Review of Ditch Digger

DITCH DIGGER By Nathan Osgood
Arcola Theatre, 27 Arcola St, London, E8 2DJ

A man sticks out his thumb in the Mojave Desert attempting a hitch off an 18 wheeler truck. He squints into the bright headlights as it rumbles past, leaving him bathed in the red glow of taillights. No, we’re not in the middle of an American highway but in the Arcola’s studio space where the claustrophobic meets the open road in Nathan Osgood’s Ditch Digger.

Written, co-directed and staring Nathan Osgood as Frank, Ditch Digger is based on the story of his own life on the road and has recently been made into a short film, which may account for the filmic nature of the play. Filled with poignant moments, it’s a great two-hander reminiscent of Waiting for Godot except the person Frank is fighting with is ultimately himself. Sprinkled throughout are gems of dialogue which allow the actors to relax in the moment : Ashley (played by Stuart Mackie) reminiscing over the time he stole a whole side of beef or Frank laughing over the blind faith of mid-west religion.

With a set consisting of a narrow painted highway on the floor and the desert horizon expanding across the back wall (complete with wisps of afternoon clouds), the space is magically transformed into a wide landscape. This feeling does battle with the inherent claustrophobic nature of the studio space which helps to further emphasize the relationship between the characters and adds to the intimacy of the play. Most impressive, was the lighting design by David Rafique. He made us believe the night of the desert, the by-passing trucks, a mushroom trip and the lonely night time trips travelled by the light of a dashboard. And with this, allowed Ditch Digger to transport us to another land and we were given, for just a moment, a glimpse into the soul of a travelling man.

Going Home

One spring, in between one job ending and the other beginning, there’s a chance to go home. My sister’s up for an award and my brother has a birthday planned. I have no excuses not to go so before I know it, the travel agency is giving me a printed itinerary and they wish me a happy trip. As the plane leaves the terminal at Heathrow, I almost cry, my head leaning on the window to watch the gentle roll of green, the thatched cottages and the tiny estates surrounding each house as the world fades into clouds. England is where my life is and though my return ticket is nestled in my bag, it feels like I am never coming back. By going home, I’m regressing and will somehow lose the worldliness I’ve gained.

It’s not until 8 hours later when the clouds part and I can see the patchwork fields that spread to the horizon, that I realize I’ve missed the place I never thought I would. It’s like I’d been eating sugar for the entire journey, I’m so excited. I float through customs with a smile on my face passed squalling babies, a Japanese couple with cowboy hats and matching cameras and the British family who looks a little bit lost – like the English they’re hearing here is foreign to them. At the gate, my family stands with flowers. A pair of friends tagged along – a group of faces that have been photographs in my drawer for the past 4 years. It’s like they all see me at once and start to run – my brother throws himself at me as the others crowd around. The smell of my mom’s shampoo embraces me, the kind I get for myself when I’m homesick.

In the car, the radio blasts familiar sounds that I’m hearing for the first time. The DJ a thick Canadian sort, far removed from the BBC ones I’ve grown used to. The roads are straight and wide, and I’m transported back to being a kid. It’s all I can do to stop myself from jumping in my seat, my stomach gurgling to my throat in anticipation. I point out the window. There’s the car lot my friend’s dad owns. It’s where we borrowed a Lincoln from to go to grad in style in, a luxury of all leather interior with seats that warmed themselves. We had ummed and ahhed over that selection but were ecstatic with our choice when it snowed that May, the day before the big celebrations. Our grad dresses were merely flimsy, frilly glamour, sleeveless, cleavage revealers that we would never had dreamed of wearing before that day.

Over the next hill, and it’s the same. More flat, the fences spreading across the landscape like transparent Berlin walls. The trapped cows stared at us wide eyed as they chew and the smell of manure begins to permeate the car. We beg our dad to roll up the windows. Who cares about the warm breeze of prairie spring flooding the car when it comes with an odd spot of cow.

The face of the highway is different. As we approach Edmonton, I notice the sign welcoming us to this great city has been modified. For the whole of my existence, we have been known as the city of champions. This was the city Gretzky became great in as he led the Oilers to win multiple Stanley cups in the eighties. But. As we haven’t won anything in a long time, I understand why we had to add a little something else to the signage. We became the winner of the Cities in Bloom competition. I didn’t understand how we could have won such a prestigious award until my mom pointed out the big blue tubs half filled with marigolds and weedy flowers that littered the sides of the road. The moral must be: if you can’t get a name based on the talent of the city, then find a title you could have and stick some money in it. Works every time.

Travelling back home, I realize the ride into a place gives you a sense of its character, its growth and its change. Even after being deemed a city in bloom and advertising it, it seems that the garden centre that sat just off the highway has disappeared. Even thirty years of regular customers can’t stop progress when the city council decides a ring road is more important than a plant store. For me, it was a marker for a turn off down to Ellerslie Road that housed a school and rows of baseball diamonds. That is where I spent my summers 2 times in the week and once on Sundays with families who treated beer and baseball as a religion.

The truck stop we used to go to for twenty four hour breakfasts is now gone and bulldozed flat and instead of space flanking our highways, the wide tracks of land just outside the city have been cemented over. Slowly our many malls are being replaced by consumer office parks that are filled with warehouse sized outlet stores you have to drive between. It’s actually parking lots as far as the eye can see.

