On 11 July 2009 I spent an hour on the fourth plinth of Trafalgar Square as part of Anthony Gormley’s ‘One and Other’. During my hour I wrote a ten minute play inspired by the ‘Tank Man’ of the Tiananmen Square demonstrations of 1989. ‘Tank Man’ will be performed by Gillian Lees at the Edinburgh Fringe 09 alongside our new full length play ‘Funny’.
You can find more information about ‘Funny’ here.
You can find more information about ‘Tank Man’ here.
In the late ‘80s I was campaigning against human rights abuse. Around 1989 I was shown a document by a researcher that was very sensitive at the time. It documented the abuses meted out by the UK security services in and had been leaked by an official with inside knowledge and first hand experience. Most of the document detailed physical and psychological abuse that nobody could deny should be described as torture. Suspects were brutally beaten but left without bruising, frozen near to the point of death, isolated and threatened horrifically.
The content of document was horrific but what really caught my attention was a section that described techniques that went beyond the physical and psychological techniques of cruelty.
One section described how the as the years had progressed the interrogatees had become increasingly sophisticated in their resistance to interrogation, allegedly due to training they had received in the Middle East. Techniques had been learnt from meditation that cushioned them from everything happening around them and to them. That cushion was found very difficult if not impossible to pierce. Interrogators were finding physical force, threats, isolation and other proven methods to be progressively less effective. The secret services began to consult even wider about how to crack this meditation cushion around their suspects.
One of the weapons they found was humour – jokes. They learnt that they might be able to crack through all the defences if they just find the joke that their victim just could not resist. They learnt that even in the ultimate hostile environment of the interrogation cell they might find the joke to break down the defences. Once the laughter came they were able to lever open the crack and break the suspect’s resolve.
I was fascinated at the time by this brief anecdote in a document that was generally intended as a record of physical and psychological torture. One of my points of interest at the time was how this demonstrated a far greater and confident display of power than the physical force or psychological cruelty used by other, perhaps less sophisticated, interrogators. The infliction of torture is usually a demonstration of power and status as well as an exercise in obtaining information. By using the instinct for laughter the interrogators were manipulating rather than simply extracting and foregoing the temptation to ‘teach a lesson’.
Under the circumstances of saving lives from the acts of a terrorist this seemed more efficient and pragmatic. But it also made me consider the impact on the interrogatee of this manipulation and how in the long term he or she may have preferred to heal the wounds of torture rather than have the confusion of having broken under the pressure of laughter.
These sophisticated interrogators were searching for methods that took them inside emotions and instinctive reactions and to play with the complexity of the mind. The fact that it was also unlikely to make them fall foul of international standards was incidental.
Of equal interest to me, and particularly as a maker of theatre, was the potential this story had for an investigation of humour. Why do we sometimes laugh at a joke that had a subject matter that would otherwise repel us? Why do we laugh at all, at anything? Why do most comedians see the need to find the edge of what is regarded as ‘decent’ and then push their comedy just that little bit further. Even the normally conservative late Ronnie Barker felt the need to tell a controversial 9/11 joke during his swansong TV programme.
This document revealed the calculated use of comedy as a weapon by the state, but the potential power relation between the comedian and audience is apparent in any performance. This potential is demonstrated by the urge for audience heckling that can disturb the relationship and shift the power to the attention seeking audience member.
Weather was bad. Oops. Flights were cancelled and ferries delayed. And we set off for Shetland. For a show the size of Hannah and Harvey the tour company consists of three stage management and the three actors. As this was our first time in Shetland, and was also likely to be a pressurised get-in, the company also included the director and the writer (me) who also double up as the producers. The set is in a long wheel-base Luton, a vehicle that is the very outer limits of what could be possibly be referred to as a ‘van’, not quite a lorry. Our ‘van’ is loaded to the gunnels with a set that is far too heavy for its size, lights, costume, props, tools, laptop, projector, programmes, badges, pencils, sweet wrappers and empty water bottles.
On this occasion, and thanks to the generosity and sponsorship of LoganAir, everyone was flying from Edinburgh or Glasgow with the exception of the Stage Manager and Technical Manager who were in the van. The show was on Monday evening and we were travelling on Sunday. This is cutting it a bit fine and means that the van arrives on Monday morning at around 7.30am after the crew have spent a night in their cabin on the 13.5 hour ferry journey. Or at least that is the plan.
