac’s approach. Isaac is shocked “that Gaza is now in our sex life [and] Dad was between the sheets now” (41 f.). What stands between them is a gap of understanding religious and national duty, sexual morality and the influence of a powerful family, all three being factors that constantly interact in Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples . 7. Conclusion Isaac’s story highlights the omnipresence of religion in every facet of existence. Although this might not be frequently remembered and despite the process of secularisation, religion is still incorporated in every aspect of civic and private life. Most importantly, it contributes significantly to processes of identification, especially in times of political and economic upheaval, racial discrimination and social inequalities, filling the void left by insufficient systems. In Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples , all four protagonists act from an awkward position of social anxiety, longing to find a place to claim and a source for identification. As outsiders, they are confronted with religious, social and political mirrors that serve as stark reminders of what their lives lack and what they cannot be: In Ramallah, the protagonist is unsuccessful as an actor and feels imprisoned. Excluded and marginalised by the Israeli wall, he faces the presence of a powerful nation that rejects him for not being Jewish. The Bradford Muslim is from a poor background; on the one hand, he is unable to participate in the consumption-oriented society around him, and on the other hand, he misses a valid alternative as he remains unconvinced that fighting for an Islamist group constitutes the right path for him. As an almost published writer and a man without a home country, Sajid is desperately searching for a label that he can create and attribute to himself, aiming to find a substitute for an ethno-religious affiliation, as well as to liberate himself from the term ‘terrorist’ he is given by the British society. Isaac’s counterparts are his father and Sarah, 272 Abir Al-Laham who represent opposing ideologies, none of which he can fully integrate in. The protagonists are entangled in the binary language that is so characteristic of the debate surrounding the role of religion in today’s society. ‘They’ built the wall to discriminate ‘us’; ‘they’ brought the shopping centre to pacify ‘us’. It was ‘them’, after all, who identified ‘us’ as terrorists and ‘people like her’ are traitors, openly defying ‘us’ and ‘our’ values. Abdulrazzak offers no ready solutions for how the characters construct their discourse. He rather exposes the absurdity that derives from such a dichotomic way of thinking by placing his protagonists in exaggerated situations. Obsessed with the potential that they assume lies within the objects of their hidden desires, they are portrayed as young men acting irrationally by centring their lives around the temptations of these forbidden fruits. Consequently, the wall, the iPhone, the novel and the landing strip with everything they represent are constantly on the characters’ minds. In Bradford, the character concludes his monologue wondering about the opportunities open to him: Why waste my life here when I could be spreading Islam with an iPhone and a tank? I want the hot desert air in my face. I want to wave the black flag from the top of the tank, I want my choice of jihadi brides, you know what I’m saying. I want the cool black uniform. I love that uniform. And I want enough money to afford an iPhone. Not just dream of buying one all my life, bro. […] That life of jihad I could have out there, it torments me … it’s like an apple on a tree, all shiny and delicious and all I have to do is reach out and grab it. But do I have the guts? (36 f.) Instead of deciding one way or another, the protagonist agonises over the possibility of combining two belief systems and creating his own mosaic faith. He hopes that the powerful dynamic inherent in religion can be even multiplied if he just was able to greedily grab the best of both worlds. Considering religion and its potential to inspire human beings to change their way of life, he expects belief to guide him to the way out of his miserable existence. Indeed, the play explores moments of religious revelations in which Abdulrazzak’s characters feel powerful, if not invincible. Thus, the actor is able to escape into an imaginative space available to him for a second by drawing on religious metaphors. While Sajid is convinced to have found his calling inspired by his religious identity, Isaac fosters his as a retreat into a secure familial cosiness. Despite its positive ramifications, however, religion is also viewed as a destructive force. Uncritically relying on the - often false - promises that faith delivers, the protagonists of Love, Bombs and Apples altogether fail in the end. The author wisely warns of the dangers from cultural and religious delineation as it inevitably segregates those from different backgrounds. The results are evident when watching the news and reading the newspapers. Several European countries have built walls Hassan Abdulrazzak’s Love, Bombs and Apples (2016) and Religion 273 to hold migrants at bay - and they are not reluctant to violently defend these borders drawn as a method for racial and religious division. This rhetoric can be avoided, Abdulrazzak suggests, as long as the world remembers that all of humanity shares the same basic instinct and it ensures that everyone is taken care of equally, in order to eliminate the grounds for religious extremism. As a necessary step, the discussion has to be transferred to alternative spaces, away from the sensationalising journalistic approach. Consequently, Abdulrazzak chooses the dramatic genre to convey his message to a wide audience, as many authors have done before him whenever they felt the strong urge to openly discuss current topics. The stage offers the possibility to effectively address a large number of spectators with every performance, aiming to collectively confront and challenge popular stereotypes. As the most immediate form of literature, theatre can raise awareness of social and political issues by creating a public space for pressing debates. While literary genres like poetry or prose tend to focus on the private relationship between the individual reader and the text, drama insists on the collective experience of the cathartic re-evaluation of the audience’s misconceptions. In Abdulrazzak’s play, this effect is even intensified by incorporating stand-up techniques and continuously breaking the fourth wall. His decision to have the protagonists communicate with the audience in such an intense way heightens drama’s inherent potential to engage in a dialogue about the events happening in our world and the concerns surrounding them. Combining this aesthetic strategy with a sharp sense of humour and a refreshing political incorrectness, he successfully opens up a safe space for the spectators, inviting them to engage in an honest debate about the state of the world and loosen the tension created by lurid newspaper headlines. Bibliography Primary Sources Abdulrazzak, Hassan. Love, Bombs and Apples . London: Oberon, 2016. —. Baghdad Wedding . London: Oberon, 2008. Bano, Alia. Shades . London: Methuen Drama, 2009. Hollingworth, John. Multitudes . London: Nick Hern Books, 2015. 274 Abir Al-Laham Secondary Sources Billington, Michael. “Enter God, Stage Left.” The Guardian . 20 May 2010. https: / / www. theguardian.com/ commentisfree/ belief/ 2010/ may/ 20/ religion-in-theatre-schism-secularism. 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It explores some of the most pressing concerns that have dominated the public discourse in Britain in the last decade, focusing on their representation in dramatic texts. Each essay provides an in-depth analysis of one play, assessing its particular contribution to the debate in question. The book aims to show how contemporary drama has developed unique ways to present the complexities and ambiguities of certain issues with aesthetic as well as emotional appeal. Band 82 Kerstin Frank · Caroline Lusin (eds.) Finance, Terror, and Science on Stage Current Public Concerns in 21 st -Century British Drama Kerstin Frank · Caroline Lusin (eds.) Finance, Terror, and Science on Stage Band 82