Tag Archives: Brexit

Phaedra: Pity the Monster

Court, Joseph-Désiré. Death of Hippolytus. 1825, Musée Fabre, Montpellier.

  • Play Title: Phaedra: Pity the Monster (monologue)
  • Authors: Timberlake Wertenbaker 
  • Written: 2020 
  • Page count: 8 

Summary

Timberlake Wertenbaker’s Phaedra: Pity the Monster is an adaptation of Ovid’s Heroides 4: Phaedra to Hippolytus. It is one of 15 monologues by a selection of female writers who contributed to a book entitled 15 Heroines: 15 Monologues Adapted from Ovid.

Phaedra is a middle-aged woman with two fully grown sons. She is also stepmother to a stern, young man named Hippolytus. Theseus, Phaedra’s husband, does not favour the oldest of his three sons. In contrast, Phaedra becomes infatuated with the young man. Unable to control her desires any longer and possibly under the influence of a curse, Phaedra pens a salacious letter that is delivered to Hippolytus by a servant. We are not privy to Hippolytus’ reaction, but Ovid writes elsewhere of the young man’s utter disgust upon reading the note’s proposal. Wertenbaker adds nuance to an old story but retains features such as Phaedra’s formidable powers of seduction. Not even accusations of indecorous behaviour or incest will perturb Theseus’s wife. The sordid letter ultimately leads to an accusation of rape, a brutal slaying, and a suicide. Ovid’s tale is reworked to suit a modern audience. However, it captivates as surely as it did when first told to a Roman audience sometime around 26 BC. When reading the monologue, one needs to keep in mind that Phaedra is a half-sister to the much-feared Minotaur of Greek myth.

Ways to access the text: reading

I accessed the text via Everand, which is an online eBook provider. They offer a free trial, so that is an option for non-members. You may also purchase the text via the Nick Hern Books website.

If you are interested in the story itself rather than the particular modern version noted here, then you may search online for Ovid’s Heroides (Heroines). Although the book is easy to find, translations from the original Latin vary in quality so search around.

Why read Phaedra: Pity the Monster? 

The original themes and connotations of Ovid’s text have been reworked by a modern writer and the result is several distinct layers of meaning. The interpretative options are quite broad since Phaedra can be seen as an empowered, older woman; a Weinstein-esque sexual predator; or a delusional, sad figure. At its core, the story is still about an amorous, older woman who wants to sleep with her stepson. With the modern adaption comes additional layering. Now, the love letter doubles as a commentary on racism, migration, white privilege, womanhood, and ageing. In other words, the monster becomes all the things that modern society wishes to disown or build barriers against. At this symbolic level, the story comments on contemporary European politics. Greek mythology is momentarily forgotten and one begins to think of Brexit and the recent Rwanda Bill (2024) that sends unwanted, mostly dark-skinned foreigners away. Wertenbaker’s adaptation is subtle but also generous in its interpretative possibilities.

Post-reading discussion/interpretation 

Do You See a Monster too? 

Though far from the first to do so, Timberlake Wertenbaker has tackled the Greek myth of Phaedra. Indeed, not even Ovid’s version was the first. Sophocles and Euripides, both of whom were Greek tragedians from the 5th century BC, wrote about Phaedra and her scandalous desires. Then there was Ovid’s version, which borrowed liberally from his predecessors. In the first century AD, the Roman dramatist Seneca wrote about Phaedra yet again, but afterwards, there was a prolonged literary silence around this mysterious, incestuous figure. The next work deemed noteworthy in literary circles was Racine’s 1677 play, simply entitled Phèdre. In the 20th century, writers as diverse as Eugene O’Neill and Sarah Kane have taken inspiration from Phaedra’s tale to produce new works. Many of the early adapters retained the story’s key points and focused more on diverse ways to craft the characterisation of Phaedra; for instance, the central figure can be an honourable woman brought low by an unquenchable passion or an incorrigible, shameless wench intent on satisfying her loins. Later adaptations have shown how flexible the story can be in the right hands. Phaedra’s tale has never been set in stone and diverse writers continue to bring surprising nuances to how one may view her.

