Sheer bedlam

A bawdy 18th-century romp at Shakespeare's Globe.

Is this is the way the world-order ends? It's been strictly boys only at the writing end of the Globe theatre since it re-opened in 1996, seemingly in a continuation of 17th-century policy. It has taken 14 years (or 400, depending on your point of view) to stage the first-ever play written by a woman. Playwright Nell Leyshon makes history this month, but can her play Bedlam make equal claims?

We no longer treat the mad with blood-letting, laxatives and leeches; nor do we cut them and keep them cold, so as to let the heat out of the brain. They are no longer regarded, along with the cock, the bear and the actor, as entertaining spectacle. The historical debate on the treatment of the mad that the play scrutinises (enemas and mustard compresses v understanding and compassion) is long dead, so one may wonder how much Bedlam can touch us now, and how much it is merely a jolly period pastiche.

The play is set in 18th-century London, and there is no doubting its Hogarthian vitality. The stage is peopled with gimcrack whores, filthy-hemmed nymphs, beggars and lunatics; as well as fashionable toffs and doggerel-scribblers. An impressive and energetic acting ensemble leaps smartly into the folk dances and popular songs that lace through the show and shore up the flabby plot like a whalebone corset: their riotous version of smutty drinking song "Seven Drunken Nights" will live long in the memory. As will Ella Smith, who stands out in particular in the role of Phyllis, purveyor of various kinds of sauce.

The anatomy of London underpins the revels, and scenes play out in Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, St Giles or Bedlam itself. We get an almost site-specific feel at the Globe, of course, the waterside ("bordello") theatre open to London skies. At one point, the amorous Bedlam doctor speaks of swimming up the river of the bosomy Phyllis, getting lost in her narrow alleys and so on. But the suggestion that the topography of a whorish gin-seller is analogous to London is then -- and this is rather typical of the play -- made explicit, as though the groundlings weren't quite up to the job of working this out. Similarly, the nice structural ambiguity in "mad doctor" is carefully spelled out for us in the final scenes.

The groundlings themselves are variously spat on, begged from, solicited, and at one point, have slops emptied out on them. All good fun, except that at some point the pageant hoists one too many petticoats and shows its pantomime knickers: a hapless audience member duly suffers mild humiliation onstage, and the London references start to look like the local allusions so beloved of panto. The punters, it seemed, had problems with the tone of the piece: when Stella -- who has been incarcerated in Bedlam for what would, in modern terminology, be called postpartum depression -- is reunited with her infant daughter, it is undoubtedly supposed to be a tender moment, but instead it provoked gales of laughter. One of the unlikely pat pairings at the end, between the mad doctor's wife and his reforming colleague, elicited an "aaaaah!" of the sort normally reserved for small furry animals.

There is just a tracery of Congreve's The Way of the World as these two lovers negotiate a union, and it is clear that Leyshon has a sensitive ear for the language of the time. Perhaps the improbable marriages that round off the play, and the creaking plot machinations that get us to that point seem a little trite and dated for modern sensibilities, but there is genuine poignancy in the descent of the mad doctor to mad patient. "I am unravelling" he moans, as he is stripped, and the troubling suggestion here is that the way we treat people is contingent on their costume.

And there are contemporary parallels to be found in Bedlam. The libidinous gin-addict Dr Carew typifies an 18th-century variety of binge drinker. "I am English", he intones, "and this is what we do". It seems that "Madam Geneva", variously sweetened with fruits and berries, was something like the alcopop of its day. And the South Sea Bubble, which sends poor Tom O'Bedlam off his rocker, doesn't sound a million miles off another, more recent speculative catastrophe.

But the show's real strength lies in its 18th-century cartoon colours and textures. This, then, is the way the world order ends. Not with a bang, perhaps, but with a broad-brush flourish all the same.

"Bedlam" runs at Shakespeare's Globe, London SE1 until 1 October.

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The Sad Part Was: this story collection puts the real Bangkok on display

Thai author Prabda Yoon descends into the voices and minds of a small cast of characters.