In order for us to comfortably get the show into the theatre we need to be at the door and ready at 9am. On Sunday evening things started to get nerve wracking when the ferry website says the sailing for the van is ‘under review’ – a synonym for ‘going to be late’. We start having nervous phone calls from Shetland. Things are looking dodgy. When we get on our flight we don’t know whether the van will be getting onto a ferry or not. Thankfully we had enough notice to be able to grab all the costumes and essential props that are now stuffed into suitcases and rucksacks. A show will go on with or without the set – of some sort or another – providing the cast and us two can get there.
Two of the cast and the Deputy Stage Manager are leaving from Edinburgh Airport. As their plane is taxying on the runway something drops off and the front wheel locks to one side, like a shopping wheel trolley that refuses to go forwards no matter how hard or fast you push. They are stuck and waiting for one of those airport truck-tractors to drag them to somewhere a little less exposed to the elements and landing planes. We take off from Glasgow, no problems.
When we land in Inverness and turn on the mobile phones again we receive bleeps and messages that the van is still in Aberdeen and awaiting news of their departure. The party in Edinburgh have boarded another plane and will soon be on their way to Orkney where they will join the plane we are about to board in Inverness.
Just as we are about to board we hear that the weather is deteriorating but that the ferry is likely to leave. We are getting worried. The weather forecast is not good for a few days. The van is getting onto a ferry sailing the stormy seas and has to be back on the mainland not too long from now for the next show. The Stage Manager is given strict instructions about the cut-off time beyond which he is turn around and head for home. He then hears that the ferry will sail 30 minutes before then. Gulp. We board the plane to Shetland via Orkney. The Edinburgh flight has taken off and will the others will be waiting for us. Weather is getting worse.
We are 200 feet above the runway in Orkney when a large lightning bolt hits something electrically important on the island. The crew from Edinburgh laugh about ‘what can possibly go wrong now’ as they are plunged into a power cut in the departure lounge in the airport. The crew from Glasgow (us) are also plunging into the power cut but at several hundred miles per hour in a small plane. All the landing lights and every airport light disappear at a rather important moment in the descent, which rapidly becomes an ascent for the plane and all body parts apart from our stomachs which are left hovering somewhere over Orkney.
The Edinburgh crew are blissfully unaware of the drama now circling overhead, in fact they are a bit bored and one of them goes for a wander, opens a door in the departure lounge and sets off all the security alarms in the airport. Thankfully this leads to nothing more then a telling off from a security guard.
The Orkney generators kick in and we land. The Edinburgh lot jump onto the plane. We have time to turn on our mobiles – the van is still on the dock-side in Aberdeen.
Short flight to Shetland. On arrival we are informed that the van has just boarded the ferry. We are told they will have a ‘hell of a journey’. The Shetlanders have told the two crew on the van, now ferry, to have a good meal because there is nothing worse than seasickness on an empty stomach. We are all a bit scared and go for a Chinese meal.
As happens with these things the challenge of raising the show from a few props and a CD had brought everyone together in a war-time spirit. And when the van did actually arrive the next morning we all felt a little bit deflated, but actually glad to be able to put the show on properly, and that is exactly what we did. It was a great show that had a real energy to it with the cast clearly on a bit of an adrenalin rush. We got out the theatre and didn’t mind that the wind was blowing and the snow was falling.
The next morning the ferry was cancelled. Oops. Now everything is reversed with the threat of us not having the set for the next show on the tour back on the mainland. The costumes and props are quickly shoved back into suitcases and rucksacks. We also quickly work out that if we are going to have any chance of making a show from nothing for the next venue the stage and technical manager must get to the mainland as soon as possible. Flights are quickly procured for them and they are away. The cast are also onto planes and off. That leaves me and Katherine. The calculation has already been made for who is to stay behind and wait out the weather and the disrupted ferries, the person least needed for the task of rescuing the tour – me.
The only other person left at this stage was Katherine, so I gave her a lift to the airport. On my return I was stopped by a number of calls on my mobile phone. The first from Katherine – after leaving her a fire alarm went off at the airport and it was evacuated. By this point this small crisis seemed an inevitability rather than a surprise. Thankfully it was a false alarm and the fire engines returned to base as the passengers returned to the departure lounge. I continued on my journey with occasional stops to discuss on the mobile with the stage stage manager who is now back in Glasgow potential sources of scenery, lights, lighting control desk. Fraser hasn’t hesitated one second in the task of making something from nearly nothing.