Ovid’s original text Heroides (Heroines) consists of 21 letters in total. The first 15 are mostly letters from mythological women to the men they love. Think of figures from Greek mythology such as Medea and Penelope. The impetus for each letter is a geographical or figurative distance between the female lover and the male love object. In contrast, letters 16 to 21 consist of epistolary exchanges initiated by men and the subsequent replies from the mythological women to whom they wrote. The modern text, 15 Heroines, is concerned with only the women’s perspectives, thus the first 15 letters. Though traditionally described as letters, not even Ovid’s monologues actually conform to this description. To call them letters is merely to allocate a familiar frame by which they can be recognised.

One stubborn obstacle to these spellbinding monologues is the necessity of knowing something about Greek mythology. While Wertenbaker’s text has fewer erudite references than Ovid’s original, the monologue still relies on a reader’s knowledge of a few key facts, otherwise, the story falls quite flat.

Phaedra’s family tree is a storehouse of Greek myths. Her father was Minos, King of Crete, whose conception was slyly achieved when Jupiter disguised himself as a bull to trick the young princess Europa. She first hesitatingly petted the impressive animal and then foolishly sat on his back, only to be whisked away. She was later defiled by the god and subsequently became pregnant. While Minos was the progeny of a god who simply disguised himself as a bull, Phaedra’s mother, Pasiphae, did the unthinkable. King Minos was away for an extended time waging war against King Nisus, and Pasiphae was all alone. Unbeknownst to the queen, a curse was put upon her by Poseidon on account of her husband’s disobedience relating to a sacrificial bull. The curse meant that she fell in love with this white bull. To satisfy her newfound, taboo carnal desires, Pasiphae asked Daedalus, the gifted craftsman, to make her a wooden cow. By crawling inside this life-like contraption, she could successfully mate with the beast. As a result, Pasiphae gave birth to an abomination that was half man and half bull: the Minotaur.

When King Minos returned home and saw the child his wife had borne, he was determined to hide this shameful thing. Once again, Daedalus’ ingenious craftsmanship was needed so that a mind-boggling labyrinth could be constructed to imprison the beast eternally. Every 9 years, young Athenians (the enemies of Minos) were sacrificed to the Minotaur. When the third feeding was due, a young Athenian warrior named Theseus volunteered to join the other youths who had been allotted this terrible fate. When Ariadne (Phaedra’s sister) saw the handsome warrior named Theseus, she fell in love instantly. In the hope of winning him over, she gave him the famed ball of thread that would allow him to find his way out of the maze. Theseus duly slayed the Minotaur and eloped with Ariadne to the island of Dia, but he soon heartlessly abandoned the girl. Theseus went on to conquer an Amazon woman named Hippolyta, who bore a child named Hippolytus. Phaedra was Theseus’ second wife, with whom he had two more sons. This is a brief overview of the complex links between Phaedra, her sister Ariadne, their half-brother called the Minotaur, Theseus, and Hippolytus (Phaedra’s stepson).

Wertenbaker’s approach to Phaedra focuses primarily on monsters and their monstrous acts. The monologue is a contemplation of anthropomorphism, which attempts to put the non-human in a far more sympathetic light, juxtaposed with the idea of the bestial human, namely the cold-hearted, moralistic Hippolytus. Phaedra proceeds to highlight her family’s genealogy; she is daughter and granddaughter to women famed for being seduced by horned beasts. These women became infamous for their diabolical trysts. Phaedra’s speech clearly references Greek mythology, but there is a more modern topic too concerning an intermingling of peoples, races, classes, and ages. Phaedra understands that she is a monster in Hippolytus’s eyes; it is not just about her family heritage and beastly half-brother, plus the fact that Crete is within view of the dark continent of Africa, but also due to her revelation of sexual longings – her “monstrous thoughts” (Wertenbaker 155). She is a seductress at her core, and her rhetoric is not being expended merely to attain a love poem or song. She desires to know her husband’s son carnally. Employing a decidedly ironic tone, she attempts to repackage her appeal by transforming the idea of the toxic monster. Hippolytus may be convinced that a taste of “the forbidden” (156) will unveil new worlds for him. Phaedra has sufficient hubris to believe that she can convince Hippolytus to act against his own nature. As a huntsman, he sees the animal kingdom as a realm for blood sport, nothing more. Yet Phaedra appeals to him to discover pity and make love to her: someone he sees as a lesser thing, almost an animal.

