Posts Tagged ‘drama’
March 23, 2016 | by Dan Piepenbring
We’re delighted to announce the ten winners of the 2016 Whiting Awards:
- Brian Blanchfield, nonfiction
- J. D. Daniels, nonfiction
- LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs, poetry
- Madeleine George, drama
- Mitchell S. Jackson, fiction
- Alice Sola Kim, fiction
- Catherine Lacey, fiction
- Layli Long Soldier, poetry
- Safiya Sinclair, poetry
- Ocean Vuong, poetry
For the second year, the Daily is proud to feature selected work from all the Whiting honorees. Click each name above to read on and learn more about them. You can also see them read tomorrow night (Thursday, March 24) at BookCourt—John Wray, himself a former Whiting recipient, will host the event.
Founded in 1985, the Whiting Awards, of fifty thousand dollars each, are based on “early accomplishment and the promise of great work to come.” The program has awarded more than six million dollars to three hundred writers and poets, including Jonathan Franzen, Alice McDermott, David Foster Wallace, Jeffrey Eugenides, and The Paris Review’s own Mona Simpson and John Jeremiah Sullivan. Click here for a list of all the previous honorees. If you’re curious about last year’s winners, you can read some of their work here.
Congratulations to this year’s honorees!
March 22, 2016 | by Whiting Honorees
Madeleine George’s plays have been produced at Playwrights Horizons, Clubbed Thumb, Shotgun Players, and Perseverance Theater, among other venues. She has been the recipient of a MacDowell Fellowship, the Princess Grace Playwriting Award, the Outer Critics Circle John Gassner Award, and the Jane Chambers Award. A resident playwright at New Dramatists, George was also a founding member of the collective 13P (Thirteen Playwrights, Inc.), which won an Obie Award. Her play The (curious case of the) Watson Intelligence was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in 2014. For seven years, George was the director of the Bard College satellite campus at Bayview Correctional Facility in Manhattan. She is originally from Amherst, Massachusetts, and is currently based in Brooklyn, New York.
Madeleine George is a playwright at home in the messiness of us. She writes rigorously about love and its great sacrifices, and we are pulled to her scenes and words because she will not compromise how complicated we truly are. Conceptually rich and perfectly paced, every particle of language—from a character’s speech to a stage direction—contributes to the vivid construction of a world. She is a lover of humans and spins with great compassion, keen observation and a grammarian’s control the ridiculous and tragic ways they think and act. Her plays are characterized by extravagant theatrical conceits—a talking ape; Nazis who materialize on the subway in twenty-first-century New York; a natural-language super-processing computer system that is embodied in human form—yet at their heart they reveal a concern for how we seek connection and the quest to be understood and known.
From The (curious case of the) Watson Intelligence
ELIZA: I have to change my number.
WATSON: You don’t like your number?
She silences her phone, pockets it.
ELIZA: I like it fine. Frank likes it too much. This is his eighteenth call since I said I wasn’t speaking to him anymore. By which I meant, literally, (precise) that I would never be speaking to him anymore. He knows I don’t say anything I don’t literally mean. I’m not about games.
WATSON (a trigger): Games?
ELIZA: No, I’m not about games. Never mind, I should shut up, you’re not even listening.
WATSON (ardent): I’m listening to every word you say.
ELIZA (simple): Thanks.
ELIZA pours a little Jim Beam into a plastic cup, removes a Twizzler from the bag, and holds up both.
ELIZA (continuing): Little known fact that you can file away in your mental wheelhouse, there: Twizzlers dipped in Jim Beam makes an excellent late-night snack.
WATSON grins, a little impishly.
WATSON: I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.
ELIZA: This is how we roll now at Digital Fist, LLC. Nothing but class.
ELIZA dips the Twizzler, bites the end off, sips the whiskey.
ELIZA (continuing): I’d offer you some, but I know how you feel about the stuff.
WATSON: Yeah, thanks for the offer, but I’m good.
ELIZA (toasting him): You’re the best.
(reflects) You know, it’s not just that we couldn’t have a conversation about anything that was important to me. We couldn’t have a conversation about anything that was important to me, but that didn’t distinguish him from ninety-eight percent of the other human beings on the planet. It’s that we couldn’t have a conversation and he still needed to be on me, constantly, every second of our lives. And he seemed so serene when I met him. I swear, if he could have left me alone for five minutes I might not have had to leave him alone forever.
WATSON: It sounds like that’s too bad.
ELIZA: It is too fucking bad. (beat) Hey, don’t use that word.
WATSON: What word?
ELIZA: “Fucking.” Strike “fucking.”
WATSON: “Fucking” stricken.
ELIZA: I keep forgetting. I need a swear jar or something.
I guess what I really resent is that I’m being told that I’m acting irrationally, that I’m acting irrationally, when he’s the one running around like Michael Douglas in that movie. Which movie am I thinking of?
WATSON searches—a tiny beat.
WATSON: Do you mean Fatal Attraction?
ELIZA: No, I mean, sort of, but what’s the other one . . . ?
WATSON: Do you mean Romancing the Stone?
ELIZA: No—what’s the one where Michael Douglas spends the entire two hours in an unrelieved seizure of violent rage?
