MOSQUITOES
By Lucy Kirkwood
Dukes Playhouse, Lancaster and touring.
Alice is an experimental physicist. Her estranged husband is a
theoretical physicist. Alice works at CERN. Her sister Jenny is not
a scientist, nor an intellectual. She refuses her IVF daughter the
MMR jab. The child dies. Jenny lives in Luton. She is estranged from
the child’s father. Alice’s son Luke is a crazy mixed-up kid. His
friend Nathalie gets him to text her an image of his genitals which
she shows to the world as revenge for him having been in a fight and
broken his opponent’s nose. Alice has a new man, Henri (some of the
characters seem to think jardin is feminine and thus speak of the
“jardin anglaise”). Jenny tries to seduce Henri. She confesses to
Alice. Luke goes AWOL, but before the sexting. He’s enough of a nerd
to know how to create a virus which will mess up the CERN programme.
Jenny and Alice’s mother is also a scientist. Her husband won the
Nobel. She has been garlanded with honours. She’s old, incontinent
and going gaga. Then there’s
the universe. It’s supposed a big character in this play but as
usual it has nothing to say
Does Kirkwood understand physics? She knows about it, like people
who buy A Brief History of Time as a coffee table
book. There’s an interesting statistic: books about physics which
contain equations sell far less well than those that don’t. There
are no equations in this play, except a passing mention of
Einstein’s most famous. Nothing here suggests Kirkwood does
understand physics, but she recycles the very old joke about
Heisenberg and the traffic policeman. She doesn’t bite off more than
she can chew, she tries to stuff the whole of the universe in her
mouth. Apart from the cod science there is soap-opera. Kirkwood
would do well to work at playwriting, unless she wants to work at
CERN, in which case she needs to get herself a Phd pretty quickly.
Kirkwood hasn’t mastered the essence of drama: that emotion arises
from the dramatic conflicts. The emotion is pumped in like nitrous
oxide into cream and the result is as airy and lacking in
nourishment. She may know nothing about the equations which underpin
physics, but she’s a diligent imitator of soap-opera. Many of the
exchanges are simply lacking in drama. They are marinated in the
factitiousness of melodrama, and as Orton pointed out, that’s a form
for the mad. I wonder if Kirkwood is familiar with Orton, or with
much else that is excellent in our dramatic tradition. To be fair to
her, she’s doing what all young or at least not old writers are
doing in the theatre: hanging onto the coattails of tv and script
writing because that’s where the money is. Without Aeschylus, there
would be no Eastenders, but the opposite isn’t true: true drama owes
no debt to its debased cousin. Yet our theatres of full of the kind
of bolted together inadequacy Kirkwood has written here. She can
write a bit of lively dialogue. Jenny gets the best lines. She’s
sarcastic and quick. The rest of characters speak some lines of
tedious flatness or preposterous sentimentality. Alice attacks her
sister cruelly for being thick. It’s unconvincing. Kirkwood won’t
let us discover Alice’s intellectual snobbery, she rubs it in our
face. When Jenny tries to seduce Henri, he responds in a
ridiculously over-blown manner. Soap-opera: think up a flimsy
plot-line, pump in the emotion, have characters shout at one another
or wilt, hit the audience over the head with the message. Art is
about educating the emotions. Soap-opera is about treating the
audience as emotionally and intellectually regressed.
At the core of the play is the death of the child, yet I doubt the
audience feels much grief or pathos. Kirkwood is trying to
manipulate her audience. She’s afraid of real emotion, the kind we
feel when |Gloucester has his eyes gouged out or Lear is losing his
senses in the storm. I suspect most youngish dramatists would
benefit from a few weeks locked away with the Greeks. Sophocles
doesn’t spare us. This is what you are like he says: you would kill
your father and have sex with your mother if the circumstances were
right. Read the Greeks for a bit and even Shakespeare feels somewhat
overstated. Why? The cliché is that Greek tragedy is the tragedy of
necessity, but it may be more accurate to say they intuited that our
individual differences are trivial and superficial. They didn’t put
stress on the individual. We are all essentially the same and we are
subject to forces which we neither control nor understand. This is
what it means to be human. As Pascal put it much later: “I do not
know who put me into the world, nor what the world is, nor what I am
myself, I am terribly ignorant about everything. I do
not know what my body is, or my senses, or my soul, or even
that part of me which thinks what I am saying, which reflects about
everything and itself and does not know itself any better than it
knows anything else.” Drama is based on and revolves round this
sense of the limits of our knowledge and capacities. Also, it’s
important that the Greeks don’t flatter. They don’t say: “Look at
these terrible people. You aren’t like this.” That’s the emotional
pornography of sensationalist tv series and cheap films. The Greeks
always say: “Look at these terrible people. This is what you are
like.”