After getting my fill of the new Starbucks and Kenny Rodgers Chicken chains, it’s home. My parents house. For the first day or so, it’s overwhelming. We plan BBQs and coffees and members of my family come over in flocks. They pick me apart for clues of my new existence – what’s England like, why do you talk funny, do you like it there. The most dreaded question I continually deflect is – when are you moving home? It’s the hardest one to find an answer to.

Photo by Sarah Taylor; Story by Heather Taylor

SCHOOOOOOOOOLLLLL

Yes. I did it. I took the plunge and I've gone back to school. An MA in fact. I'm currently afraid - well that excited afraid like wow all these cool new people who can maybe be my new friends but wait, in order to be in their company week in and week out, I'll have to actually do work in an acedemic matter. Now, you may be thinking I did badly in school or am afraid of it, but that actually isn't the case. I got honours in school and frankly I was bored most of the time. I need entertainment people not chalkboards.

So the first day was Monday and i'm thinking, damn I'm going to be bored here. Heather, I say, Heather - keep an open mind and everthing will work out. So I go to class again today and presto! It's awesome. Of course I haven't done any work yet but we got to know everyone more and my classmates actually seem really down to earth. I still got nervous motor mouth myself when I'm chatting one to one so I don't know what they think of me but thank god for the rest! Let's see what happens next week shall we?

New nails!!!

It's an exciting time folks. I've got something to share with you - something I've never ever said in my whole life...I've GOT NEW NAILS! Something you may or may not know about me is that I have a chronic problem. I'm a nail biter. It's a fact. One I am ashamed of but I've always found it impossible to stop. When you've been doing something since you were a baby (that's right, I've not only chewed them but gummed them as well), it's darn hard to stop.

Sooooo a friend of a friend suggested fake nails - she tried them and it seemed to work. I was slightly doubtful but now it's been a week and I gots bea-ut-iful nails. Now I love them but it's weird to have nails when you've never had them before. Even washing my hair is bizarre - I'm managing though. And those nails, they hopefully will be for life. Or at least until my regular ones grow back.

Review of Eden’s Empire

Review of Eden’s Empire by James Graham
Finborough Theatre, 8 - 30 September, 2006

Branded as a political thriller, I expected more thrills and less of a history lesson in over 2 1/2 hours of dense theatre. Recipient of the Pearson Playwright’s Scheme, James Graham created Eden’s Empire as homage to the least successful Prime Minister in the history of Britain, Anthony Eden. Beginning at the end of World War II, this play shows him as a superb foreign minister living under Churchill’s shadow for 10 years until Eden finally has a chance and takes the reigns as Prime Minister. Here begins his downfall from successful politician to laudable fool as he pushes Britain into the Suez crisis.

All in all, the production values of Eden’s Empire were superb : fine acting, top directing, beautiful set : but I find issue with the structure of the play itself. While scene by scene the dialogue worked to drive the story and other than the character of Eden’s wife, Clarissa Eden (unfortunately), all the main characters were well developed, I would ask the playwright : what story do you want to tell? Instead of witnessing a hard hitting play, the audience was given over 10 years of British politics played out on stage. This made for a long and slightly dry evening as eventually my brain shut off to the barrage of facts, dates, times and people that wove through this part of time. Granted Graham did use the political undertones of the 50s to parallel the going-ons in number 10 today, they were too far between to be effective and a few times were over played in order to give a bit of a nudge nudge wink wink to the audience.

If the playwright cut to the core of the piece and chose one element of the story i.e. living under Churchill’s shadow or the clash of politics with Eden’s domestic life or even the Suez crisis itself, I think I would’ve got the political thriller I was promised. Though I did walk out knowing more about Eden then I ever thought possible, I think I’d rather leave his epic journey to another BBC mini-series and save myself the price of a ticket.

Mirror memory

She could've been a hooker once.

Waiting for the night bus, Molly notices a girl searching the street for another pair of paying eyes or that car that slows down for her legs alone. It reminds Molly of that night in a club, her barely out of school, when a guy led her to the toilets. Only when he unzipped his trousers and handed her a twenty did she realize what he thought she was. With a quick knee, she floored him and ran out of the club, the money snug in her bra.

But now, in the middle of the night, Molly thinks how easy it could be to go back there - the suit with his long look, the chav who pushed his cock hard into her back. Which one would've slipped her a bit of cash for her bit? The amount of of times she gave it for free, she'd be worth millions.

The girl looks up to catch Molly staring just as a car stops and distracts them both. Sleezy R&B pumps out to accompany gold teeth and a row of rings as they lean out the window. The girl leans in to giggle & primp and Molly watches money exchange hands, the girl's skirt hiking to her pantyline as her long legs settle in the front seat.

A bus pulls in behind, honks for it's red boxed space and the car speeds away. With it goes Molly's imagined life as she pays her fare and settles in the back. Looking around she picks out her potential marks, her johns and knows she'd rather just doze her way home to her husband.

Photo by Sarah Taylor; Story by Heather Taylor

Thoughts

Briefcase in his hand,
he remembers days outside
kicking backyard balls

Wheels spin into space,
he thinks about his future -
collars choking him

Photo by Sarah Taylor; Poetry by Heather Taylor