In Bangkok’s budding literary scene, Prabda Yoon sits at the centre. Born in 1973, he’s the scion of a well-known family (his father Suthichai Sae-Yoon is the co-founder of the Nation newspaper) and is known in Thailand as not only an enfant terrible of letters but as an illustrator, screen-writer and director (his first film, Motel Mist, was shown at European festivals in 2016).

His reputation rests mainly on a collection of short stories published in 2000 entitled in Thai Kwam Na Ja Pen, roughly translated as Probability, and it is from this early collection that most of the stories now collected in The Sad Part Was are derived. Translated with cool elegance by Mui Poopoksakul, they are among the first modern Thai stories to be published in the UK.

As Poopoksakul points out in her afterword, she and Yoon are the products of similar backgrounds and epochs: upper-middle class children of Bangkok who came to consciousness in the late Eighties and Nineties. Often foreign-educated, fluent in English and conversant in global pop culture and media – Yoon did a stint at Parsons in New York after prep school at the Cambridge School of Weston – this new generation of Thai writers and artists were born into a society changing so fast that they had to virtually invent a new language to transcribe it.

In The Sad Part Was, the result is stories that one could glibly label as “post-modern” but which, in reality, perfectly match the qualities of the megacity where they are set. Bangkok is infamously mired in lurid contradiction, but it’s also a city of subtle and distorted moods that journalism and film have hitherto mostly failed to capture. The whimsical and playful surfaces of these stories have to be read against the high-octane anxieties and surreal dislocations of what was, until recently, one of the fastest-growing cities in the world.

Yoon uses the short form of the ten-page story to descend into the voices and minds of a small cast of characters: a schoolgirl and a beautiful female teacher who form a platonic lesbian infatuation while riding a daily bus in “Miss Space”; a couple making love during a thunderstorm whose activities are interrupted by the dismantling of two giant letters, which fall onto their roof in “Something in the Air”; a young man who meets a mysterious older man in Lumpini Park called Ei Ploang, who forces him to consider the intertwined nature of good and evil. In “Snow for Mother”, a mother waits for her little boy to grow up so that she can take him to Alaska to experience the real snow, which he never knew as a little boy in the tropics.

In “The Sharp Sleeper”, a man named Natee obsesses over losing his shirt buttons and is led into a strange reverie on the nature of dreams and the competing qualities of red and yellow pyjama shirts (Thailand’s political culture is riven by two parties popularly known as Red and Yellow Shirts). The commentary slips into effortless sarcasm:

Natee has proudly worn the red pyjama shirt several times since then, and his dream personality hasn’t altered at all. On the contrary, the shirt has encouraged him to become a man of conviction in his waking life. As to what those convictions were supposed to be, Natee wasn’t quite sure. But it was safe to say that a night shirt so principled wouldn’t drop a button so easily.

Since these stories were written, Bangkok’s political schizophrenia has lost its former air of apathy and innocence, but Yoon’s tone is quietly prescient about the eruption of violent irrationality a few years later. It’s a reminder how precious the subtlety of fiction is when set against the shrill certitudes of activism and reportage.

My favorite story here is “Something in the Air”. Its dialogues are written with hilariously archaic, bureaucratic formality, while delving into the disorientation of sexual and romantic hopes in the present century. After the couple’s love-making is interrupted, the young man suggests insolently to the woman that they resume in the open air, exposed to the furious elements. She agrees. They then notice that a dead body is lying on the roof nearby, crushed by the giant letters.

While waiting for the police to arrive, the woman sits quietly and describes her future, a happily married future in which her current lover will play no part whatsoever. He listens in melancholy astonishment until the couple are called to give their testimonies about the dead man. The officers then suspect that the couple themselves have done something scandalous – and so, stung by shame, the woman considers breaking off the relationship and setting in motion her own prophesy.

The Sad Part Was is unique in the contemporary literature of Bangkok – it doesn’t feature bar girls, white men, gangsters or scenes redolent of The Hangover Part II. Instead it reveals, sotto voce, the Thai voices that are swept up in their own city’s wild confusion and energy, and it does so obliquely, by a technique of partial revelation always susceptible to tenderness.

Lawrence Osborne is a British novelist living in Bangkok. His next book, “Beautiful Animals”, will be published by Hogarth in August

The Sad Part Was
Prabda Yoon
Tilted Axis Press, 192pp, £8.99

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder