by Kat Georges
REF stays quiet. Eyes closed.
MINA: That’s it. Close your eyes. Sleep if you can. Energy is always wasted. Are you comfortable? Strokes REF’s head.
REF: Suddenly. What time is it? I got to introduce Geno! I’m supposed to be on stage. I’m late! Exits.
MINA: I’ve not only lived my life for nothing—I’ve told it for nothing. It’s all over now. Again—for the last time.
SOUND: Bell rings. Fade LIGHTS.
END OF ROUND SEVEN
ROUND EIGHT
The Retrofied Forest
GENO sits on bench sobbing. Enter ART.
GENO: I know I’m not that bad. I try so hard at something I like doing. I dream of winning. I see myself being picked up, carried around. You know—like a boxer? Sometimes I see it in slow motion . . . Sees ART. Hey—leave me alone!
ART: Come on, you bum! It ain’t over yet.
GENO: I know. But it hurts!
ART: You giving up?
GENO: No!
ART: You afraid? You callin’ it quits?
GENO: No!
ART: You quit now, it’s all over. Is that what you want?
GENO: What difference does it make to you? You’ll win—isn’t that what you want?
ART: There’s no victory without a struggle. Everyone will think it was staged. They counted on you to do what they couldn’t. If you give up, they’ll kill you—
GENO: I’m not a fighter. I’m just a nightclub owner.
ART: You think they’ll buy that? Once they’ve seen you fight, they won’t let you be anything else. You’re their hope!
GENO: I was—but look at me now! I mean—pink bandages? I look like a clown! They’ll laugh at me!
ART: Goddamn it! I need you! Don’t do this to me!
GENO: This isn’t happening.
ART: What—you think this is just some kind of metaphor? Some kind of symbol? This is life, baby! This is a fight! If this was just a symbol, I’d say the hell with it! Let’s go! Grabs GENO.
GENO: I don’t want to . . . I can’t . . .
ART: Get back out there and fight.
Exit. ART dragging GENO.
SOUND: Bell rings. BLACKOUT.
END OF ROUND EIGHT
ROUND NINE
Main Stage
REF holds GENO’s arm, dragging him to center stage. GENO tries to run away.
REF: It’s time again now for the main event. But first, let’s welcome the man who’s full of the punch you love. The man who keeps the dream disconnected, Geno!!
GENO has clearly aged. He’s a physical wreck, ready to crumble. Falls and is helped up by REF. The crowd roars, then hushes. GENO mumbles and grumbles.
GENO: Hello . . . Voice cracking. I’m Geno’s father. Geno is in the control booth, watching. I am not Geno. I’m Geno’s father.
REF: Whispering. What are you doing? Stop lying!
GENO: Don’t be fooled. You can see. I’m too old to be Geno. Geno’s in the control booth.
REF: Tell the truth! You’re in pain! Why deny it? That’s what life’s all about! You can’t fool these people forever.
GENO: I’m Geno’s father. Geno’s in the control room.
REF: Don’t believe him! Tell the truth!
GENO: I’m not Geno! I’m . . . Collapses.
REF: Get up you bum! Get up!
VOICEOVER counts to nine. SOUND: Bell rings. LIGHTS rise brighter.
END OF ROUND NINE
ROUND TEN
Main Stage
REF is holding GENO on his feet. Enter ART, swinging a few punches. MINA moves in behind ART.
ART: How’s everyone doing out there? I’m Geno. Welcome to my club. Starting next Tuesday, I’m happy to announce, we’re opening a VIP room for our special guests.
REF: Gets up. You’re Geno!
GENO: He’s Geno?
ART: I’m—
REF: Ladies and Gentlemen, the Dream Disconnector—Geno! I got some great ideas, boss—what time you wanna meet tomorrow?
GENO: Don’t believe him!
ART: Pulls out rulebook which is now a datebook. To REF. Hmm . . . tomorrow night’s out—I’m relaxing with Amber. Let’s do lunch—leisurely—at your place? Just you and me.
REF: Fantastic! No problem! Laughs. Oh yeah—Amber’s looking for you.
GENO: Bay shrimp!
ART: She’ll find me—I ain’t paid her yet.