During one of these calls I was stopped in the little rental car on the side of the road. I looked across and noticed that the field I was parked next to was actually teaming with birds and the occasional rabbit. It was a wet field and waders were picking their way amongst clumps of long marshy looking grass. Incongruously a large rabbit was slowly hopping about between the waders. Other birds were coming and going across the field that I began to get the impression of as a bit if banquet spot. Bizarrely by this time the weather had also done an about-flip. The snow had disappeared, the clouds had left the sky which was now a beautiful blue, the sun was out and it was glorious. Out of the other window of the car was the dark blue sea that was flat and almost calm. I suddenly realised where I was and just how astonishing Shetland is. I also realised that I had assumed I wouldn’t be on a ferry today but there was now a good chance of a sailing. And there was, and I made it to the ferry terminal in time to be on it, I was in Aberdeen at 7am the next morning (13.5 hours on the ferry) and outside the Regal in Bathgate at 10am ready for it be unloaded.
Next time we will actually see something of Shetland.
Just under a month to the start of rehearsal of ‘Hannah and Harvey’. Eek. The draft of the script for the start of rehearsal is nearly ready, artwork is coming in for the projections, welding and hammering is about to start on the set, music has been written and more auditory magic is on its way. I love this moment on any show. I’ve always maintained to students that in the course of creativity decisions are as important, if not more important, than ideas. Ideas are two-a-penny to the artist – it’s what you do with them that matters. And now is the time for many, many, decisions.
The really great thing at this very moment is that I’ve just seen who Hannah is. It’s that realisation of seeing a character taking life and coming off the page. My hope is that there is enough space for Katherine, the director, and Romana, that actor, to create a ‘Hannah’ of their own and I don’t think the words are too prescriptive. But she also has a strength and identity of her own.
Back to work. Things to do.
P.S. Have a look at the video trailer. It’s brilliant! -
‘How small a thought it takes to fill someone’s whole life’ – Ludwig Wittgenstein
Fill
©Reeling & Writhing
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‘Fill’ was a Reeling & Writhing collaboration between:
Brian Hartley, Gillian Lees, Katherine Morley, Tim Nunn, Suhayl Saadi and Vanessa Smith.
We took the above quote from Ludwig Wittgenstein as our starting point. Through a series of creative meetings we eventually met in a white box for improvised movement with textual stimulus from Suhayl while I took photographs from a fixed point and Brian captured with pencil and ink.
(Unfortunately Gillian was unable to take part in this session so her part was taken by Katherine.)
‘Fill’ was shown as a series of thirty images at the Tron Theatre in October 2004.
Limited number print series from ‘Fill’ are available. Please email me for details.
… The title of this modest 80 minute piece might be said to be misleading given the substantial role for a stuffed sheep called Fenella – clearly not a man. But really it is about a father and son and how they dealt with the premature loss of their wife/mother.
It opens with the son arriving in a remote corner of Ardnamurchan where his father had been a crofter, clutching the urn which holds his father’s ashes. The father duly appears, at much the same age as the son is now, and they chew over the sorts of things that fathers and sons really ought to talk about more but rarely do until one or other of them is dead: how the son became a photographer because of his father’s hobby; why the son stayed in Glasgow when his father went to work the croft and why he wants to come back there now; how the father was content in the wind and rain and the hard labour of surviving off the land in the far west of the Highlands, before the telephone and even electricity had found its way down the long Ardnamurchan peninsula. …
It could have been grimly drab, or portentously lyrical. But Nunn shows once again what a skillful writer he is because his script is witty, tender, and full of interest. Involving the composer Eddie McGuire was also a key move. His series of pieces for solo flutes of various sizes (very well played by Katie Punter) punctuate, comment on, animate and even argue with the two men.
Callum Cuthbertson and James McAnerney, as son and father, respectively respond well to Katherine Morley’s unfussy direction. …
Robert Dawson Scott
April 2008. I’m in the Stables flat of the Cromarty Arts Trust writing the script for ‘Hannah and Harvey‘. I have to confess to having spent a few days trying to think through some story problems but now I’m getting there. While I’ve been in the North of Scotland my niece Helen has been in Bath, South-ish England, also working on ‘Hannah and Harvey’ and thinking through some illustration problems. So Helen sent me this cartoon:
Thankfully we’ve both got past the head scratching stage and ‘Hannah and Harvey‘ is going to be awesome (even if we do say so ourselves).
