When the Rain Stops Falling Read online

  Another connection that Bovell makes—and it is part of the dark and problematic fabric of the play—is manifest in the secret and destructive perversity in Henry Law, a man untrue to his name and the most basic human precepts of parenthood. As the playwright explains:

  I had decided I would use pedophilia as some kind of metaphor for our relationship with the planet. There was somehow a parallel—that what a man does when he treats a child in that way, when he goes against nature to that degree, it says something about how we as a species have treated the planet since industrialization. I don’t think that metaphor was specifically brought to bear in the final version but it served its purpose in shaping my thinking. It also led me to the exploration of the father-son relationship. And I was thinking that if children represent our future, and we abuse them both literally and emotionally, what exactly are we doing to our future?

  There is an audacity in this play, set in London in the 1960s and 1988, in the Coorong and Uluru also in 1988, in Adelaide in 2013 and Alice Springs in 2039—and there is a powerful recognition by Andrew Bovell that actions have consequences, both in human experience and in nature. We take the weather with us, and, in the future, lie reckonings brought on by events and actions of an earlier time.

  The characters are carefully and poignantly drawn. As Bovell himself observes: ‘Something of the secret of this play is that it treats its characters with respect. They were written with great care and emotion and a sense of the depth of their tragedy.’

  From Gabriel York’s intriguing (and theatrically bold) opening monologue, much is communicated in the lightly-written, carefully-cadenced duets, the dialogue between people lost from each other and themselves. A mother, Elizabeth, with too much in her heart to tell her dutiful son, invariably just says nothing or, worse, is all irritation at his curiosity. A young woman, Gabrielle, traumatized by the suicides of her parents and the depraved murder of her little brother, is in retreat from her emotions. Others, like Joe and Gabriel, try to connect with these difficult, damaged women, armed only with their constancy and self-effacement.

  The father-son relationships are a series of betrayals and abandonments and in the play it is the sons who show forbearance and almost heroic patience. The timing of the premiere was another example of the synchronicity and extreme timeliness of the project: it opened just fifteen days after Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s historic Sorry Speech. Bovell comments:

  I don’t know whether audiences can make that leap from the personal journey of reconciliation to larger political issues, but when Gabriel York sits down and says to his son ‘I’m sorry’ he is apologising, not only for himself, but for all the previous generations. The parallel to the Aboriginal question is really strong for me and it conveys the simple idea that forgiveness is a powerful tool and so is reconciliation.

  In When the Rain Stops Falling, as in previous Bovell texts like Speaking in Tongues (and its film version Lantana), there are bold connections made. Coincidence is a magical expectation and predestination is the road most travelled. Gabriel meets Gabrielle, Diderot’s dressing-gown is discussed in London and Alice Springs, the sacrament of fish soup and small talk about the weather in Bangladesh are both a continuity and a dreamy déjà vu. And the future—2039, on the twelfth floor in Alice Springs, where the rain is torrential and fish are extinct (unless they fall unexplained from the sky)—is not like something out of The Jetsons.

  As Andrew Bovell observes, ‘If I wrote 2039 and tried to make it some kind of futuristic science fiction world, that would have been a mistake. I think an important meaning the play conveys is that our humanity will remain the same. We will be essentially the same human beings, preoccupied with the same sets of emotions we are trying to deal with now.’

  In its understated way, When the Rain Stops Falling is a prophetic play, not in its insights about the future but, instead, into the present. It asks serious questions about how much we are in control of our destiny and how much responsibility we are willing to accept as members of our species. It also offers alternatives to pessimism. There is optimistic persistence in the young Andrew Price, even in the deluge of 2039. Bovell has said: ‘Theatre can tell us hopeful stories, without avoiding the depth of difficulty. That’s what I am trying to communicate—past mistakes can be addressed in the future, and that must give us hope and a sense of purpose for why we are here.’

