Futurist Plays: A New Art-Form

Away With Technique—On With Improvisation

MILDRED CRAM

IN the April issue of this magazine we explained, somewhat at length, the novel ideas of the theatrical futurists. While they are not absolutely opposed to the theatre of the past, they condemn the theatre of to-day, calling it prolix, pedantic, overladen with unnecessary detail, out-of-date and in no way a reflection of modern life and thought.

The futurist play will be brief. Marinetti and his followers have discarded the three-act and four-act drama as a cumbersome vehicle, creaky in the joints and as useless as a onehorse chaise in the rapid traffic of contemporary ideas. They believe, and perhaps rightly, that the public is tired of long-drawn-out stories carefully planned and built according to established rules of the theatre. Life itself is as manifold as a prism. The drama of life is made up of countless meetings, a myriad unspoken, unfinished impulses, casual remarks, hidden despairs, jealousies, fears and strange exaltations. The futurist theatre will crystallize all these facts and ideas. Acts will be mere flashes. There will be no technical rules, no traditional limitations, no hampering of the playwright's imagination. He will write what he sees and feels, regardless of form.

THE futurists believe that it is stupid to write a hundred pages of dialogue where one is enough; stupid to satisfy the public's childish desire to see the hero victorious and the villain defeated; stupid to insist upon the logical when life itself is supremely illogical; stupid to explain everything that happens on the stage; stupid to obey the rules of crescendo, climax and effective diminuendo.

They would abolish technique and substitute improvisation. They would dramatize the modern passion for speed, sensation and variety. They believe that plays should be written in the theatre, rehearsed and produced by actors who have had a part in their creation. They believe that the theatre should be a sort of cerebral gymnasium, not a place for complacent amusement.

Some of the following plays were produced by Ettore Berti and his company in Italy. Every performance developed into a miniature revolution. There were cat-calls, boos, cheers, hisses and violent discussion. At least, it cannot be said that the futurist idea was received with indifference. So far, so good!

Moonlight

BY F. T. MARINETTI

A Garden. A Bench.

HE: What a beautiful night. Let's sit here—

SHE: HOW sweet the air is!

HE : We are alone, we. two, in this great silent garden. . . . You're not afraid?

SHE: No . . . No! I am so happy to be here, alone, with you!

(A large, fat, breathless man comes down one of the garden paths and, approaching the other two, sits down beside them on the 'bench. They pay no attention to him, as if he were quite invisible. He looks fixedly at the young girl and says: Hum! Hum!)

SHE: DO you hear the wind in the trees?

THE FAT MAN (looking fixedly at the young man sitting beside him): Hum! Hum!

HE: It isn't the wind.

SHE: Are you sure there's no one in the garden?

HE : Only the gate-keeper. He's asleep by this time. Come. Come closer. Kiss me. . . . . Again.

THE FAT MAN : Hum! Hum! (He looks at his watch by the light of the moon, rises, passes in front of the lovers while they kiss, then sits down again beside them.)

SHE : What a beautiful night!

HE: HOW sweet the air is.

THE FAT MAN: Hum! Hum!

HE: Why are you trembling? Are you afraid?

SHE: NO! Kiss me again. . . .

THE FAT MAN: (Looks again at his watch, rises, walks behind the bench, always unseen, touches first the boy, then the girl, lightly on the shoulder and goes slowly out.)

SHE: How cold it is!

HE: Yes, it is growing chilly.

SHE: It is late.

HE: Shall we go in?

Alternation of Character

BY CORRADINI AND CORRA

HUSBAND: NO! It's useless. We've got to call it off. You will never deceive me again. I'm through!

WIFE (weeping): No! Charlie dear, no! Come here. . . . Come to me . . .

listen, dear.

HUSBAND (weeping, too): Forgive me, sweetheart. Forgive me!

WIFE (bitterly): For heaven's sake, stop being sentimental. You make me sick. Always crying like a baby. . . .

HUSBAND (calmly, with fury): Enough! Or I'll throw you out of the window.

WIFE: HOW I adore you! My heart is full of tenderness. Scold me again; I like it. . . .

HUSBAND: Ah, Rosetta! Rosetta! I would die for you.

WIFE (exasperated): If you say that again, I'll divorce you. I mean it. I'll divorce you.

HUSBAND (exploding): Get out. Out of my sight. Out of my house. Go!

WIFE : I never loved you as I love you now. HUSBAND: Ah, Rosetta. . . .

WIFE: Enough! (She slaps him.) HUSBAND: I agree with you. Decidedly enough. (He slaps her twice, resoundingly.)

WIFE (languid and enticingly): Kiss me again. . . .

HUSBAND : Darling . . . and again—.

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Green Prunes

BY BOCCIONI

A dining-room. The table is cluttered with dishes, half-empty glasses, bottles, chairs, etc. He, elegant, fastidious, intellectual. She, beautiful and very chic.

HE (smoking): Do you know, darling—to-

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The fat man is not a symbol; he represents many sensations: fear of the future, fear of reality, fear of illness, a vague uneasiness, a vision of life twenty years later, responsibility, the end of the dream. morrow's our wedding anniversary.

SHE: Really? Already? Do you remember . . . September, and our love. . .

You've been so good to me! (Sighing.) How could I have lived without you?