Phaedra’s plea to Hippolytus, as crafted by Wertenbaker, holds much of the same irony, contradiction, and guile of Ovid’s original. However, one must acknowledge that only half the story is being told. Who is this young man to whom Phaedra makes her plea, and what is his likely response? In Greek mythology, Phaedra and Hippolytus have equally tragic destinies, so one needs to understand that the ageing seductress is always doomed to utter failure. Otherwise, one could far too easily credit her with amazing chutzpah! Alternatively, one could propose that Phaedra be seen through the lens of a sexually liberated, 21st-century audience and, therefore, Hippolytus is not the point. The point is the thrill of the hunt that Phaedra engages in. This little twist of the hunted magically morphing into the hunter is like looking at a Gestalt image and seeing one figure, then the other. The editors of 15 Heroines may have neglected to provide an explanatory introduction for this exact reason, namely, to liberate the tale from Ovid’s old clutches. Alternatively, the book may anticipate an ideal reader and a common reader with the former knowing Greek mythology and the latter being ignorant of it. This becomes problematic since it hints at elitism, yet interesting too because varying interpretations will be the logical outcome. In any case, it is difficult to assert that Phaedra’s love plea has no teleological intent.

Since this essay addresses Phaedra’s entire story, Hippolytus’ part thereof is deemed essential. To excise him from the story would rob us of a better understanding of Phaedra. Paul Murgatroyd et al explain that “In Euripides’ Hippolytus the young prince is intolerant and rather fanatical, a virginal misogynist who will have nothing to do with love or sex” (48). It is quite a description. Indeed, the young man depicted in Euripides’s text is venomous towards women, especially after learning of his stepmother’s feelings. Hippolytus sees women as vain, treacherous, and often promiscuous (49). Of some interest to readers of the modern version is Hippolytus’s view that “women should be housed with wild animals that bite but lack speech, so they can’t talk to other people or get a reply back from them” (49). Women are not just the weaker sex but the hated sex, no better than animals and deserving the company of animals. Therefore, when Wertenbaker’s Phaedra asks Hippolytus to “Pity the monsters” (157), one can fully appreciate how delusional and pathetic this plea sounds. The sheer impossibility of the amorous mission is an intrinsic part of the tale – “There is nothing that Phaedra could have said that would seduce such a character [Hippolytus]” (Murgatroyd, et al 49).

In a performance setting, the Phaedra of 15 Heroines also speaks directly to us, the audience. This character becomes a conduit for an artist like Wertenbaker to express something that sparks recognition. One example is the way Hippolytus is accused of being the default of perfect normality: a youthful, toned, (white) male (body). Older women are deemed invisible and thereby become de-sexualized, dehumanized, spaces of utter absence, whereas Hippolytus has automatic membership in an exclusive, powerful club. Agedness, femininity, and being foreign are all signs of imperfection. The monologue lends itself to being read as a political allegory. Shutting out the other is judged to be a faulty mindset.

“Hear the monster, pity the monster and then even love the monster.
We roam that other world. You have borders against us, barriers, definitions. You lock us out, you think you’re safe.
But who is locked in?” (Wertenbaker 155)

The playwright is a UK resident, so it is quite easy to read the above text as a Brexit reference. Immigration and border concerns were a key factor in deciding the 2016 referendum. Foreigners arriving on boats from Africa were/are not being welcomed in any European land. When Phaedra confronts Hippolytus, positioning herself as the other, she says “stop demanding praise from us. Stop assuming we deserve our humiliation” (156). The apparent analogy between monster and migrant facilitates a different version of the predator and prey scenario that Phaedra speaks about so extensively. Foreigners become fodder in the voracious economies of countries like England because they feed the capitalist system with cheap labour. Migrants are often employed in jobs deemed too menial or too low-paid for UK-born nationals. The contradiction soon arises that the workers so desperately needed become utterly despised since they are automatically placed at the bottom of the social hierarchy. Just like Phaedra, should migrants be grateful and accept their lot, even if it is humiliating? Phaedra’s monologue is a lover’s plea that echoes to us from ancient times, yet also a potent political comment on the current migration situation, which has become so contentious in recent years.

