The Revisionist
JESSE EISENBERG
The Revisionist
A Play
Introduction by
John Patrick Shanley
Grove Press
New York
Copyright © 2013 by Jesse Eisenberg
Introduction copyright © 2013 by John Patrick Shanley
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INTRODUCTION
How to read a play? I’ve done it enough to tell you how I do it. I read with a degree of fatalism. It’s like visiting family. Occasionally, the experience is rewarding, but always, suffering is involved. You’re trapped in somebody else’s house or head, their engine of despair or uplift. Face-to-face with a wise uncle, ignorant nephew or enigmatic aunt, you wonder how you fit in, or if you do. You see yourself in an uncomfortable light. You’re a hapless intruder. If the play is good, at some point you realize you’re in it. Shit. This is MY house.
Buckyballs began bouncing in my head scarcely moments into the production of The Revisionist I saw some weeks back. A character named David, a young man who is utterly unable to be present, gets trapped in a very small space with an old woman named Maria, who is ONLY present. As in all the best stuff, the encounter is rich because each character highlights the other.
David is a product of life in America now, a new kind of Peter Pan who flies because he can’t land. He can’t grow up because he can’t commit to any one life long enough to do so. His entire method of operation consists of running, deflecting and avoiding, by every means possible. In a bold stroke, Jesse Eisenberg not only wrote the play, but played the part. His performance physically demonstrated the emotional truth of this guy; he literally spent a goodly amount of his time onstage finding a way, again in a very small space, of staying off the floor. He was habitually PERCHING on something: a bed, the arm of a chair or couch. When that tactic proved impossible, he resorted to tranquilizing himself with marijuana or liquor.
Meanwhile, his counterpart, Maria, a Polish woman in her seventies, wants the one thing the young man can’t give. She wants company. She wants to get to know him, to be with him, to share food and time with him. Her values are all human.
She’s thrilled because this young fellow is her cousin, and he has elected to visit her. She has been suffering from isolation and longs to connect. Her plight is such because she lost her European family in the Holocaust. David is her American family. But Maria wants family in the European sense, and David can’t begin to fulfill that need.
Now, the institution of family in America has been under assault for a long time, but these days there is an additional malaise. Individuals are now losing their connection to humanness itself. The extraordinary onslaught of virtual communication and social media has allowed us to cultivate something unhealthy in our psyches: the desire NOT to be touched. Not only does David express a lack of care or interest in his own family, his alienation goes well beyond that to a loss of connection with the entire human race. He is a true narcissist. He is utterly alone, trapped in a world empty of people, alone with his vague dreams of fame and fortune. Other people exist for him only as props or impediments on his way forward toward glory and comfort. He is a writer, and tellingly, his first book contained no people, only animals.
Fortunately, David’s humanity has not yet been obliterated. Maria has framed a review he got for his book, and wants him to sign it. He refuses because it is a bad review. But in a private moment, he relents and signs. Compassion, weakened but not extinguished, still occasionally animates his world. This lends the piece hope. David may at last land somewhere and relate to another person in a meaningful way. The future is not yet written in ink.
It’s the oldest story. Two lonely people meet. Will they provide comfort and community for each other, or will they fail? The reason this play needed to be written was not the predicament, but the obstacles standing in the way of a solution. The need is old. The obstacles to intimacy are new.
We are living in sterile times. Physically, the most recent thinking on the biological front is that our immune systems are increasingly being disarmed by insufficient exposure to bacteria. We aren’t being challenged enough to exercise our defenses. To put it another way, we’re losing our talent for building a relationship with the wild world. Emotionally, portable devices are providing a similar insulation from social contact. We are losing the ability to BE with other people.
The Revisionist presents a young man who has lost his way try to negotiate his time with another person, a substantial person, without emotional cost to himself. At last, this woman bares her soul to David in an effort to build a bridge. David, because of his loss of PRESENCE, is unaffected. Her reaction is to throw him out. Good for her. With luck, this will be the prompt that ultimately brings David back to his humanity.
I think whom you will identify with depends on what your problems are. If you are desperately trying to find a way to connect with others, and you are getting text messages back, you will probably be feeling Maria. If you don’t understand why you should just sit with people for significant periods of time in order to get to know them, David’s your guy.
