To introduce this month’s playscript, Caryl Churchill’s new four-play collection Glass. Kill. Bluebeard. Imp., we’re publishing a version of a speech playwright Lucy Kirkwood (The Children, Chimerica) gave at the Writers’ Guild of Great Britain in January when it bestowed its highest award on Churchill.
My house is full of books and they are badly organized. So as I prepared to write this speech about the recipient of tonight’s special award, I set aside time just to find my collections of Caryl Churchill’s plays, thinking it might take a while.
It didn’t. There, right at the top of one pile, was Plays: Three. On top of another, Plays: Two. Plays: One, and Plays: Four were also in easy reach, in dog-eared copies already on my desk. I’m not sure why I was surprised: Like so many other playwrights, I keep her works as close as I keep the tea bags and the emergency cigarettes. They are necessary.
To anyone working in the theatre today, the outstanding contribution of Caryl Churchill is beyond question, to the extent that the word “contribution” doesn’t quite seem up to the job. Her invention is ceaseless. Her influence is profound. In the course of a writing life that spans 60 years, she’s changed the dramatic landscape of two centuries, and evolved more than any other British playwright our conceptions of what a play even is. She’s even changed the way we write them down.
In the words of [playwright and academic] Dan Rebellato, “She never repeats herself. She always seems to be asking the question, what’s the world like, and what form of play do I have to write to express it? She has invented 40 or 50 different play forms that everyone else uses, and meanwhile, she’s moved on.”
Rebellato goes on to note that the overlapping dialogue she invented is now used by everyone except her. She’s used doublings, one actor playing many parts, or many actors playing the same part, to political and metaphysical effect over the years, but also just for the sheer theatrical fun of it. Her writing is omnivorous, and slips between naturalism, fantasy, and verse with unwavering confidence.
Although Owners, produced in 1972, is usually recognized as her first play, in fact she’d written roughly 20 others before that. But it was her collaborations with Monstrous Regiment and Joint Stock, beginning in 1976, which were to be a turning point in her practice. She describes these experiences as having permanently changed her attitudes to herself, her work, and others.
With Monstrous Regiment she made Vinegar Tom, a play about witches with no witches in it, and with Joint Stock she made Light Shining in Buckinghamshire, a play about a revolution that didn’t happen, and followed this with Cloud Nine, a deeply theatrical play about the relationship between sexual and colonial politics, with a structure that leaps from Victorian Africa to ’70s London. It is incisive and vicious, very funny, and cautiously optimistic about our ability to free ourselves from the repressions visited upon us from above and within. It ran for two years in New York, and was followed by Softcops, inspired by the work of Michel Foucault. In the ’80s, with Top Girls and Serious Money, she took on the Siamese twins of Thatcherism and London’s financial industry, and in Fen she looked at potato pickers in the bleak flatlands of East Anglia. The Skriker collides the modern and the mythical to give form to the ungovernable forces in women’s lives. In A Number, a man is confronted by clones of his dead son, in a play not really about cloning, and Blue Heart consists of two plays, one of which has a virus.
It should be clear by now we’re talking about a writer of protean gifts, completely lacking in complacency. Simply put, she is the only person writing today who says something new in both form and content every time she puts pen to paper.
Her work is profoundly political, but never didactic, charged with metaphorical power, not journalistic editorial. Far Away, which, in Dan Rebellato’s words again, “feels like it invented British 21st-century playwriting in some ways,” is my own favorite play and the first work I want to share with any young person interested in theatre. It is constructed of scenes depicting a series of universal domestic scenarios: a child waking in the night, afraid. A workplace romance. Taking a lover home to meet your family for the first time. And yet its 26 pages are pregnant with vast and troubling themes. It is a play that seems to be about something different every time I read it: the corrosive effects of a climate of fear, our ability to mute the sound of horror happening beyond our shores, the atrocity that occurs when we are convinced we are on the right side of history.
The structure is consummate, the images searing and the language like knives. As two characters, Harper and Todd, make increasingly extravagant hats—that, we slowly learn, are to be worn by prisoners on the way to execution—Harper observes: “It seems so sad to burn them with the bodies.” And later she offers as good and as provocative a reflection on a life in the theatre as I can imagine, noting: “You make beauty and it disappears, I love that.”
Caryl’s formal invention has been on display again more recently in Love and Information, constructed from fragments that express with audacity the rhythm of how we live now, and in Here We Go, a play about death that uses abbreviations and repetitions to stare down the barrel of our decay with all the verve the title implies.
But I often feel in our eagerness to admire her cathedrals, we overlook the exquisite craft of the individual bricks. Not only the dazzling, indelible images her plays throw up: a dinner party of women from throughout history, a woman who’s just been murdered appearing in a doorway, a shape-shifter presiding over a feast of glamour, two peasants seeing themselves in a mirror for the first time in their lives.
But also in her dialogue. She’s not a writer with a house style. The roots of her language are in the demotic, lifted from the playground, the office, the bus, the nursing home, the butchers, and given precise, sculpted form. But her language is poetic in its refusal of artificial elegance, and shot through with flashes of violence, sorrow, and comedy, at once dense and digestible, like a Christmas cake that has been fed brandy since January. Next time I get a tattoo, I would happily get them to ink one of her extraordinary lines on my arm, maybe:
If it’s a party, why was there so much blood?
Or perhaps most appropriately for this particular evening:
The only judges I recognise are ones I’ve appointed myself.
She’s written versions of Seneca and Strindberg, opera librettos, worked with choreographers and composers, written for the radio, television and stage, and been performed across the world. Her plays are studied at schools and universities and in 2013, Royal Holloway University named its new theatre after her.
Increasingly her work is notable for its economy, not because she has less to say but because her craft is such that she can pack more into a line of dialogue than most of us can express in a whole scene. I watched her most recent full-length play Escaped Alone with exhilaration, but also despair, as I realized the play I was myself writing took two hours to say what Caryl Churchill had expressed in a single speech about cats.
Escaped Alone is a play about four women who have lived a long time, chatting in a garden, tempered with visions of apocalypse. It is a play that once again has a radical, questing form. It is surprising and alive and intelligent and very funny. It is a play that feels both absolutely clear and completely mysterious. And like so much of her work, it offers, unsentimentally, a suggestion that in an increasingly unstable world, humans retain a capacity for both joyful song, and terrible, terrible, terrible rage.
It is breathtaking to write a single play that has such qualities. It is, frankly, showing off to have written so many of them.
In the spirit of trying to sum up with her economy why this award is so deserved, I finally turn to the words of her friend and regular collaborator, director James Macdonald, who puts it simply like this: “She’s just doing the best writing, isn’t she? Why make it any more complicated?”