GENO reaches in pocket for wallet—it’s empty.
REF: Hands wallet of cash to ART. You left this in the Control Room.
ART: You’re kidding! You take anything? Ha, ha—Thank God you found this before she did.
REF: It’s all there. Count it—
GENO looks up. REF looks back and forth.
ART: You’re a snake charmer, baby. . . . But never a swindler.
GENO tries to stand.
ART: ’Sup with him? To GENO. Hey—you got a badge?
REF: He don’t need no badge—he’s Geno’s old man.
ART: I don’t care if he’s Jesus motherfuckin Christ, what I’m sayin’ if you don’t got an all-access pass—get out!
Enter AMBER (MINA with piercings).
AMBER: Bumps into GENO. Hey, dude—you seen Geno?
GENO: I’m not G—I’m G—I’m not—I am—Security . . . stop—
AMBER: Laughs. I get it—you’re a clown—ha, ha—you’re funny—
REF: There she is—right on schedule.
AMBER: To REF. Oh—hey Bryan! ’Sup? You found Geno yet?
REF: Your eyes closed? You sleeping or something? He’s right here!
ART: I’m Geno—your boyfriend.
AMBER: No you’re not.
REF: (To AMBER.) Come on—You whacked out?
ART: I certainly ain’t your great-grandfather.
AMBER: Huh?
ART: You look like shit!
AMBER: Fuck you—
ART: No, I mean it. You feel bad?
AMBER: I don’t feel nothin’ . . .
GENO: No pain, no p—Rising, starts stumbling toward AMBER.
REF: (To AMBER.) You sound dead.
ART: (To REF.) Stop him.
AMBER: I’m broke.
GENO: (To AMBER.) Let’s get a room.
REF: Your set sounded awful.
ART: You don’t get a dime.
AMBER: We had a contract!
GENO: Nice people . . .
AMBER: Where’s my dough?
ART: Art took it—
GENO: Can I breathe now?
AMBER: Who’s Art?
REF: The cheapest—
ART: Projection—
GENO: It’s me—
REF: Him again!
ART: I said, “I can!”
GENO: Believe me, it hurts.
AMBER: Stop fucking around.
REF: Tricks!
ART: New technology!
GENO: More time!
AMBER: Yeah, more time—I ain’t got all night.
SOUND: Intro music plays.
VOICEOVER: And now, ladies and gentlemen . . . the first Virtual Resurrection on the West Coast—
ART: I’m ready.
AMBER: Wha—?
REF: You both know the rules. Let’s have a clean fight!
GENO: More time!
AMBER: ’Sup with all that?
REF: Okay. Start fighting!
ART: Again—for the last time!
SOUND: Bell rings. Sharp BLACKOUT.
END OF ROUND TEN
and
THE END
JACK THE RAPPER
A Play on Madness
Inspired by T. S. Eliot’s Poem “Rhapsody on a Windy Night”
Dedicated to
the transformation of horror into beauty
PRODUCTION NOTES:
THE INFAMOUS “JACK THE RIPPER,” popular nickname of the serial killer who brutally murdered prostitutes in Whitechapel, London in 1888, has never been definitively identified, though innumerable author-sleuths have offered theories they claim are beyond re
proach. No single theory has been able to stand the test of time. Every few years, another author-sleuth develops another theory on the Ripper’s identity and, inevitably, discredits all previous theories as rubbish.
For creative artists including novelists, playwrights, screenwriters, and musicians, the Jack the Ripper murders offer a wealth of material with which to work. Nearly fifty novels have used the Ripper as their base; countless operas, musicals, and plays have been produced; Link Wray turned “Jack the Ripper” into a classic instrumental pop song that starts with an evil laugh and a woman’s scream; films galore have been screened from Alfred Hitchcock’s 1927 adaptation of novel and play The Lodger to 1979’s time travelling pursuit Time After Time, to 2001’s Johnny Depp vehicle From Hell. Add to that video games, websites, and yes, even a couple of apps, and one has what could be the ultimate source of speculation of any human act on record.