Read the play. You’ll be stimulated.
John Patrick Shanley
The Revisi
onist
Please note that the italicized lines of dialogue are spoken in Polish. An appendix of the Polish translations is included in this volume.
PRODUCTION CREDITS
The Revisionist had its world premiere at the Cherry Lane Theatre, presented by Rattlestick Playwrights, opening on February 28, 2013. The production was directed by Kip Fagan; sets by John McDermott; costumes by Jessica Pabst; lighting by Matt Frey; sound by Bart Fasbender; stage manager, Christine Catti; production manager, Eugenia Furneaux.
The cast was as follows:
DAVID Jesse Eisenberg
MARIA Vanessa Redgrave
ZENON Dan Oreskes
SCENE 1
A television is on, playing CNN International:
CNN Long saddled with its image as one of Asia’s poorest nations, Vietnam’s economy in the last decade has come along in leaps and bounds. Foreign investors’ eyes are lighting up at the prospect of grabbing a piece of the action now that Vietnam has been voted into the World Trade Organization.
A loud buzzer is sounded. The television continues. The buzzer rings again. A lamp comes on, dimly lighting:
A three-room cramped apartment in Szczecin, Poland, a large, run-down city on the Baltic Sea. A living room and small bedroom flank a narrow kitchen. The kitchen table is set for two.
There are framed photographs on every surface and wall.
Maria jumps off the couch and switches on a light. She frantically moves to her apartment’s intercom, pressing it—buzz. She fixes herself at a small mirror and lights a candle on the table. There is a knock at the door and she swings it open.
MARIA I never wanted to die so much!
David stands at the door, offstage.
DAVID Hello, Maria.
MARIA You had me that my heart was in my mouth!
DAVID It’s nice to see you. Thank you. In advance.
MARIA I was going to stick my head in the oven, but it take so long to heat, I change my mind. You three hours late!
DAVID Yeah, sorry, my plane was delayed. I didn’t have your telephone number. Can I please come inside?
MARIA I give you my phone number so you should have it.
Maria rushes to a small notepad in the kitchen as David enters holding a suitcase and shouldering a book bag.
He is dressed sloppily, a hoodie obscuring his face.
DAVID Well I don’t need it now, I don’t need it anymore. I’m here, Maria.
MARIA Still, I give you. Maybe for the emergency.
She scribbles her number and thrusts it at him.
MARIA (cont.) You can read this?
DAVID Sure, it’s legible.
MARIA You could use in America too, you know.
DAVID That’s fine.
MARIA Now you look at me.
DAVID Yeah, my bags are kind of heavy—
MARIA Stand straight up, your back. Look at me.
DAVID I have a laptop in here—
Maria gently pulls back his hoodie and holds his shoulders.
MARIA You look like him. Your grandfather. Is like a picture.
DAVID (squirming away) I’d like to put my bags down now.
MARIA Of course, you put in your room.
DAVID Okay, thank you.
MARIA (leading him into the bedroom) Did you think you would not have your own room?
DAVID I didn’t consider it.
MARIA You probably think we all live in a small hut in Poland.
DAVID No, I guess I kind of thought I would have a room.
MARIA Well it’s a terrible tiny room. But you put your bags down. You talk to me about something. I want to know your trip, your family, your work—
DAVID (dryly) It’s all very exciting.
MARIA But first I shut the television off. I was watching American television. CNN.
She raises the volume on the television to impress David.
DAVID Yes, I can hear it.
MARIA (shuts the TV off) I must be sorry, David. My English is sometimes like cows.
DAVID Excuse me?
MARIA I speak English like a cow. Is very hard language. No one speak to me—no one speak to me Polish also—but I learn quick. They tell me knife. I read ka-nife. I don’t understand, is stupid. My fault also—I don’t know. Are you hungry? What you eat?
DAVID I ate a little bit on the plane.
MARIA Sha, on the plane! What you want?
DAVID Nothing, really, I’m fine. Just a little tired.
MARIA I make you dinner. I make you a special dinner. (suddenly jubilant) That you come to visit me, David. I am so happy you come to me!
DAVID Thank you. I’m happy I’m going to finish my book.
Maria stares at him, taken aback.