Depending on one’s impression of Phaedra’s confessional letter to Hippolytus, various endings can be imagined. In Greek myth, however, the story has been committed to paper long ago, and the conclusion is tragic. Admittedly, various versions arrange the details differently, but the key events are always the same. First, Phaedra’s secret love for her stepson is put in a letter; revealed to the young man by a wayward servant; or Phaedra herself tells Hippolytus. His reaction is always the same: sheer disgust. In utter humiliation, Phaedra takes her own life (either before or after Hippolytus has died). The unexpected twist in the story is that Phaedra’s shame prompts her to accuse Hippolytus of rape. This is an attempt to save her good name posthumously and thereby protect her sons’ reputations too. Theseus believes the false charge and banishes his eldest son, but the king additionally calls on Neptune, god of the sea, to punish the rapist. The cause of Hippolytus’ death is strangely poetic, at least from a literary point of view, since the theme of the monster looms large. Ovid recounts the story in The Metamorphoses as follows:

“the sea rose up, and a huge mass of waters seemed to curl itself into a mountainous shape from which, as its size increased, came bellowing roars. Then the summit seemed to split, and there erupted a horned bull, which burst through the waters, rearing itself into the yielding air, till its chest was clear of the waves, vomiting quantities of sea water from its nostrils and gaping mouth.”
(Ovid 348)

The horses of Hippolytus’ chariot take fright and they all crash. Hippolytus becomes entangled in the reins while the rest of him is pulled violently in the opposite direction. Despite the many beautiful images of this scene in classical art, Hippolytus’ injured body is described as “one gaping wound” (Ovid 348). It is fitting that Neptune assumed the shape of a monstrous bull, reminding one yet again of Phaedra’s half-brother.

The modern version of Phaedra’s monologue ultimately achieves a lot. It is a text with strong political undertones that cleverly underpin the story of an older woman’s seductive plea for openness to new experiences. Phaedra’s call for pity, not empathy, is intriguing and is an addition to the story made by Wertenbaker. Since Phaedra wants to bed the young man, this call for pity is simply a clever ploy that will appeal to his sense of superiority. Less flatteringly, Phaedra is simultaneously revealed as a woman who would welcome being made love to, even if it makes the young man feel debased. This particular situation has earned quite a crude modern label. The monologue’s labyrinthine complexities become clearer when one compares it to Ovid’s original where Phaedra makes some outrageous claims to get Hippolytus into bed. For instance, there is a suggestion that he will take her virginity – “You’ll reap the first-fruits of my unsullied reputation” (Murgatroyd, et al 44). She says this despite the fact that she is a mother to two sons and the wife of a notoriously oversexed king. On the other hand, one cannot help but be mesmerized by her sustained plea.

“Here is the forbidden: the wife of your father. Not young, indeed to you old, not perfectly formed, spilling out, in shape and feelings, a woman, the unknown, uncontrolled.” (Wertenbaker 156)

The purpose of the monologue is to test our resistance to Phaedra’s powerful language. She is a magically duplicitous character whose deep heritage clings to modern retellings of her tale. Wertenbaker is also acutely aware of her character’s literary history since she translated Racine’s Phèdre from French into English (2009). In the end, does one see the monster that Hippolytus sees, or a vibrant, dangerous, older woman? In truth, it is impossible to vilify Phaedra or sympathise with her entirely. Wertenbaker has successfully updated an ancient text and retained the essential complexities as well. There is an enchanting charisma to a lie that, nonetheless, contains much truth. The manner in which Wertenbaker has linked these truths to modern politics is a bravo moment.

Works Cited

Murgatroyd, Paul, et al. Ovid’s Heroides: A New Translation and Critical Essays. Routledge, 2017.

Ovid. Metamorphoses. Translated by Mary M. Innes, Penguin Books, 1973

Wertenbaker, Timberlake. “Phaedra: Pity the Monster.” 15 Heroines: 15 Monologues Adapted from Ovid. Nick Hern Books, 2020.