  There will be other plays which explore these ideas and they are likely to come thick and fast as the global urgency of the subject keeps reasserting itself. But this Australian play must surely be acknowledged as a pioneering shift in our cultural and ecological consciousness. It is plainly written but it is also instinctive and subtly elliptical. It is tragic, and about betrayal and disgrace. It says people must change, and, by understanding their impediments and their unspoken history, they will. It says we must forget the chit-chat and really talk about our weather. For all these reasons, When the Rain Stops Falling is a watershed.

  Adelaide

  February 2009

  Murray Bramwell teaches Drama at Flinders University and is a theatre reviewer for the Australian and the Adelaide Review.

  FIRST PRODUCTION

  When the Rain Stops Falling was commissioned and originally produced by Brink Productions in Australia, developed in collaboration with Hossein Valamanesh.

  It premiered at the Scott Theatre, University of Adelaide, on 28 February 2008, co-presented by Brink Productions, State Theatre Company of South Australia and the 2008 Adelaide Bank Festival of Arts.

  The cast for this production, in order of appearance, was:

  GABRIEL YORK Neil Pigot

  ELIZABETH LAW (OLDER) Carmel Johnson

  GABRIELLE YORK (YOUNGER) Anna Lise Phillips

  JOE RYAN Paul Blackwell

  GABRIELLE YORK (OLDER) Kris McQuade

  ELIZABETH LAW (YOUNGER) Michaela Cantwell

  GABRIEL LAW Yalin Ozucelik

  HENRY LAW Neil Pigot

  ANDREW PRICE Yalin Ozucelik

  MUSICIAN Quentin Grant

  Director/Dramaturg, Chris Drummond

  Designer, Hossein Valamanesh

  Composer, Quentin Grant

  Lighting Designer, Niklas Pajanti

  Video Design, TheimaGen

  Producer, Kay Jamieson

  CHARACTERS AND SETTINGS

  The play takes place between 1959 and 2039.

  1960s: A small flat in London.

  HENRY LAW, 40s

  ELIZABETH LAW, 30s

  1988: The same flat in London.

  ELIZABETH LAW, 60s

  GABRIEL LAW, 28, her son

  1988: The Coorong on the Southern coast of Australia and Uluru.

  GABRIELLE YORK, 24

  GABRIEL LAW, 28

  2013: A small flat in Adelaide and a nearby park.

  GABRIELLE YORK, 50

  JOE RYAN, 50

  2039: A small flat in Alice Springs.

  GABRIEL YORK, 50, the son of Gabriel Law and Gabrielle York

  ANDREW PRICE, 28, the son of Gabriel York

  The original Brink production in Adelaide used seven actors. The roles of Henry Law and Gabriel York were played by the same actor as were the roles of Gabriel Law and Andrew Price. As a result Gabriel Law did not appear as one of the ancestors in the final scene of the play. The Almeida production in London used nine actors, allowing the character of Gabriel Law to appear in the final scene.

  Let us begin with

  A STEADY FALL OF RAIN

  GABRIEL YORK wears a raincoat and stands beneath a black umbrella.

  People pass him by. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like GABRIEL, they carry umbrellas and wear raincoats. Their heads are bent against the relentless weather and against their relentless lives. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until in unison they stop.

  And GABRIEL opens his mouth and screams.

  And a woman falls to her knees in the street.

  And a fish falls from the sky and lands at GABRIEL’s feet.


  Black.

  ALICE SPRINGS 2039

  GABRIEL YORK’S ROOM

  GABRIEL stands holding the fish.

  GABRIEL: I do not believe in God. I do not believe in miracles. I cannot explain this.

  It began with a phone call. It was Friday evening. About ten p.m. Which was unusual. The phone rarely rings and never at that hour. I was reading. As I do before bed. A history. The Decline and Fall of the American Empire 1975–2015. I am fascinated by the past. Which may, at least in part, explain the fish.

  I have not seen a fish like this for many years. Not since I was a boy. I mean I have seen pictures of them but not one in the flesh. They are, after all, or at least they are meant to be, extinct.

  Though I have heard rumours that they are still occasionally caught and served, secretly, in the most exclusive of restaurants, but only for the select few and only for those who can pay. If I was to purchase such a fish, if purchasing such a fish as this was still possible for the man in the street, it would cost me a year’s wages. I could never dream of affording such a delicacy. If such a delicacy still existed.