When asked about ‘Only the Men’ I have often said that the idea for the show was born when I visited the village of Sanna in Ardnamurchan on the west coast of Scotland. What is nearer the truth is that the show is the story I needed to tell about my own family, the small farm my father owned and my urge to get off the land as quickly as I could. And the feelings I now have about why that happened.
When I was a child my father often told me that I should ‘get a job in a bank’ and never once gave me even a hint that my future should be working on the land. This was from a man who loved birds, would scour through the pages of the expensive bird books he had saved to buy for interesting facts, would lie on his stomach in a damp woodland photographing a rare mushroom and would never be happier anywhere other than in the middle of a loch with his old fishing rod. But according to him working the land just wasn’t an option for anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together.
When I had put on a few years I learnt that my father was sad. The death of my sister had shaped my father’s emotions as well as my family. My closest brother and I had been born after her death when the local GP had advised my father that the best thing would be to give my mother another baby as soon as possible. My father never stopped mourning even though we arrived. The family home and the small farm that went with it were sold when Dad finally admitted that he couldn’t live there any more. My sister had died on the road outside the house, hit by a lorry full of rubble.
Adulthood also opened my eyes to the way Dad liked to be alone. And that he was one of the gentlest people I have ever met in my life and ever likely to meet (and I used to work for the Dalai Lama!). I don’t know whether Dad spent so much time alone before Sally’s death but it certainly fitted his general demeanour afterwards.
In my middle age I have felt an attraction back to the rural. I live in the city and enjoy that life but I can feel
my shoulders drop with relief when I get into the green open space and my head is once again turned by bird song. The trouble is that I no longer feel that I am ‘from the country’. It is a different language but one I recognise from my childhood.
When I went to Sanna I saw the places of my childhood in the surreal but beautiful geography. The wildlife and the wind were familiar. It was a shock. The evident history gave this reaction a greater resonance. The beautiful sands of Sanna Bay are surrounded by some new homes but even more ruins of old crofts. Some of the new homes have a shadow of an abandoned stone house. When the stone was usurped by concrete the old houses have been left standing, right next to the door of the new home. History ever present. Sanna is a beautiful natural place but it has a sadness that the humans brought with them and left hanging around after when they left.
When I became resolved to write a play set in Sanna I went back for a longer period, several in fact. I set out to meet residents of Sanna and to hear as much of the first-hand history as I could. The story that then unfolded wasn’t a surprise but it came at me with some force. That Sanna was never a place that people should have lived and that it was inevitable that they have left. That the village grew from the clearances and the injustice of that period was finally brought to its conclusion when the last crofter finally gave up and left in 1970s. My father’s voice telling me to get off the land bounced around my head a great deal when I did this research.
There is a modern truth for Sanna that is not necessarily defined by its history. The village now has electricity, telephone, internet, roads and potential of some tourist income. I understand that there is some contention about the modern development of Sanna but my own personal belief is that if people want to live there they should be allowed to change the crofts to accommodate their needs, work the land as efficiently as possible and develop into a real community. But that was not the truth in the 1970s when life was very hard, almost as hard as it had been 100 years earlier, and the outside world had changed.
In all of this I saw the story of a family that had mixed motives for staying on the land, was rejecting it but at the same time could not leave its isolation. A father and son who both felt the inherited attraction of Sanna but who had both rejected it when they were no more than children and had gone to Glasgow. They were Glaswegians on the surface but Sanna was still in their fabric.
That was my starting point for ‘Only the Men’. If you saw our production I hope you enjoyed it.
From January to June 2007 I was resident at the Mearns Castle High School, East Renfrewshire, joined in March by Katherine Morley. We ran workshops with a group of 13 year-olds to research the heritage of the area and create a permanent installation for the entrance foyer of the school. The final installation was unveiled on 3 September 2007.
Each of the small boxes was the work of a pair or an individual student. They were compositions of new and archive photographs and text. The text varied from new writing to words from research, Victorian poetry to newspaper reports. The text became part of the graphic composition.
The big box is an imaginary meeting of figures found in the local library archive together with students and teachers from Mearns Castle High School and the primary schools that feed it. The landscape they are standing in is the view from the entrance of the school.