My interest in creating another Jack the Ripper play was modest, but it turned into a full-blown passion following a deep reading of T. S. Eliot’s 1915 poem “Rhapsody On A Windy Night.” Those words crept into my dreams and twisted in my idle moments. Regard the first intricate stanza:
Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Certainly, notable scholars have developed notable theories about the meaning of this poem. But the more I read “Rhapsody . . .,” the more I believed it possible that the poem was inspired by Jack the Ripper, with nods to French symbolist poet Jules Laforgue. But why would Eliot have any interest in writing a piece about such a low-life, trashy crime? What if there was a particular, specific connection between Eliot and the Ripper murders? Being receptive to all thoughts, I developed my theory, and found the perfect vehicle with which to deliver it by writing the play, Jack the Rapper.
In creating Jack the Rapper, I opted to make a play that would span three time periods: London’s East End in 1888, the year the Ripper murders occurred; the Bedford Square, London drawing room of Lady Ottoline Morrell, noted aristocrat and frequent host of the Bloomsbury group circa 1917; and Los Angeles, circa 1999, at a venue hosting the first major appearance of up-and-coming pop star Jack the Rapper. Tying these disparate parts together in the “Dressing Womb” is Jack, an embryonic philosopherartist, a collective memory of all things past, analyzing the necessity of birth in a world that would allow, nurture, and fixate on such gruesome violence. The play twists these multiple threads round and round into a frenzy that elicits the sensation of madness, interspersing sinister, shadowy scenes of Ripper murder suspects with modern day pop star image-makers; juxtaposing letters of the Ripper with Eliot’s poem; matching serious philosophical musings against an ether-fueled Ezra Pound breaking into a subconscious chorus of multiple personas inhabiting his mind.
With multiple scene changes and nineteen characters, the play might seem like it was a bit overly-ambitious for the intimate confines of San Francisco’s Marilyn Monroe Memorial Theater, where it premiered in 1999. But with the inventive set design of Peter Carlaftes, imaginative video and audio tracks, plus a resourceful cast of four (Carlaftes, Jean Mazzei, Ian Hirsch, and Jessica Midi) playing multiple roles, the play came off magnificently.
So, herein, I present Jack the Rapper. Let the madness begin and may it result in further inspiration and creation—a cure for the destruction and brutality from whence it came.
—K. G.
JACK THE RAPPER
A Play on Madness
by Kat Georges
CHARACTERS
LATE TWENTIETH-CENTURY CHARACTERS
JACK
a foetus with a past, waiting to be born
current home: The Dressing Womb
ANNIE
a woman full of secrets.
as ANNIE CROOK: secret lover of Prince Albert “EDDY” Victor
as ANNIE DUNNE: beloved nanny of T. S. ELIOT
as ANNIE: modern-day prostitute; ether addict; victim of Jack the Rapper
STEPHEN
a bully of a man; macho pop start marketing master; business partner of WENDY KNIGHT to whom he is secretly married; suspect in Jack the Rapper murder case
as STEPHEN WHITE: Inspector with Metropolitan Police Whitechapel division; suspect in Jack the Ripper murder case; in 1999 lives in STEPHEN’s head
WENDY
manipulative, power-driven pop starmaker; business partner of and secretly married to STEPHEN; pregnant with JACK; agent and manager of pop sensation JACK THE RAPPER
LATE NINETEENTH-CENTURY LONDON CHARACTERS
INDIAN HARRY
slumlord in late nineteenth-century Whitechapel, London; owner of the apartment complex lived in by MARY JANE KELLY and CATHERINE PICKETT
MARY JANE KELLY
prostitute in late nineteenth-century Whitechapel, London. Lives in room rented from slumlord INDIAN HARRY. Final confirmed victim of Jack the Ripper
GEORGE HUTCHINSON
witness and suspect in Jack the Ripper case; gave detailed description of man he saw outside MARY JANE KELLY’s room. Too detailed.
MONTAGUE DRUITT
barrister, teacher, and suspect in Jack the Ripper case
CATHERINE PICKETT
nineteenth-century flower seller; witness in Jack the Ripper case (never called to testify); lived in same apartment complex as MARY JANE KELLY; heard her singing “A Violet from Mother’s Grave” loudly on the night of her murder.