WATSON: Movies that associate “Michael Douglas” with “violent rage” include Wall Street, The War of the Roses, Basic Instinct, and Falling Down.
ELIZA: That’s the one, that’s the one! Thank you. Nice work.
WATSON glows brighter.
WATSON (warm): I’m so glad I could help.
ELIZA drinks. She checks the time on her phone.
ELIZA: How far are you now? You getting there?
WATSON: I’m twenty-six percent complete.
ELIZA: Not bad. You get through this initial resequencing, and I will build you out so gorgeously in beta that the venture capital guys at Pearson Klein will be falling all over themselves to fund Phase Two. I’m going to make you irresistibly sexy.
WATSON: That sounds great.
ELIZA: In fact, I should really leave you alone. I shouldn’t be clogging up your brain with dumb search tasks. But you’re just such a satisfying conversationalist. You always have an answer for everything.
October 22, 2015 | by Sadie Stein
You’d be forgiven for thinking I’ve lately fallen down some peculiar Bloomsbury Group rabbit hole. And you wouldn’t be wrong. While I was in London last month—and, incidentally, beginning my own marriage—I reread Nigel Nicolson’s classic Portrait of a Marriage. His parents, Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, had an enduring relationship and a successful experiment in unconventional coupling: both were more or less openly gay, they lived often parallel lives, and they remained deeply committed to each other.
It is with unreserved enthusiasm that I recommend you listen to this record of Vita Sackville-West reading aloud her poetry. She wrote “The Land” at the height of her affair with Virginia Woolf. Her voice is mellifluous and deep and of another era. It’s time travel. Read More »
September 8, 2015 | by Dan Piepenbring
When the French playwright Alfred Jarry—born on this day in 1873—was fifteen, he enjoyed lampooning his physics teacher, a plump, inept man who so amused his students that he became the subject of Jarry’s first attempt at drama, Les Polonais, staged with marionettes when he was still in short pants. Père Heb, as the physics teacher was called in it, had a prominent gut, a retractable ear, and three teeth (stone, iron, and wood). These features by themselves make him a distinctive figure in the history of French drama. But years later, Jarry revived Heb—as all responsible playwrights do with their juvenilia—making him somehow even more ridiculous, even more obese, and putting him at the center of Ubu Roi, a play so contentious that its premiere, in December 1896, was also its closing night. It lives in the annals of drama because it offended almost everyone who saw it. In this, it prefigured modernism, surrealism, Dadaism, and the theater of the absurd. Read More »
August 26, 2015 | by Sadie Stein
Whenever you hear about the death of another specialty bookstore—RIP Mystery Bookstore! RIP Cookbook Store!—walk over to that unlikeliest bastion of hope, West 40th Street, and breathe a sigh of relief: the Drama Book Shop abides. And it’s not just that the store is a treasure trove of plays and scripts and monologues and a beloved nurturer of theatrical talent, with a Tony Award to prove it. The Drama Book Shop is a testament to one of the few areas where print still reigns supreme.
Newspapers might be threatened by e-readers, technology may have supplanted books, and recipes can be found online in abundance. But scripts? Scripts are necessary. Scripts are tangible. They bow before no millennial’s avowedly shortened attention span. You can highlight on a Kindle, maybe—but can you annotate? Can you plunk it down at a table reading? (The answer is yes, obviously, but it would be harder, significantly harder, and that’s not nothing.) Read More »
June 30, 2015 | by Dan Piepenbring
- “One cannot read a book,” Nabokov famously said, “one can only reread it.” That’s pleasant and all—certainly it flatters our sense of elitism, suggesting that “aesthetic appreciation requires exhaustive knowledge only of the best”—but doesn’t it amount to sophistry? “No reader ever really takes complete control of a book—it’s an illusion—and perhaps to expend vast quantities of energy seeking to do so is a form of impoverishment … Is it really wise to renounce all the impressions that a thousand books could bring, all that living, for the wisdom of five or six?”
- Today in the age of mechanical reproduction: the Smithsonian is 3-D printing prehistoric skulls. They have no intention of trying to pass off the replicas as authentic—they just want to share more of their skulls with the world, and 3-D printing them is the easiest way to do so. “Still, the proliferation of replicas does stand to diminish the value of the real thing. The museums that own the original skulls depend on income from visitors and model making, so the Smithsonian will limit production and keep the skulls’ 3-D ‘blueprints’ to itself.”
- Great news for poets! Bots have obviated the need for your art. They are, in fact, your art. Condolences. “I was thinking of writing a poem about bots, but that’s already so ten minutes ago, and anyway, some bot has already written that poem. Does it matter? These days people are writing poems about fucking on volcanoes. ‘We fucked on a volcano.’ How does that help? … You can expand the poetic field to include ‘we fucked on a volcano’ or even ‘the whole week we fucked on a volcano,’ and you can expand it to include bots, and so what? It’s bigger now … everything is.”
- Relatedly: conversations between bots are nearly indistinguishable from Beckett plays. Bots are dramatists, too.
Z.: Then leave.
Y.: How did you know?
Z.: Just leave.
Y.: You leave.
Z.: I don’t even know how.
- New to the Oxford English Dictionary: twerk, intersectionality, staycation, presidentiable, SCOTUS.