For next year's Wellington International Arts Festival I shall be writing a verse play, based on the works of Paul Holmes. If I were to pitch it Hollywood-style, I would describe it as like a mixture of Murder in the Cathedral, Waiting for Godot and Under Milk Wood.
It will be set in a the day room of bleak old people's home (a home for bleak old people [boom boom] some might say) in which four retired newspaper columnists, two male and two female, sit in faded arm-chairs. They each speak in turn, in what becomes a droning rhythm, much like the columns they used to write. Their names are not disclosed. Here is the first draft, based on a recent work by Mr Holmes.
Wellywood is cute.
It's hokey.
It's small town.
To Wellywood or not to Wellywood.
Wellywood.
Wellywon't.
Wellycould.
Jacksonville.
Wellywood is just dumb.
It's provincial.
It's just too derivative.
Who wants a capital city called Wellywood?
Maybe that would be a good thing.
Since when are fires confidential?
But that's Treasury.
London looked green and warm and beautiful.
They are such young, fresh men.
I loved seeing them play table tennis.
Obama plays a good bit of table tennis.
Cameron was no goose either.
Sitting behind him are two young members.
Chris Tremain.
That attractive woman next to him whose name I've no idea of.
Goff.
Behind him.
Looking sour.
Faces of the past.
That seating arrangement has to change.
{curtain}
Holly and the Italians
No comments:
Post a Comment