Jeremy Johnson: the Collected Plays Vol 2: Volume 2

By Jeremy Johnson

This second collection of work by Jeremy Johnson
contains a selection of his plays written between
1994 and 2012 refl ecting his versatility with his
American plays: Direct From Broadway and The
Palace of Mention, and his return to Australia with
The Sheltered Workshop and Better Than Death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jun 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479741830

Jeremy Johnson

Jeremy Johnson is an Australian playwright, director and actor whose plays include: Helen Keller The Musical, Blotto, Crystal Night, Bohemian Grove, The Virtuoso Parts I&II, Shavasana, Exiting the World of Alarm, Enemy of the People. He is a co-director of Songe Arts, a performing arts and film production company and lives in Sydney.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Jeremy Johnson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 08/14/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

[e-mail]

502401

CONTENTS

Introduction

Direct from Broadway!

The Palace of Mention

The Sheltered Workshop

Better Than Death

Acknowledgements

Dedicated to

Jewell with Love

Other Plays

Helen Keller—The Musical

Blotto

Crystal Night

Exiting The World of Alarm

Bohemian Grove

Dashpravica

The Virtuoso

Shavasana

Novel: White Trash Nation

TV: Tribe

Man is a wonderful creature; he sees through the layers of fat (eyes), hears through a bone (ears) and speaks through a lump of flesh (tongue).

Imam Ali

Introduction

I N MY TWENTIES, I was fortunate to collaborate with the late playwright, Anthony Shaffer, on a TV series. I asked him once, who is the more ambitious—someone who wants something they have never had, or someone who is trying to recover what they have lost? ‘Well, old boy’, the great man of letters replied, ‘when you sail into the unknown, it is a brave and noble adventure—but if you want to retrieve what has been forsaken or lost, then it is likely to end in catastrophe.’

‘OK, but what drives ambition the most then—naiveté or desperation?’

‘It’s Treasure Island and Psycho, dear boy,’ Tony continued, topping up glasses of bubbly in his air-conditioned study high up in the hills of the Daintree Rainforest in Far North Queensland. ‘One is Jim Hawkins, impetuous youth in the company of buccaneers and scoundrels. The other is Norman Bates, wishing his dead mother was still alive, and doing all he can to make it so.’

‘Yes, but Psycho is unlikely to be turned into a pantomime like Treasure Island?’

‘I don’t see why not…’ Tony replied, looking at me in blank astonishment as if a homicidal maniac in a family Christmas show would be anything other than a passport to standing room only, bringing a new twist to ‘He’s behind you, he’s behind you!’—mimicking a children’s matinee audience alerting a hapless victim to the menacing shadow of a knife-wielding Norman. Tony chuckled at the puerility of it all, then drew a long pensive puff on his Alpine, looking into the distance of the ‘great green hell’ he had lovingly rechristened the Whyanbeel valley where Karnak was domiciled. ‘Tales of Adventure’, he finally said, ‘falling in love—coming of age, is the stuff of talent… Genius, on the other hand, is innocence guided by angels through the darkest depths of hell, untouched yet consumed with mortal dread by what has been seen and heard. Why do you think genius and the spirit bottle are so lovingly entwined? For these men are the messengers who speak from the sanctuary of the heart where beauty and compassion must wrestle with the grotesque and monstrous truths no one dares utter, sounding aloud a clarion bell of warning to those who want more than what has been apportioned to them.’

‘How do you know when you have more than your share, Tony?’ I naturally asked.

‘When you can’t stop lying to save yourself!’

So back to the original question—‘Then who is the most ambitious—the innocent wanting to make his mark, or the corrupted wanting to turn back time?’

‘Who is the most ambitious you ask? It’s obvious, old boy—the one who is telling the story!’

Enjoy.

Jeremy Johnson

24th May 2013

Direct from Broadway!

Characters

Wes (a Stage Director in his mid-late 20’s)

Lachlan (a computer systems analyst, also mid-late 20’s)

Caitlin (a grocery store employee, 16)

Music: Hard-core Rock

Time: Mid-1990s

Two men, Wes and Lachlan, in their mid-late twenties, are chilling out in the living room of an inner city apartment of a large American city during the last years of the twentieth century. The apartment is old and in need of renovation. It has the smell of keg party and incense. Books, CDs, periodicals, bottles, and an empty box of home-delivered pizza compete for space on the coffee table, floor, and lumpy sofa. It is a midsummer’s evening. Wes is drinking beer and lighting matches, extinguishing them with his fingers. He is dressed in grungy shorts and tee. Lachlan is hidden behind the couch, rummaging through Wes’s unruly hillside of CDs. Lachlan has dropped by his friend’s pad to install a program into an old computer which resides on a scrappy wood table, but he is now engaged in looking for another tune. Music off.