Closer to God

  • Title: Closer to God 
  • Author: Anna Jordan 
  • First performed: 2009 
  • Page count: 24 

Summary 

A 79-year-old man and a young, single mother live in adjacent flats at the top of a UK tower block. This is the premise of Anna Jordan’s short play entitled Closer to God. Neither of the main characters is named, they are just opposing forces named “He” and “She.” They represent quite different conceptions of Britain: the old versus the new; the conservative pitted against the liberal; the nostalgic contrasting with the forward-looking. Jordan’s play appears to reference the backdrop of Brexit, but the play was actually written prior to the 2013 referendum announcement. Nonetheless, the play explores the changing face of modern life in the United Kingdom by addressing controversial topics such as foreigners and racism. Among the other themes highlighted in the work are social isolation, single parenting, memory, and interconnectedness.  

Ways to access the text: reading. 

Anna Jordan is a contemporary writer, and this short work is relatively new so you may well consider purchasing this play. However, there are some free online sources such as the website – Withoutapaddletheatre.co.uk or alternatively you may access the script via Scribd using the free trial period.  

Closer to God is quite reader-friendly and consists of a single extended dialogue.  

Why read Closer to God? 

“Up where the air is clear” (Sherman and Sherman).  

One cannot imagine Jordan’s characters being particularly interested in singing songs like “Let’s Go Fly a Kite” from Mary Poppins. In fact, even though they are quite literally up where the air is clear, they surprisingly complain that there is “no air up here” (Jordan 11). The play examines the intricacies of life at the top of a high-rise which include myriad overt and covert stressors. Examples of these are noises, smells, broken lifts, entrapment, loneliness, misunderstandings, and poverty. Kids of suburban families go fly kites in a park but up in the rarefied air of tower blocks, people are effectively cut off from the world and usually from each other too. This is a land of tinned foods and few opportunities for improvement. Jordan’s play is depressing and inspiring in equal parts.  

Post reading discussion/interpretation. 

“Man Against a Concrete Colossus.” 

Introduction.  

Anna Jordan’s play, Closer to God, has two main characters named He and She. However, the high-rise tower exerts such influence over its residents that one may view it as a third character. The influence is not good. In an essay by Robert Gifford entitled “The Consequences of living in High-Rise Buildings,” he explains that – “Early studies and reviews concluded that high-rises are, on balance, not beneficial for residents” (2). Needless to say, high rise buildings are still being constructed all over the world each year so they evidently benefit someone. Maybe since tall building have a smaller urban footprint, they appease the gods of nature and also our environmental conscientiousness. Jordan’s play delves into the topics concerning life in a modern, multicultural Britain and how human nature resists the conditioning of a negative dwelling place like an aging, high-rise of council flats. Such buildings have long been the reserve of the poor, disenfranchised and forgotten. At the close of the play, the character He refers to a documentary named “Life After People” (Jordan 19) which predicts “how nature will eventually reclaim all the towns and cities” (20). Jordan acknowledges the problems of high-rise housing but promotes the view that human nature battles against the insidious influence of the concrete giants that are high-rises. The play explores the battle between human nature and architecture while Mother Nature looms ominously in the background.  

High-rise living.  

First, one may ask what are the problems of high rise living? Gifford explains that “High-rise residences evoke at least six fears” (2), which are: people falling or jumping; getting trapped during a fire; an earthquake; a terrorist attack on the building; strangers and crime; and the risk of communicable diseases (2). This list includes everything from the plausible to the somewhat paranoid. Of equal, or possibly more interest, is the fact that “High-rise buildings can be associated with negative outcomes without causing those outcomes” (3). Gifford outlines how these “Moderators are factors or variables that are associated with differences in outcomes, but not in a causal sense” (3). It is by reference to moderators that one can most easily distinguish between potentially happy or discontented living conditions. Gifford writes that “Four such moderating factors are residents’ economic status, the amount of choice among residences a resident has, the building’s location within the urban fabric, and population density” (3). In the cases of He and She, these moderating factors are greatly enlightening. First, residents in social housing have a low economic status as this is a requirement of admission. They would have had minimal or no choice in the location of their new homes. Social housing buildings are often in less desirable parts of a town or city and overcrowding is a frequent problem. An example of the last point is given when He complains of neighbours in his building – “six of them, living on top of each other in that tiny flat!” (Jordan 11). In essence, what unites unhappy high-rise dwellers is a stark lack of choice. There are consequently two distinct faces to high-rise living as Gifford describes below.

“Among high-rise residents, for example, presumably most wealthy denizens of tall expensive apartment buildings in desirable locations are quite pleased with their high rises, and we know that many residents are miserably unhappy with their broken-down ghetto high-rise dwellings.”