  He looks at the fish.

  Which strangely, it seems to do.

  I hesitated before answering the phone. Wrong number, I thought. Surely. Who would call me? Me? At this hour?

  It was my son. Andrew.

  The name was his mother’s choice. I had wanted to call him Joe. After a man I once knew. Joe was my stepfather and he was a good man. He told me he only swore once in his life and that was the day he met my mother. And he was always losing his hat. He liked to walk and one day he went for a walk and never came back so it was probably better that it was Andrew and not Joe.

  I haven’t seen Andrew for many years. I left when he was a boy. It was cowardly of me, I know. But I was not the fathering type and to be perfectly honest I thought the boy had a better chance without me. I sent money, of course. When I could. And a card. Now and then. For the first few years. I’m not proud of it.

  Anyway there he was… this Andrew, this son of mine, on the phone at ten p.m. on a Friday night. ‘Hello? Is this Gabriel York? It’s Andrew here. Your son. I hope you don’t mind me calling you like this. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just that I’m in Alice. And I was wondering if I could see you. Dad?’ Only it went more like. ‘Hello?… Is this… Gabriel York?… It’s Andrew here… Your son… I hope you don’t mind me calling you like this… I hope you don’t mind… It’s just that… I’m in Alice… And … I was wondering if I could see you?… … … … Dad?’

  And my mind was racing, trying to stay calm, trying to take each piece of information in and just as I came to terms with one extraordinary fact, such as ‘It’s Andrew’, he would say something else, like ‘Your son’, until I felt unable to reply and the longer I said nothing the harder it became to say anything at all and so I hung up. And returned to my book. The Decline and Fall of the…

  I can’t imagine what he thought of me.

  I tried to concentrate on the page I was reading but found myself re-reading the same line over and over again, its meaning escaping me, when I tasted something salty in the corner of my mouth and realised that I was crying. The tears were falling from my eyes, rolling across my cheeks and gathering in the corners of my mouth. And of course I knew I was crying because of him, hearing his voice, the voice of an adult now when I could only remember the child but it also felt like I was crying for so much more.

  So I lifted the receiver and recalled the last number. ‘Andrew?… I’m sorry. That was unforgivable of me.’ And he didn’t say anything and I realised that he was crying too and I wondered whether his tears tasted as bitter as mine. I hoped not… ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said… ‘I’d like to see you very much. Why don’t you come for lunch tomorrow?’

  And as soon as I had given him my address and hung up I knew it was a mistake. Lunch? What was I thinking? What would I give him? I can hardly feed myself let alone a son I haven’t seen for what… twenty years? What do you serve for lunch in circumstances like that? I mean lunch hardly seems the point.

  And besides what will he think of me? Me? I mean what will he think of the clothes I wear? My suit? Which looks alright from a distance but up close is quite shabby and old-fashioned. Second-hand. Or third perhaps. But certainly not purchased new. And my shoes, worn at the toes and down at the heel. And will he notice that I don’t wear socks? Not if I don’t sit down or cross my legs. If I remain standing my son won’t know that I don’t wear socks.

  And what will he think of my room? It isn’t much. It isn’t anything at all. A one-room bed-sit on the twelfth floor. Not the kind of place a father should live. Surely. And it needs a paint and the carpets are worn. And it’s dirty. To be perfectly honest, it’s filthy. In the corners and on the window sills and the ceilings. Layers of dust and dirt and grime and dead insects. Years of neglect. And will he notice the smell? Of a man who lives alone. I mean I wash. Of course I wash. But not often. There hasn’t been the need. Until now.

  And so I began to clean it. The room. That night. A bucket of hot water and soap suds. I washed the walls, the ceilings, even the light fittings were scrubbed. I washed the door handles and the light switches and the dark corners behind the furniture. I scrubbed the table and the floor and polished the windows. I dusted the books and the lampshade and even took to the grouting between the tiles with a toothbrush. And by morning, when I had finally finished I looked around and it looked exactly the same. So I found an old tin of leftover paint in the cupboard. White. Or off-white. Pure white being too stark. Like a hospital. And I pulled the furniture to the centre of the room and covered it with sheets. I took the pictures off the walls. I took the books from the bookcases. And I painted. And I painted. And I painted. And when I finished I looked around and it still looked exactly the same. Only whiter.