Wes: (to audience) God, I mean, you could be at home in bed, watching a video, eating home-delivered pizza, but you’re not… You’re here! . . . God bless each and every one of you. This is gonna sound weird, but I hate theatre, yet I can’t stop doing it! Don’t ask me to explain that paradox, but there it is—whomp! The bug, the drug of reason. Man, you should have seen me in Twelve Angry Men in high school—I was the bomb in that. Rocked! Number 2, peeps, Number 2! I guess I got this performance virus from my grandmother who lived Upstate New York, and we’d spend Christmas with her every year when I was a kid, and she’d take me and my sister to see the Rockettes at Radio City. Musicals—Annie! . . . and some cool shit too in poky holes in the wall in Soho. That was something cos my grandma would be all dressed up in fur and alligator shit in this slacker dive, watching trippy freakazoids, crying ‘milk’ on stage. But, you know, what sucked me in for life was seeing James Earl Jones in Othello. He Raped! . . . Fucked me up good forever. My dad saw Peter Brook’s King Lear when he was at Law School in the 60s. Nothing’s come close to topping that buzz for him. He won’t go to theatre any more… Lost hope! In theatre, in me, in everything but money. I got hope! . . . That’s what keeps me going. Maybe it’s the same for you, patient spectrals of macrowattage out there in the dark. Hope. Hoping for something, I dunno—I’m a director. As if you can’t tell. Wes. Wes, the Director. Me! My kingdom! My state! Harmoniously charging the godlike possibilities of light and sound and black holes… Straight up, ladies and gentlemen, my truest friend is the unknown. See, we’re asleep. We’re zombies, constantly needing to feed our fetish to feel safe and warm inside. Ben Franklin, one pissed-off lookin’ muther on that C bill, said it best—‘Any man who chooses safety over freedom deserves neither!’ . . . And to me—at the end of a show that you’ve sweated every gland of your liquor-soaked life into—if half the audience doesn’t want to fuck you and the other half don’t want to shoot you, you have no choice but to moon them.

(Wes turns his back on the audience and addresses

Lachlan who is still hidden behind the couch.)

Wes: Negative? How?

Lachlan: Negative. All your opinions are negative.

Wes: Dude, the truth is—

Lachlan: The truth is—

Wes: The truth is, my opinions are based on what I’m told, and, more importantly, what I’m not being told but am having revealed to me anyway.

Lachlan: Hmm. How do you know people are not sensing your judgement of them? (holding up CDs) Allman Brothers. Steve Winwood. Bob Dylan, Freewheelin… Patsy Cline. Star Wars and Other Galactic Funk—what do they reveal about you?

Wes: It’s an eclectic universe, Lachlan. Within five minutes of meeting almost anyone, the only thing they’re saying to me is, ‘Love me!’—‘Approve of me!’—‘Let me know I’m a decent numbnut.’ Well, ya not, so see ya round! See you round!

Lachlan: How can you hate every person you meet?

Wes: Love them for me! That’s what Christians are for. That’s your life.

(Lachlan rises from behind the couch. We see he is smartly attired in starched shirt, pants, and tie.)

Lachlan: Maybe, but it’s a tough job loving your cosy coven, your little sacred nub of thespian talent.

Wes: Sacred nub?

Lachlan: The actors you hang about with. They copulate ‘Love me!’, ‘Approve of me!’ on every word and gesture. Show me an actor who doesn’t.

Wes: ‘Sacred’ is a very interesting choice of word.

Lachlan: Wes, to you, theatre is sacred. That’s your choice.

Wes: Is it?

Lachlan: Is it? Is it? Don’t get all paranoid. I’m not laying a trap here. In fact, you know, I’ve been thinking about doing a bit of acting. Seriously. Escape the world of Compaq and Java.

Wes: In the end, all gates lead to Microsoft, dude. Did you bring that program?

Lachlan: Yes.

Wes: Why don’t you?

Lachlan: Why don’t I what?

Wes: Do some theatre. Act. I’ll put you in something.

Lachlan: (overlapping) Getting up and saying all these words you’ve spent weeks learning, then having to make them sound spontaneous and real out in front of people.

Wes: (overlapping) It’s hard, dude. Fucking hard!

Lachlan: There you are on stage, OK? Perform! Entertain!

Wes: Like Church.

Lachlan: Nyeah… but without the responsibility attached.

Wes: The interference you mean.

Lachlan: Let’s not—no, no—this street’s blocked off. U turn and go back!

The inner meanings of the New Testament have not been revealed to the Entertainment Industry.

Wes: Entertainment means to hold and not let go. That’s all. What play you wanna do?

Lachlan: I’m fantasizing a subliminal desire. I can’t take the time off.

Wes: Good. Better more audience than more actors.

Lachlan: Gee, twist my arm.

Wes: Man, there are millions in this country who would willingly mutilate themselves into freakish entities of disaster just to get their mug on the tube? You’re fine being a regular bum on a seat. Theatre thanks you for that.