(Gifford 4)

Another important moderating factor highlighted by Gifford is “life-cycle stage” (3). ‘He’ is elderly and in poor health while Jayden is still just a baby. In a high-rise building, the elderly may become fearful of new and foreign tenants and subsequently isolate themselves just like He does when he adopts a bunker mentality and stocks up on tinned foods. As for Jayden, his prospects are not enhanced by his living environment either since “Numerous studies suggest that children have problems in high-rises; none suggest benefits for them” (10). If one delves into the specifics then one finds that children – “who lived in high-rises were significantly more likely to have severe behavior problems than children in other forms of housing” (8). Jayden’s social housing environment will prime him to evolve into an anti-social youth thus perpetuating the problems of such communities.  

There are both visible and invisible negatives to high rise living. Understanding the effects of the building is the starting point to assessing the residents’ behaviours. The play does not depict people crushed by their circumstances but instead shows a valiant, ongoing struggle to survive by people who are often unsure of their true enemies. 

From godsend to godforsaken place.  

The meaning of the title, Closer to God, works on several levels. ‘He’ explains that when the towers were first built, they were greeted with optimistic fanfare. He jokes of – “High-rise living, [being] that little bit closer to God” (Jordan 9). In a literal sense, the elevation above the rest of the city brings the man closer to the traditionally understood location of heaven in the sky. However, the title harbours more serious, negative connotations. First, the old man is reminiscing about when the towers were initially built but that is a past, now lost era of his younger days. Gone too are the lofty expectations of high-rise social housing. Neither the man’s life nor the buildings have been a remarkable success. Now, old and sick, He faces death after years of painful, social isolation. When once he may have considered himself blessed by God to attain a flat in a modern building – now, it is different, the flat (or a care home) will be his last grim residence before death. She wryly comments that his “leg [is] dead already. Waiting for the rest of him to join” (15). The feeling of being a little closer to God changes tone from a one-time gleefulness to an aching despondency because the slow-creeping necrosis that has already got his foot, will soon end him too.  

Building higher and higher into the sky has been a millennia-long fascination of man. Robert Gifford writes that, “If the minimal definition of a high-rise is a building taller than three storeys, then the history of high rises may be traced back to the pyramids of Egypt” (2). In practical terms, high rise buildings are an economical use of scarce and expensive land space but, more than anything else, they will always be interpreted as daring feats of architectural excellence. Tall buildings are symbolic of a modern, thriving world where cities are bursting with people and the wheels of industry spin endlessly. Jordan quietly delineates the type of buildings of which society is proud, and contrastingly the type of buildings she describes in the play which are the yesterday of progress and the today of ghettoization and deprivation. Such building are no longer symbols of success but icons of the anonymised poor who often lead dead-end lives. The dream of a ‘high life’ is gone when tower blocks are plagued by anti-social behaviour, poor upkeep, and divisions between tenants.  

Various problems emerge within the high-rise tower that serve to diminish the quality of life of old and new residents alike. One of the most unexpected wedges to come between tenants is the English language. In Gifford’s essay, there is a salient reference to towering buildings and the associated importance of a common language. 

“The Christian Bible briefly tells the story of the Tower of Babel. According to the account, before the tower was complete God decided that if humans could complete such a tower, they could accomplish anything. That was not acceptable, so God caused confusion among the people by cursing them with multiple languages (everyone had spoken the same language until then, and their tower-building success was attributed to this).”

(Gifford 2).

The Tower of Babel was constructed thanks to cooperation supported by a common language whereas the tower block of the play becomes a failure due to a breakdown of cooperation associated with an ‘uncommon’ language. In the old man’s view, the new tenants do not speak the same language as him. It is still English but not as he knows it. The strangely undulating accents of foreigners’ grate on his ears so much that he experiences them as alien.

“Made English sound like a foreign language. Didn’t recognise the sounds, the vowels. They’d stolen it. They’d stolen English!”

