Play #68 (Make-up #15) -
The Transit Plays by Sheila Callaghan
The Transit Plays
is really a collection of five short plays loosely connected by a common
interest with modes of transportation, but I’m going to post them as one play.
The tone of these plays is sort of ethereal and contemplative – perhaps
attempting to point to something essential about the experience of traveling by
each of these modes of transportation in a world that never really stops moving
anyway. It would be difficult to say that anything really “happens” in any of
these plays, if you’re looking for traditional Aristotelian or realistic
notions of plot. But there is certainly a lot going on – most of which I’m sure
I’ll miss on this cursory read. But at least I’m in the spirit! I read these
plays and wrote this response on an airplane!
The titles, in order, are Plane, Boat, Car, Bike and Train.
In Plane, Jack, Brenda and Thomas are
all sitting on an airplane – is it about to take off? Are they always already
in the air? Brenda observes the cornerless uniformity of the surroundings –
nothing sharp, everything carefully planned and contoured. She seems to find
this comforting. Jack, on the other hand, is pretty sure they’re all going to
die. Thomas can’t stop
eating/regurgitating luggage (though it’s checked rather than carry on, so he
should be perfectly fine), and he seems disturbed by the lack of corners to define
and delineate differences and progress.
Boat is a strange
sort of cycle play in which Jessica, Karen, and Henry move through five
variations on standing and waiting on a ferry. There are certain ingredients
that remain the same – Karen removing her shoes, the presence of newspapers,
peering over the railing of the ferry – but there is always some important
difference. Maybe one of them jumps overboard. Maybe one of them is thrown.
Maybe there is a catastrophe. Maybe they are all dead already. Callaghan
specifies that everything happens very slowly in this play. Perhaps the sloth
and repetition are unavoidable on the plodding ferry.
The entirety of Car
is a monologue by Megan, who is talking on her cell phone while she drives
somewhere. She switches between calls, she discusses her own chronic sense of
discomfort, she speaks to a refrigerator repair man who, it seems, has already
arrived at her home when she gets there. It is not enough to be traveling from
one point to another, she must always already be in multiple places at all
times. And the final moment, when she reaches up to touch the repair man’s face
is a sort of lovely, grounding moment where she is finally allowed to be where
she is and nowhere else.
Bike is another
monologue by a character named Gunther who sits on the grass beside his bike
watching for his ex-girlfriend and feeling the frustration of her absence or
her anger or her betrayal… or her something. Though a person does ride by on a
bike, Gunther only sits beside his. When he does finally ride off at the end, a
church bell rings once (having rung many more times earlier in the short
script), and it begins to snow. There is a sense of a new beginning possible in
this ending.
Finally, there is Train,
in which Wallace sees the melon-bodied, repulsive Joe stomping up the aisle
toward him. He is immediately disgusted by the smelly, overweight, dirty man,
so when Joe falls in the aisle, Wallace pretends not to notice. Joe notices
Wallace pretending not to notice and tries to give him more chances to reach
out to help this fellow man. Because Joe knows that he has tar in one bag and
“flight” in the other, and that if Wallace does not help him, there will be
consequences. Unfortunately, Wallace reaches out to Joe just one moment too
late, so his feet are already tarred to the ground, and a pigeon flies pecks
out his eyes. In the end, he falls on top of Joe and they dissolve into the
floor together as one grotesque mess – finally the same.
In transit, sometimes we are pressed together among
strangers, sometimes we are alone, sometimes we move quickly, sometimes we
stagnate, sometimes we find what we are looking for, sometimes we don’t. The
painful poeticism of these pieces points to a dissatisfaction in this world of
constant motion that I find interesting. I would love to see a staging of these
plays together, to see the ways in which they pick up each other’s refrains,
creating a strange sort of ode to motion.