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WHITE DESPAIR a tragicomic monodrama in one act A note: People living beyond the fence used to say I'm overcome with black despair when they feel like absolutely helpless or in a deep resignation. White Despair is not the opposite, not at all. Despair remains the same only the colour of it changes. The stage is entirely empty. There is absolutely nothing on it. No props. The floor is white, soft, fluffy and puffy, spongy and swampy. As if covered by a dozen centimetres of snow. There is a man on the stage. He's wearing a warm parka, thick trousers, snow boots, black woolen cap, solid gloves. An actor performing should be unknown and awful. He should be an elderly man who in his everyday life off stage much too often makes various slips of tongue, usually doesn't end a sentence, simply suspends it, and this is not the result of his deep conviction that listeners know perfectly well what's the point, for they don't know, because sentences and phrases are complex and intricate and heavy – this feature can't be elucidated by his age, his is not that old and doesn't suffer dementia, but is a great advantage while preforming White Despair. That's exactly the point. The actor won't have to act, to pretend, it would be enough if he was just himself, and if he forgot a part of the text, it would be good, too, he would have to improvise – then it would be as it should be for the point is the text is to “pull the tongue”. A director is not needed, either. This is a self-directing play. The man, we know absolutely nothing about him, behaves as if he was writing something on the floor. Or maybe drawing. Making short and long strokes. Circles, squares, rectangles, triangles various figures. They are small enough not to be recognised by the audience. And all of them are green. In dozens of shades of green. Briefly writing: he's scribbling in green. Slowly, it's not paper he's writing on, not systematically, with no plan, his strategy of covering with scribbling the entire floor really mysterious and chaotic. All the time he's mumbling something. To understand what he's talking about one needs to stop breathing and listen as careful as possible. |
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And
so on. On and on. Each time in a different way. Let us
not
forget this play is a self-written play, and the actor
is the author,
too. If he likes to be. He may not want. Then he will
reduce his part
to murmurs and mumbles, and the rest will add the
listeners, provided
that they would like to do so... And when the entire floor is covered with green scribbling, the curtain will go down. A faint applause will be easily defeated by a deepest and common sigh of relief, or even by booing. The audience will leave the theatre disappointed, a bit bewildered and shocked. If anybody goes the distance. They should regret. Right after the curtain is down a doctor's voice can be heard: OK, it's enough for today. You were doing really well. I think twenty or thirty sessions more, and you will be discharged and sent home. <<< |