(Jordan 17)

‘He’ makes these comments about Jayden’s dad and the accompanying male friend. These people are not of his tribe, not like the original tenants in the building who had “Good English names. Round white faces” (8). Now it is “a sea of brown faces, foreign tongues. Assads and Mohameds and Osamas” (10). If one looks beyond the apparent racism of the comments then there is fear at the core of the old man’s concerns. When Jayden’s dad visits, he is under the influence of alcohol and cocaine (17) and there is a second man in tow. The old man describes how he hears this ex-partner “Hitting her. Kicking her, I think” (17) and this is soon followed by sounds of sex. These new people scare him. Long gone are the residents with familiar names and accents whom he felt safe approaching and conversing with. Long gone also is the level of cooperation that meant “each flat would take it in turns to clean the landing” (10). Complaining about language is just the old man’s way of othering them. Additionally, he displays reverse ageism through his disapproval of his female neighbour’s modern slang, her misuse of his language. He regards her vocabulary as coarse, saying she has a “potty mouth” (7) because of her habit of saying things like “‘F this,’ ‘F that,’ ‘Little F-ing C’” (6). The rift between him and the new tenants is predominantly a cultural one rather than a linguistic one. In a figurative sense, they do not speak his language and therefore cooperation breaks down.  

Behind the scenes, successive governments and local councils contribute to the problems by underfunding social housing and neglecting essential support for, and integration of foreign nationals. The results are not just tower blocks that end up as eyesores on the landscape but conditions within such blocks that lead to social unrest and burgeoning prejudices. Jordan’s play encapsulates many of the social ailments that were precursors to Brexit.  

Suicide.  

Closer to God broaches the emotive topic of suicides, or what He calls “jumpers” (11). He recalls one couple he knew from the building – “Paul died of cancer and Sandra threw herself off” (11). The unavoidably public nature of such deaths by suicide means that they are regularly reported by newspapers. Gifford poses a crucial question in his essay – “do high-rise building contribute to suicide?” (7). He explains that “One school of thought (the substitution hypothesis) holds that individuals who wish to dispose of themselves will find a way, regardless of the possible means” (7). In other words, if one method is not available then the person will simply substitute with another way of killing themselves. On the other hand, “A different view, the availability hypothesis, holds that tall buildings, to some extent, encourage or facilitate suicides that would not have otherwise occurred” (7). Neither He nor She speak directly of suicide, but the oppressive atmosphere of their living conditions suggests depressive thoughts. For instance, when the lift is out of order which regularly happens then the residents at the top of the building feel “Trapped … In a shoebox in the sky” (Jordan 12). This description suggests a feeling of claustrophobia but it also connotes death. Small pets are often buried in shoe boxes by little children. The shoe box doubles as a coffin and thereby a pet may be buried inexpensively and without much commotion in a suburban garden. Are He and She living in cheap, cardboard coffins on the 19th floor? She articulates her dread as follows.

“If I sit around here for too long I start to get that feeling. That numb feeling? It’s like I’m sitting here and it starts at my feet, up to my knees then right through my body … I feel …dead. I feel that I’m dying slowly. Dying and rotting up here.”

(Jordan 12)

She reflexively contemplates the life led by the elderly man next door, and she fears that his forgotten existence presages her own future. The numb feeling starts at her feet and she may end up like him – “dragging that poor leg” (15). To ward off her fears, she puts on dance music at high volume, and as she says – “I dance and I sweat and then I know I’m alive” (12). In a dissimilar fashion but to the same end, the old man lets his TV on day and night. The “telly” (13) is his sole companion and it alleviates his feelings of loneliness and protects him against the same deathly silence and soul numbing that oppresses her. Given that these two individuals have almost nothing in common then the common denominator is the building and the influence it exerts over its inhabitants. Neither of the two may ever actively contemplate suicide but their existence in that atmosphere constitutes a slow, passive suicide. 

Rhythm of life.  

Despite the antisocial behaviour, the turds in the elevator, and the puke in the hallway – Jordan’s play is not a diary of the crestfallen. The playwright reveals an almost imperceptible force that endures and even combats the cold environment of the tower block, namely human nature.  

In a building with “walls paper thin” (11), the separate, contrasting rhythms of his and her lives result in a tremendous, interconnected effect. To return to the earlier topic of choice – neither of them asked for the neighbour they ended up with, so they are effectively launched into a symbiotic relationship. Their eventual connection is all the stranger given that they never even meet anymore.

“SHE. We don’t meet now, face to face.  