PRINCE ALBERT “EDDY” VICTOR
Son of Prince Albert Edward and Princess Alexandra. Heir to the throne; secretly married to ANNIE CROOK.
EARLY TWENTIETH-CENTURY LONDON CHARACTERS
LADY OTTOLINE MORRELL
London aristocrat and society hostess. Regular hostess and patron of the Bloomsbury Group, including T. S. ELIOT (and wife, VIVIENNE) and EZRA POUND.
EZRA POUND
The poet himself; herein a carrier of many spirits of the past including EDDY, APPOLLINAIRE, DRUITT, STEPHEN WHITE
T. S. ELIOT
The poet himself; herein nursing an infatuation with the mystery of the identity of Jack the Ripper
VIVIENNE HAIGH-WOOD ELIOT
T. S. ELIOT’s wife; pretty, ambitious, fragile health, but otherwise vivacious, ether addict
SETTINGS
DRESSING WOMB / BACKSTAGE
A womb-shaped container, red and pink, plush and lit from within, open in the front; inhabited by JACK; equipped with a loud buzzer that marks the time. The area outside of the Dressing Womb is Backstage at huge first 1999 Los Angeles concert for pop star Jack the Rapper.
OUTISIDE LOS ANGELES BAR, 1999
A high-end tavern for hip people and their takers; lit in front by a street lamp.
OUTSIDE WHITECHAPEL LONDON PUB, 1888
A low-end tavern for down-and-outers and their makers; lit in front by a street lamp.
LADY OTTOLINE MORRELL’S DRAWING ROOM, 1917
A plush room of overstuffed chairs and paintings ruled by its owner; herein visited during times of World War I air raids
MENTAL ASYLUM NEW MEXICO, 1999
Place where Stephen White hides after becoming a suspect in the Jack the Rapper murder
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI HOME, 1910
Birthplace of T. S. Eliot, where he returned briefly before moving to France
PRELUDE
Dressing Womb
Los Angeles, 1999
Twelve o’clock
JACK: In my beginning is my end.
Fade LIGHTS up
JACK: It wasn’t my idea to begin. I’m here because—
Loud buzz. JACK twitche
s.
JACK: Who cares? Someone does. . . . Well. . . . Someone did. It’s a secret. Pause. That’s a clue—whispers.
Fade out LIGHTS on JACK.
SCENE I
Outside Bar
Los Angeles, 1999
Twelve o’clock
ANNIE strikes a hooker pose near the front door of a bar. STEPHEN exits bar on video enters stage talking on cell phone to WENDY, who, unknown to him, is inside the same bar he just left.
ANNIE: Got a light?
STEPHEN: (To cell phone.) What’s that?
ANNIE: A light?
STEPHEN: Annoyed. I quit.
ANNIE: Oh well.
She moves away and stands near street lamp.
STEPHEN: (To cell phone.) What? . . . No—Fed Ex—. . . I’m at the office. You know me. A working stiff. (To Annie.) Don’t go. (To cell phone.) Really. How’s London? . . . Panic. What? . . . Oh, shit. You’re back. Where are you now?
WENDY: Turn around. STEPHEN turns. WENDY puts cell phone away.
STEPHEN: (To cell phone.) Holy cow! I can explain.
WENDY: No you can’t.
STEPHEN: Don’t hang up. Smiles sheepishly. Oh. Puts cell phone away. Wendy! Boy, we missed you. How’d it go?
WENDY: Cut the crap.
STEPHEN: No, really. Who’d you sign? The next big thing? Tell me, tell me.
WENDY: No.
STEPHEN: Please . . .
Pause
WENDY: Two acts.
STEPHEN: That’s it? Shit. Musicians?
WENDY: Models.
STEPHEN: Not again.
WENDY: Musicians don’t need us, Stephen. They got the fucking Internet. And these punks, these two-bit shit bands, Christ! They’re getting rich without our help. The little snots invest in stocks—they leave the rest to lawyers. Lawyers—God, they all have lawyers—shit—I talked to twenty-one of them, tried to cut a deal. Oh, well. London lawyers know two words. All I heard was “fuck” and “you.”