Kirkwood flatters her audience. Of course, that’s what entertainment
is for. Entertainment is debased art. Theatre is in thrall to
entertainment. The films, the tv series, attract audiences of
millions. A play which is wildly successful, and goes on tour might
reach a million. Most plays don’t get anywhere near that. As
commercialism has triumphed and installed its philistine regime,
everyone has to check the “bottom line”, ie bottoms on seats. Hence
the soap opera at the heart of this play.
It's about women. “What it means to be a sister, a mother and a
daughter” as the blurb puts it. Well, what it means to be those
things doesn’t depend on what happened to give particles mass in the
instants after the big bang, but on the kind of culture you inhabit.
Just what Kirkwood is trying to get at is hard to see, but the
science and the sociology don’t meld. That Jenny refuses the MMR
protection is mediated by cod science, but what has that to do with
the Higg’s boson? Alice is in search of it (it was discovered in
2012). Maybe Kirkwood is trying to suggest that science can’t make
our moral decisions for us, but that’s too banal for words. What
happens on stage is that the references to science seem to have no
connection to the melodramatic action. The problem with science is
you can’t write a play about it. You can write a play about
scientists, like Durrenmatt’s The Physicists; but that isn’t
play about physics but about social and moral responsibility. Is
Alice in her superciliousness and cruelty supposed to be a portrait
of the scientist? Scientists are like the rest of us, they just
happen to be good at science. You can’t write a play about physics
because atoms, neutrons, protons, quarks, the strong nuclear force,
don’t make moral choices. Drama is about human conflict. It’s always
about conflict. It’s always about power. Waiting for Godot is
about power. The question about this play is: where is the essential
conflict? Where is the power struggle? Our attention is dragged away
from the characters to the stage business about physics. We have to
think about hadrons and the Higg’s boson. Why? Perhaps Kirkwood
wanted to write a play which would embrace our understanding of the
universe while showing how troubled we are, but our understanding of
the universe is troubled. We can’t fit gravity into the Standard
Model. We don’t know what dark matter is. The Greeks and Pascal are
right, we understand very little, about the universe and our own
behaviour. However, understanding the universe is childsplay
compared to understanding your own mind.
Women have been subjugated for centuries. No one truly understands
how this came about. We know there have been matrilineal and
matriarchal societies, but quite how they were overturned is
difficult to decide. The evidence isn’t sufficient. It’s right that
women should cast off their subordinate status. Equality between the
genders is morally requisite. The best way to attain it, is to
establish equality in general. If all people encounter one another
on grounds of equality, there can be no gender inequality. There’s
always the danger that the fight against inequality is made use of
for less high-minded ends. We make a mistake if we think a play
about “women’s issues” (why shouldn’t men be concerned about
childbirth and rearing?) should be judged by standards different
from those we would apply to Euripides, or Ben Jonson or Arthur
Miller. A play has to be judged by its dramatic quality, otherwise
we risk undermining a potent means of understanding ourselves.
What comparison could be made between this play and the best of
British-Irish drama of the last hundred years. Think of some seminal
works: Man and Superman, The Voysey Inheritance, The Playboy of
the Western World, Juno and the Paycock,
The Long and the Short and the Tall, An Inspector Calls, A
Taste of Honey, Oh What A Lovely War, Waiting for Godot, What The
Butler Saw, Top Girls. Yet, it isn’t that Kirkwood is
particularly bad among her contemporaries; rather British drama has
sunk to a desperately low level. In decadent cultures, everything
sinks, and we are fairly close to the nadir. Kirkwood doesn’t know
what she wants to write about. She hasn’t felt acutely, seen and
thought about what’s in her play. She’s cast around for something
which will seem important, even ground-breaking. Well, the universe!