HE. Just the noises and sounds”

(Jordan 15)

She knows what TV programmes he watches, how often he bathes, that he lives on pies (evidence in rubbish), and even when he breaks wind! He knows her lack of routine, her singing, Jayden’s play noises, the “boom boom boom” (13) music, and the sound of her ex-boyfriend’s voice. It is ironic that they do not even know each other’s names, yet they exist in a strange union with one another daily. It is this semi-anonymous interconnectedness that Jordan mines for meaning in her play.  

The prickly relationship between the neighbours is a by-product of the building’s power. For example, even though he was “pleased at first” (7) about getting a new neighbour, his sustained experience of isolated living inadvertently led to a spoiled first impression. He had not had a visitor for years and therefore unthinkingly slammed the door in her face (14). She was insulted as her only intention had been to offer to do his shopping for him. Since all his former neighbours have left or died and he is now surrounded by unfamiliar, often foreign faces and strange accents, he has become withdrawn and fearful. The environment has brought out the worst in him, like his xenophobia. For her as a newbie, the monstrosity of concrete that is the high rise is complemented by the old man’s “flabby, grey face” (14). The building’s cold impression has successfully rubbed off on the old resident of some thirty years.  

But the connection between these two people still has value. She is annoyed by him and yet she feels sad knowing that he awakes from his dreams calling out the name “Evie” (16). She wonders if it’s his wife’s name. He considers her a small, spiky, “in-your-face” (14) type, yet when she is being beaten by her ex-partner, he grabs a baseball bat and very nearly confronts the man. Jordan depicts the thorny relationship between He and She which despite the aggravations, has a golden seam of goodness hidden within. What is shown is that they are acting against expectations since “Research is unanimous in finding that rates of helping others are lower in high-rise buildings” (Gifford 12). In the end, the force of human nature is stronger than the environmental ills.  

Another compelling aspect of the relationship between him and her is how each perceives the other. For her, he represents the awful prospect of a lonely, valueless, old age. She bristles when he bluntly asks what she has done so far in her life. She responds with – “I’m young. I’ve got time!” (13). He is an omen of things to come for her, should she never escape her current predicament. For him, it is quite different since he looks to the past for comfort, whereas her youth obliges her to look only forward. He finds in her a spark to fully ignite his memory of his daughter, Evie. It is not clear if he is estranged from his daughter or if she died. ‘She’ acts as a substitute for a missing loved one and her laugh is reminiscent of his daughter’s so the connection feels less false, less contrived. Without this lifeline, he has only his TV for a friend.  

Jordan does not depict any grand gestures or unprecedented character transformations. Instead, she shows how people may be driven quite crazy by their neighbours and nonetheless still grudgingly look out for them, empathise with them, keep them in mind. The play is a tale of a little triumph in a world that is unyielding and hard. However, to expose this little glimmer of hope, the play must also honestly expose the loneliness of urban living, the fears of old age, and the damaged prospects of a new generation.

Conclusion.  

It is fitting that the world inhabited by the residents of the top floor may only truthfully be reflected back to them by “stand[ing] at the window and look[ing] at the other tower” (19). These people are detached from the lives of the millions down at ground level. The sight of the lights going out in the adjacent building represents the child’s idea of stars blinking in the night’s sky. It never happens that all the lights go out. In the old man’s apartment, the lights also never go out, at least not the flickering, blue glow of the television screen in the living room. For him, the buzz of background noise is proof of persistent life, not yet re-consumed and devoured by Mother Nature like in the TV documentary he watched. Like in Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem, “Ozymandias,” which speaks of an ancient statue now in ruins in the sand, the tower block’s “sneer of cold command” (line 5) will one day crumble too. However, left behind will be the world we still recognise where goodness grows in the most inhospitable of soil.  

Works Cited.

Gifford, Robert. “The Consequences of living in High-Rise Buildings.” Architectural Science Review, vol. 50, no.1, University of Sydney, 2007, pp. 1-16.  

Jordan, Anna. Closer to God. Nick Hern Books, 2018.  

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. “Ozymandias.” Poetry Foundation, http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46565/ozymandias. Accessed 18 November 2022.  

Sherman, Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman. “Let’s Go Fly a Kite.” Mary Poppins: Original Cast Soundtrack, Walt Disney, 1964.