The dark at the top of my stairs

This one did not come easy.  I’ve been lucky in the past, writing plays with a frequency that at times would suggest it to be a weekend hobby; it’s not, of course, it’s hard work and none of them have ever come without a fight.  Obviously, each journey is different - on one occasion a text felt as if it had dropped out of the sky, complete and whole, and I merely had to transcribe it all in one big sitting. Others have been slaved over in pieces, coming in fits and starts as I struggled to makes sense of the characters or plot or both. The fact that my work appears with some regularity attests to the fact that, no matter how easy or hard the process is, in the end I sit my fat ass down and do the work. You can find as many methods for writing plays as there are teachers and self-help authors out there in the marketplace today, but I’ve never found anything that worked as well for me as the fine art of putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. In 1900, Anton Chekov wrote out a simple formula for a younger writer, Maxim Gorky, who had approached him asking for some advice. Chekov’s response was pure and straightforward: “Write, write, write!”  I’ve never come upon a maxim that makes any more sense to me than that.
 
But this one wasn’t as simple as that, for many reasons—starting with the title on down. I had originally decided to call the play “Swallowing Bicycles” because I’d first read the phrase in a statement made by Arthur Miller (in a reference to critics), and it seemed like a mysterious and singular name for a story. That was during year one of the process that created the piece you will see on the Almeida stage. This play was scheduled to be performed almost a year before it finally appeared in New York City at MCC Theater (in 2007); the fact that it didn’t happen the first time was due to two factors—something inside me felt like the script wasn’t ready yet and I was also eager for “Some Girl(s),” a show that had premiered in London almost a year earlier, to appear in NYC. This prompted both a shift in programming at the theatre and a change of heart in me. I continued to wrestle with my story, finding the center of it to be more elusive than I had first imagined. A new title was created along the way as well and that is how “In a Dark Dark House” was born. From the ashes of one script came several more revisions as I continued opening veins to get down to the truth. To the heart of the matter. The title itself was lifted in part from a section of Ingmar Bergman’s “Scenes From a Marriage” which, while originally written for the small screen, is one of the finest dramatic texts I’ve ever read or witnessed. From all I’ve heard, Bergman appears to have been a lousy father but he’s one hell of a writer.
 
As you can probably already tell from this introduction—I’m not a very good liar, even though I keep working at it—this play is much closer to me than some of my others. It is still packed with fiction, much of the story leaping directly out of my imagination, but there is a kernel of hard fact and truth at the center of the tale. I too grew up in a dark house, one that was shrouded in shadows and sadness, and I understand quite deeply what the brothers in the story are going through. I too know what it’s like to lead a certain part of a life in secret, frightened by voices remembered and deeds done. The specifics are of little use to you and best forgotten by me but the core of this particular journey sheds at least a bit of light on my invisible youth. I lived under the roof of a small house with a man who scared me much of the time, a father whose quicksilver moods moved from euphoric highs to shattering lows. He was probably bipolar and maybe even worse; he had all the charm and chill of an anti-social personality that seemed hidden from most people but on full display in the ‘safety’ of the family home. My father passed away last year but he continues to haunt my work and myself--men don’t usually fare well under my pen as a result. I like them well enough, I just don’t trust them.
 
The legacy of my earlier life is that I don’t remember much about my childhood years. I can look back and see certain foggy images and a handful of lovely moments, but a lot of that time is lost to me now. Hidden behind a veil of menace and murk and quiet. It is not by coincidence that most of my plays begin with the words: “Silence. Darkness.”
 
Sam Shepard’s work is rife with difficult fathers and brothers at each other’s throats; it was easy enough to dedicate this work to a man who writes with the skill of an artist and the soul of a survivor. I had the good fortune to read some of my stories at an event with Mr. Shepard a few years ago—one of those weekends put together by the New Yorker magazine—and just to be there, listening to him read aloud from his newest work was a treat that I’ll never forget; to have him react positively to some of my own writing was a dream come true. Hey, you take your fatherly pats on the back where you can get them.
 
Anyway, was it rough growing up? I think so. Was I ever abused? As a matter of fact, yes. Is it all behind me now? On a good day. It’s interesting how life evens itself out in the end—I feel like I had a fairly tough go of it early on but by 20th Century standards, it was probably a cake walk. I’m still here, after all, so I don’t complain much. And you get a play out of the deal, so everything works out in the end. Ain’t life funny?
 
The version of the play on the Almeida Theatre stage is the product of a fruitful collaboration between myself and Michael Attenborough. Mike had many great ideas about the script and helped bring it to a new level. He alone saw through my heart of darkness to the light beyond. I can’t thank him enough.
 
Neil LaBute
October 2008