DAVID (cont.) What I mean is—I don’t mean to be—I’m just kind of swamped at the moment and it’s on my mind. Sorry. I’ve been overwhelmed. But I’m happy to see you too. And to be here. Maria.
MARIA (considers him) This is a good thing you do. To have the blood back in the house! This is good thing, David.
Maria enters the kitchen and pulls out a cooked chicken from the oven. She takes out a small bag of parsley and begins sprinkling it over the chicken.
In a mirror image, David, in his room, searches through his suitcase and pulls out a long sock. He takes a hollowed-out jar of Hellmann’s mayonnaise from the sock and then removes from the jar a bag, which contains some marijuana, a little pipe and a lighter.
He sprinkles some weed in his pipe.
In the kitchen, Maria puts the chicken into the microwave, powering it on.
David, in his bedroom, tries to open the window to smoke, but the handle is too high. He climbs on the windowsill to reach the window but it is stuck shut. He rattles the handle but it won’t budge as—
MARIA (cont.) Ah! I forget. David! David! I forget! I have present for you—
David hops off the sill just as Maria enters his room, carrying a composition notebook.
MARIA (cont.) To write your book.
DAVID Oh. That’s very thoughtful.
MARIA I buy it from the post office. You will use it to write the book?
DAVID I don’t know. I really just write on the computer.
MARIA I think the paper is maybe better.
DAVID Maybe.
MARIA And no one want to steal paper from you.
DAVID That’s true. Computers can be a risky investment.
MARIA So we agree. What did you get for me?
DAVID I didn’t know we were doing gifts. (pause; she waits) Okay. I got you—(hesitates, pulls a bottle from his suitcase) Some vodka. Some Polish vodka. It’s very famous, I think. And very tasty, Polish vodka.
MARIA But I live in Poland.
DAVID You do.
MARIA So why you get me Polish vodka?
DAVID (for his own amusement) To further celebrate your heritage.
MARIA Hmm. I think this is more a present for you. But thank you.
DAVID I’m glad you like it.
MARIA I don’t drink too much. Who do I drink with? Jerzy, he drink every night—not vodka always, beer, nalevka—but when he die, I stop drinking. No one should drink vodka if they are alone. Beer, is okay you drink alone, but vodka is a drink that is sad with no one. But you drink with me, David. Will be nice.
DAVID I look forward to that. So I think I’m going to change clothes, if that’s all right.
MARIA Of course is all right.
She stares at him, waiting for something—
DAVID Great. I think I’ll do that now.
MARIA Is a good time, I think.
Maria exits the room. David takes out his weed and pipe and jumps on the windowsill, reaching f
or the handle, just as Maria turns back around, reentering—
MARIA I forget I should ask you— (seeing him on the sill) What you doing?
DAVID Um, I was just trying to get some air. Is that not okay?
MARIA If you want, is okay. But is expensive for me. Cold air come in the flat, the heat go up, the bill go up.
DAVID Right, sorry. I didn’t know what the, what your utility plan was here. (jumps down) What did you want to ask me?
MARIA Yes. How long you should stay here?
DAVID I actually wanted to ask you about that. You know why I’m here, right?
MARIA I know what your grandfather tell me.
DAVID What was that?
MARIA You want to write a book, I think.
DAVID Yes. Sort of. I have to revise a book.
MARIA What is this?
DAVID I have to revise my book—to change what I’ve already written. It’s not relevant to you, but I’m not just, like, starting something, I have a career. I was actually supposed to hand it in six weeks ago—
MARIA Six weeks you stay here?
DAVID No. No. My book was due six weeks ago so I don’t have that much time. That’s why I came here. I needed a drastic change of scenery. I need to buckle down, focus. So I was thinking of staying here for about a week.
MARIA A week? Your grandfather tell me you maybe stay longer.
DAVID No, I think a week should be fine. I imagine that’s all I need.
MARIA All you need.
DAVID Anyway, I didn’t want to bother you.
MARIA Is no bother to me. I want you should stay here forever!
DAVID Well, obviously, I can’t do that. I’m a bit inflexible at the moment.
MARIA So when you leave me? You need to buy ticket for plane.
DAVID (pulls out his ticket) I have a return ticket. It’s for next Wednesday.
MARIA You give me. I put on refrigerator, we should not forget it.
DAVID I’m not going to forget.
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