  And I began to feel angry. Why did he call? Why is he doing this? What does he want from me? Money? Is that it? Does he think I’m worth something? Does he think I owe him something? And as I’m thinking these thoughts I’m also thinking how terrible, how irrational, how baseless, how shameful it was to have these thoughts. How shameful I am. How appalling I am.

  What kind of man am I?

  And then I realised that it was Saturday. He would be here in an hour and there was nothing to eat. I wanted it to be special. I wanted to feed my son something substantial. Something nourishing. Something to make up for all those meals I failed to provide. And there was nothing in the cupboard. So I went out. And it was raining. Pouring. It has been for days. Still is. The river is swollen and threatening to break its banks. Two of the bridges have already been closed. And I didn’t know whether I would make the shops or even what I would buy if I got there. And it was too much. I just couldn’t manage it. I couldn’t look after him then. And I still can’t. I just can’t. And I screamed. I just screamed. I opened my mouth and screamed and a fish fell out of the sky and landed at my feet.

  And it still smelt of the sea.

  I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in miracles. I cannot begin to explain how a fish can fall from the sky in a town surrounded by desert. I cannot begin to explain this… But now all that is left for me to do is to put the fish in the oven and wait for the knock on the door.

  I know why he is coming. My son. I know what he wants. He wants what all young men want from their fathers. He wants to know who he is. Where he comes from. Where he belongs. And for the life of me I don’t know what I will tell him. For whilst I know a great deal about the decline and fall of the American Empire, my own past escapes me. All I have are a few fragments, a few bits and pieces I found in an old suitcase after my mother’s death. I don’t know what they mean. I don’t know how to make sense of them. I stopped trying to years ago.

  The past is a mystery.

  GABRIEL looks at the fish.

  And yet, perhaps it will be easier to explain than the fish.

  ROOMS

  ELIZABETH LAW, 60s, enters and shakes the
water from her black umbrella. She is the woman who fell in the street. She closes her umbrella and hangs it on a hook. She removes her raincoat and hangs it beside the umbrella. She crosses to the window and stares down into the street as

  GABRIELLE YORK, 24, enters and shakes the water from her umbrella. She closes it and hangs it on a hook. She removes her raincoat and hangs it beside the umbrella. She crosses to the window and stares down into the street as ELIZABETH moves from the window into an adjacent bathroom. We can hear her urinating as

  JOE RYAN, 50, enters and shakes the water from his black umbrella. He closes it and hangs it on a hook. He removes his raincoat and hangs it beside the umbrella. He crosses to the window and stares down into the street as GABRIELLE moves from the window into an adjacent bathroom as ELIZABETH enters from the bathroom and stops, lost in a moment’s thought. We can hear GABRIELLE urinating as

  GABRIELLE YORK, 50, enters and shakes the water from her black umbrella. She closes it and hangs it on a hook. She removes her raincoat and hangs it beside the umbrella and moves to the window and stares down into the street as JOE moves from the window and enters the adjacent bathroom as the YOUNGER GABRIELLE enters from the bathroom and stops, lost in a moment’s thought as ELIZABETH takes a bowl and a spoon and fills her bowl with soup from a large pot on the stove. We can hear JOE urinating as

  ELIZABETH LAW, 30s, enters and shakes the water from her black umbrella. She closes it and hangs it on a hook. She removes her raincoat and hangs it beside the umbrella. She crosses to the window and stares down into the street as the OLDER GABRIELLE moves from the window into the adjacent bathroom as JOE enters from the bathroom and stops, lost in a moment’s thought and then he touches his head as if he has lost his hat as the YOUNGER GABRIELLE takes a bowl and spoon and fills her bowl with soup as ELIZABETH takes a place at the table and proceeds to eat her soup alone. We can hear the OLDER GABRIELLE urinating as