Sarah Cameron and Suzy Willson’s adaptation of The Red Chair experiments with playful language and emphasized physicality in a way rarely seen on stage.
Told in saucy Scots dialect, The Red Chair tells the surreal story of a father who eats and eats until he turns into his chair, a wife doomed to cook his meals and their one ‘inveesible’ daughter. By turns haunting and humorous, The Red Chair takes us on a journey through a landscape of twisted reason, extreme compulsion and eye-watering complacency, where domestic drudgery happens on an operatic scale and a father’s dereliction of duty reaches epic proportions.
This far from conventional play about family and ancestry is at once mythic and contemporary, funny and heartfelt. The solo female actor’s role is that of more than one character, and Cameron’s rhythmic writing demands a performance of eloquent speech and intense physicality. This is one wee girl’s love song to her troublesome Ma and Pa. The original score is included.
The Red Chair had its stage premiere in a production by Clod Ensemble at Live at LICA, Lancaster, in February 2015. It then went on have several performances at the Soho Theatre, London, and toured the UK.
‘There are elements of fairy tale here, in the story and its method of telling, and yet this is a dance of sorts, with its rhythms and its stresses, and language – a kind of heightened Scots – is pivotal to the piece: words bend and sway and stretch . . . a hypnotic experience.’ – Stage
To apply for non-professional performance rights, please contact firstname.lastname@example.org
|Set||Red chair on a bare stage|
|Length||60 pages; 1 act; approx. 1 hour 30 minutes|
|Fee||£75 + VAT per performance|
|Script||£9.99 RRP (deals available for multiple purchases)|
O Aphrodite! G o d !
Hear ma confession!
A secret . . ! My secret . . . to leave him!
A promised mysel A wad act A wad deliver Seek oot the flaming gurr to quit this hell-hole and start anew. “Fattie Tattie” A have spitten unner ma breath in maments of valor (aye, they have been): “Just wait till I’ve gone! Who’ll cook for ye then Man?” A was comen to you! O Aphrodite! A was trotting off to you and freedom! You . . . was husband-less and I . . . wad never have to cook again! Alas! Lord! Help Me! A fear A will cook til the end of ma days! A fear A will die in the kitchie, if not of it, then by ma own haund, wi’ ma noddle in the GAS OVEN!
She get up, swoon, faw doon,
Crack her nut upon the deck.
Her tongue stick oot like tongues ya see in museums
on shruken heids and such.
A stream o’ bile, green, dreebles fae her mooth,
quick to congeal in Icy Blas,
a stinking broth reeking from her past.
Stupefied, she watch spluttering films in her heid
of Aphrodite alive, not deid!
Bloody bond o’siblings
A history played back
Hotchpotch of tears and gagglings
Of youth, hope, love; of childish squabblings.