HE: Sweetheart!

SHE: You've been so devoted. You have made your life over to please me; you have given up your friends, quarreled with your relations—all for me! You have forgotten your stupid political life, you love of art and music—for me! (She goes close to him and strokes his hair.) You've given me your name. You have introduced me to distinguished people. I know what it has cost you. (Thoughtfully) You've given me money, love, position. Yes, sweetheart! I will be grateful to you until I die. Without you, life would be a blank page — a vast and terrible emptiness. ...

MAID (entering): A gentleman. . ...

SHE (with sudden vivacity): To see me? Who is it?

MAID: He did not give his name.

SHE (to herself): Who could it be?

HE : Ah! I remember . . . the young

chap we met at the Legation. (To himself) What on earth does the idiot want?

SHE (smoothing her hair and glancing at herself in the mirror): They're all idiots in your opinion.

HE (drily): Send him up.

(Enter the Stranger. Quite smart. Sure of himself. Frock coat. Sleek hair.)

THE STRANGER (with affectation): Good evening. (He kisses her hand. Bows to the husband.) How are you?

HE: Well enough, thanks. Sit down.

Have a cigarette?

THE STRANGER: Rather! I hope I'm not intruding. . . .

SHE: Of course not! We're both delighted. Always alone, as we are. . . . Will you

have coffee?

THE STRANGER : Oh, thank you!

HE : Rotten weather we're having.

SHE (archly): One or two lumps?

THE STRANGER (paying no attention to the husband): No sugar.

SHE: NO sugar! You, too. I'm just like you. (To the husband, with bitter coquetry): You see? He takes no sugar. But you—you like your coffee sweet, sweet, sweet—three, four, five lumps of sugar. It's terrible. I don't understand it.

HE (bored): I? Why drag me in?

SHE: YOU deny it? You know you like your coffee as sweet as honey. It's positively disgusting—all that sugar!

HE (with acute disgust) : What on earth are you talking about? Sugar? Honey? Why shouldn't I take them? If it annoys you to that extent, I'll hide the sugar-bowl. (He rises with an air of disdain and puts the sugar-bowl into the cupboard.)

SHE (to the Stranger): Impossible person! He likes sweets. What does he mean by liking them ? As for me, I like bitter things . . . pickles, lemonade. . . .

THE STRANGER (inspired): So do I! Strange. So do I!

SHE: Fruit, too.

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Continued from page 56

I like grapefruit and lemons. . . . You know . . . green prunes. . . .

THE STRANGER (joyous): My passion !

SHE: Ah, no? Really? Strange, how alike we are. (She goes dose to the Stranger and smiles into his eyes.) Are you, too, nervous? High-strung? Sensitive ? Are you, too, misunderstood ?

(The Stranger meets her glances with a melting gaze. The husband, who has evidently overheard, turns sharply, looks at them, takes a few hesitating steps down stage and whispers):

HE : Green-prune affinities! She has found her mate. She has finished with me. Oh, my God !

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There Is No Dog

Synthesis of the Night

BY CANGIULLO

Characters:

The invisible.

A deserted street. Night. Bitter cold.

A dog lopes down the street and disappears.

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Detonation

BY CANGIULLO

Characters:

A bullet.

A deserted street. Night. Bitter cold.

A moment of silence— A splintering revolver shot.

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Decision

BY CANGIULLO

Tragedy in 58 acts, perhaps more. It is ridiculous to give 57 of these acts. The last act is by Francesco Cangiullo.

Characters in the 57 unnecessary acts: Giulo; The Family; Life.

Characters in the last act: Giulo.

A waiting room. At the left, a door opening out on a stairway. Evening. Electric light.

GIULO (twenty-five years old, likable) : Oh, God! The game has lasted long enough. The papers . . . public opinion. ... I don't care a hang about public opinion! (He puts on his hat and coat.) The whole thing has absolutely got to stop l (Quickly, he turns off the lights and goes out.)

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A Glance Within

A State of Mind Dramatized

BY CORRADINI AND SETTIMELLI

(A fantastic set, mysterious, shadowy. It is man's inner self. There is a pretty statuette on a velvet-covered pedestal in the middle of the room. Blue lights.)

MYSTERIOUS VOICES: Fight, and you will have what you want. Climb! Struggle! You will be great.

MY OWN VOICE(aggressive and snarling): I will succeed! I will work and work and conquer beauty. I will have my desire!

A WAITER(entering the mysterious room, carrying a tray full of tinkling glasses and bottles): I'm coming! At once, sir.

(A beautiful woman walks slowly across the stage and knocks the statuette off the pedestal, smashing it into a hundred pieces. Three more waiters enter, bearing bottles. Three women, elegant, smiling, cross the stage from left to right, followed by young men who plead for love. Strange lights—yellow, red, green, white, prismatic, confused.)

INNER VOICE: Wait. Wait! I want some champagne. More and more and more. . . .

A YOUNG MAN(entering hurriedly): No, enough! I see now the depths of your folly, your weakness. You've had enough. (Darkness. An empty stage. Then, slowly, a white radiance over all the scene.) Dawn! Light of the heroic dawn. My feet are winged. Oh, the beauty for which we die. The immortality of love. ... (The young man goes out, free, vigorous, whistling a popular song.)

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