Quantum physics ! But the play is about a woman whose child dies
because she doesn’t get her vaccinated. This might have some
dramatic traction if we witnessed her struggling against advice; but
finally she makes a bad choice and the result is tragic. It’s a sad
story but it isn’t drama. Jenny isn’t evil or even mildly malicious.
She attends to poor advice and thinks it’s valid. Evil is
interesting. Good is hard to make interesting. Cordelia doesn’t
fascinate like Regan and Goneril. Mere poor judgement doesn’t make
drama work. Claudius’s murder of his brother, Iago’s vile
manipulations, Lady Macbeth’s insane ambition, the Birlings’ smug
callousness, Dr Prentice’s sexual opportunism, these are the stuff
to grab an audience’s attention. Kafka accuses Dickens of stamping
“rude characterisations” on all his characters. Kirkwood makes hers
cardboard cut-outs. They have no power to appal, to repel, to grab
sympathy, hence the customary procedures of soap-opera: forcing in
emotion where there is none.
The play ends with a breakthrough into a parallel universe; there
are many who argue this is not physics. How can we study what we
don’t know exists? Physics can’t tell us what existed before the big
bang because there is no evidence. As the play finishes, we are on
the verge of science fiction. Maybe, if it all starts again, we can
get it right next time. Is the suggestion that we need to find a
parallel universe where women won’t make bad choices? If there is a
parallel universe which is the one we know re-made, wouldn’t
determinism mean that everything would happen as it has? The odd
thing about determinism, of course, is it throws up contingency.
This is the fault with this play: you leave the theatre thinking
about physics not about the characters. Whatever Kirkwood was aiming
at with this mish-mash, it misses the mark. I suspect the audience
was unmoved by the fate of the characters and puzzled by the
pseudo-scientific flummery.
What really needs to be said, though, is what we have here is an
example of the dreadful state of current UK playwriting. Theatre has
to be a place where the shocking is said, where power and orthodoxy
have no sway; that can’t happen when everyone is scared to death of
losing their funding and under compulsion to fill the rows. Many of
the world’s best plays made their first or early audiences livid.
That’s what happens when writers follow their noses. Today, they
have to stick their snouts in an oat sack which will be pulled away
if audiences don’t like their work. In such an atmosphere there will
be no more Juno and the Paycocks, Waiting for Godots,
Top Girls or Loots, just soap-opera parading as real
drama.
Why Mosquitoes? Well, there’s a line about the collision of
two sub-atomic particles being analogous to two of the insects
crashing. The analogy is used in explanations of the LHC for idiots:
colliding mosquitoes release about four trillion electronvolts of
energy, protons about thirteen trillion. What matters, however, is
concentration. The LHC concentrates the energy of about three flying
mosquitoes into a space a trillion times smaller than a single one.
There we are: the play gets us talking about electronvolts instead
of the death of the child.
When the action ends, we are treated to Bowie’s Star Man.
Bowie was an entertainer. He was also a declared fascist. The song
is a bit of pop culture silliness. Bowie didn’t understand much
about music and much less about physics.
The cast is excellent. They make the best of a script pulling itself
to shreds. Faith Turner has the best role as Jenny and carries it
off splendidly. Her acting is worth the price of the ticket. Emma
Wright is very good too as Alice, but has some dreadful lines to
deliver. Will Pottle is brilliant as the confused, lost, clever but
falling apart Luke and Annette Holden perfect as the dotty mother
living in the past and peeing on the floor.
Good acting is always worth paying for, but real actors deserve real
drama, as do good audiences. At the interval, some of the small
crowd disappeared. British theatre is dying, which is the intention
of the philistines. Bread and circuses, but art? Too dangerous.
Richard Nixon remarked: “Stay away from the arts, they are Jewish
and left-wing”. Something akin to that informs the UK Establishment
today. Writers must resist, not fall for the money, the prizes and
the plaudits.
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