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by Judith Thompson, directed by David Storch

Canadian Stage Company, Berkeley Street Theatre Downstairs, Toronto

January 17-February 23, 2008

Judith Thompson’s latest play is a collection of three monologues related only because they are all set in Iraq and deal with the effects of violence there.  Some playwrights like Brian Friel, as in The Faith Healer (1979) or Molly Sweeney (1994), use the collected monologue form to tell the same story from different perspectives.  Thompson’s monologues, however, tell three different stories of varying quality and interest.  They do not cohere or make for a particularly satisfying evening. 

The first monologue is the best in which An American Soldier (Maev Beaty), who is clearly identical with Lynndie England, complains about the bad rap she is getting on the internet and tries to justify her actions.  England had her 15 minutes of infamy when photos of her surfaced giving her approval of the humiliation of naked Iraqi prisoners at the Abu Ghraib prison.  In the second A British Microbiologist and Weapons Inspector (Julian Richings), who gives his name as David Kelly, tells us as his suicide drugs take effect why he defied the Blair government by saying that claims Iraq had weapons of mass destructions were “sexed up” to justify an invasion.  In the third An Iraqi Mother (Arsinée Khajian), the only character whose generic name is justified, tells of the horrors of life under Saddam Hussein, whom the CIA helped to power, and how she and her children were tortured in Baghdad’s Palace of the End, where such interrogations were conducted.

     

The first monologue is fascinating because of England’s nonchalant manner in describing the horrific events at Abu Ghraib.  Since she doesn’t really regard the Iraqis as human it’s unimportant to her what sort of “funning” she and the other soldiers have with them.  What upsets her most are all the internet sites describing her as “ugly”.  She knows they’re wrong there.  Isn’t she pregnant with co-torturer Charlie’s child?  Beaty gives great performance as someone whose training and white trash background completely blind her to both the illegality and immorality of her behaviour.  The following two monologues are deadly earnest.  Despite Richings’ careful delivery, the second is basically a recital of David Kelly’s biography and is essentially undramatic.  The third gains from the personal involvement of the speaker in the terrors she describes and from a surprise ending.  Khanjian’s performance is wisely measured but passionate.  Ending the evening with the Iraqi mother’s story set before the first Gulf War has an unwelcome effect.  By emphasizing how long the region has been racked with violence, Thompson de-fuses her condemnation of violence that is happening now, which is surely not her intention.  As for director David Storch, he seems to think that the more light and sound cues the better when, in fact, they only distract us and show a lack of faith in the power of words to tell a story.

©Christopher Hoile

Note: A version of this review appeared in Eye Weekly 2008-01-22.

Photo: Julian Richings, Maev Beaty and Arsinée Khanjian. ©Chris Gallow.