Lachlan: (extracting a floppy disk) Eso! Want me to install it?

Wes: Go for it! Discipline my beast!

(Wes takes a slug of beer.

Lachlan moves over to the computer

to install the software.)

Wes: You wanna see some Jap porn I downloaded?

Lachlan: No. Got another Diet Coke?

Wes: Warm.

(Goes to get coke)

Lachlan: That’s fine.

Wes: I got the real stuff cold.

Lachlan: Can’t take sugar.

Wes: Why? God stop letting toothless fat people into heaven any more?

Lachlan: I prefer the taste of sweeteners.

Wes: The taste of the metallic after burn with each sip.

Lachlan: You get used to it.

Wes: (handing drink to Lachlan) Getting used to something is death leaving a contact number. Cyclamate Sally getting her claws into you, dude.

Lachlan: What?

Wes: (overlapping) Yeah, she is. Yeah, she is.

Lachlan: Dumb ass.

Wes: Where is Sally tonight?

Lachlan: Meeting City Planning about the new Hike and Bike Trail.

Wes: And you guys still jog every day?

Lachlan: No, stair master twenty minutes a day. It’s easier on the knees. What is up with this piece of—

Wes: Well, it’s five years old!

Lachlan: Like grandma climbing up the porch steps. I might hafta scout you out another upgrade cheap. Anyway, this program will set you up with a budget and accounting system… Fuck! Why’s it doing that? . . . Oh I see—I see—we’re way slow here.

Wes: You said ‘fuck!’

Lachlan: Profanity is an integral part of techno-geek speak when addressing the machinery.

Wes: Did I tell you I’ve been offered a space in the Rawlings Building downtown?

Lachlan: Excellent.

Wes: You should check it out, dude. An ass-kicking 2,000 square feet of commercial space. Climate controlled, toilets. Can seat 250. Acoustic problems, but that can be fixed. Mel Strom’s been given seats from the old Sharpstown Cinema.

Lachlan: Hey kids!

Wes: Yeah, it’s a bit like that—but look—Larry Rosen owns it, and he wants performance in there, and he’s giving it to me for December to do whatever. Just gotta raise money for production, flyers, publicity, yada, yada.

Lachlan: How much you need?

Wes: Five grand.

Lachlan: I thought you were planning to go to New York before then.

Wes: Free space, accessible, close to the action. Ain’t gonna pass that up. Then go.

Lachlan: I’m sold. Need 5 g’s. I’ll give you 5 g’s.

Wes: (beat) You’ll produce it?

Lachlan: Sure. I think you got a lot to offer. I know we’re sardines and ice cream on nearly every issue—have been since high school. That don’t mean you shouldn’t be supported. All cities need a vibrant art scene. I wish there was more in town. Especially downtown.

Wes: Dude! . . . Wow! . . .

(They attempt an awkward high five.

Lachlan knocks the keyboard.)

Wes: (cont . . .) This means a lot, man.

Lachlan: What you gonna do?

Wes: Get this—Two One Acts. I’m talking bold theatre. You won’t wanna be putting notes in the Christchurch monthly flyer about this, Lachlan. I’m gonna scare the shit out of people. No comfort, just good ole familiarity. Everything we pretend’s not there. Cutting edge. Raw.

Lachlan: You, Wes? Raw?

Wes: But it’s like—different this time. Nearly all other shows get screwed up. No one follows through on the original concept—or they do one good show and then turn it into a formula because it worked once… I’m talking. Let’s eliminate the past. Let’s fuck up the Dwems. Let’s give the audience a reason to drive past Cineplex and Blockbuster Down to the wire, man… In your face, shit, no one will forget… You with me?

Lachlan: Sounds convincing. What’s a Dwem?

Wes: Dead White European Men—Shakespeare, Beckett, Ionesco, Chekov.

Lachlan: (overlapping) OK, OK.

Wes: Kill ’em! Flushed! Done! They ain’t gonna change the world. It’s getting worse. Still getting fucked up! May as well do a musical.

Lachlan: (after a playful beat) Rent was pretty ballsy.

Wes: (after an incredulous beat) No, it wasn’t! You were manipulated into thinking that. See, it’s all a big game, Lachlan. Bucks, dude, bucks. Deep down inside, producers are scared of theatre. They know its power to affect people on a deeply conscious level. That’s why it has to be debased with gadgetry and whiz. Make government corruption an issue! Fudgepacking and Global Warming Abortions an issue! Or if we need a cash cow—a musical or murder-mystery dinner theatre. People have to be stunned into exorcising the horror of their own existence… The empty bloating of their consumer debt-riddled lives. Cinema distances them from any confrontation—television’s worse—the stage is lethal. Live performance is a virus that TV and film have been drugged into killing! And try as they might, it is still the last bastion for the power of spoken word to assault yet sublimate the masses. Fuck you like a dog, and serve you pizza. And afterwards, the bathroom cabinet